Good Day

Tummy full, feet still a little cold and dogs parking outside. This Saturday was well placed in the week - a week of build up to Friday that culminated in a presentation that climaxed in pretty display of pictures and talking heads. It was Friday, not it's Saturday.

The wife watched Sex in the City season on in the living room, preparing for a trip to New York that we shouldn't be taking but will anyway. Dinner was good. It's amazing how much Boston Market tastes like Thanksgiving.

It's nice when she in a good mood. When Joe can walk through the house and not feel he's about to be tossed a live bomb that's going to explode even before he tries to catch it. It's nice to just be able to sit and read and type and not worry about what she's thinking. About what he should be doing. About second guessing his words, his actions, his life.

Sometimes, his head will clear and he'll see what's happening. His heart gives up and his brain takes over. He can't spend his days trying to make her happy. He can't run after her everything she gets frustrated about the dogs or the refrigerator or the computer or the crap she left in the hallway or the laundry that still hasn't been done or the dishes that never get clean or any of the millions of other things that make her not happy. He can't spend his days trying to fix these things. They are just not going to go away.

So, instead, he sits in his office and types to nobody. When she's not in a "nice" way she thinks he's being a cold dick. Granted, she's never told him this with words. Again, Joe reads the mind of his wife and tries to act accordingly. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes she looks at him like he's crazy when he explains to her his choices and why he made them. Sometimes he thinks she's right.

Now is good though. Now he can write to nobody, even though he thought he really didn't have anything to say. He can work things out in his head and then go back to her happy and ready for anything.

Today was a good day.