So far, I've done the dishes. I went to the grocery store. I cooked dinner. I even made crescent rolls. Try and tell me those aren't straight outta the '50s. Earlier, I considered pouring Tim a drink and having it ready for him when he got home. Somehow, though, a double Diet Coke on the rocks doesn't carry the same retro chic as, like, scotch.

Tomorrow, I may make the bed. I may go to Structure to return the jeans Tim accidentally bought. He cannot be blamed... anyone could've missed the horsey, disco gold Jordache detailing on the pockets. It's a wife's duty to point these things out. After that, I may also make Frank Thomas' Lasagna, courtesy of "The White Sox Wives' Cookbook," no less. I may include, as a side, some freshly baked garlic bread. And possibly, a salad.

Friday night, we will go out. This wife crap is hard work.

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