me: (surveying piles and piles and piles of books stacked around every surface of the main room of the house not to mention the bedroom and the kitchen): Right, now. Either we order more bookshelves --
mr. delagar: We can't afford that.
me: -- or we stop buying books ---
mr. delagar: (giggles)
me: (giggles also)
mr. delagar: you crack me up sometimes. You do.
me: All right. I thought I'd just put it in there. We could also get rid of some of the books we have. What about that one?
mr. delagar: Oh, no. I'm not falling for that one again.
me: What do you mean, again? When's the last time you got rid of a single book?
mr. delagar: (In the accent of the gyroscope captain from The Road Warrior): Los Angeles. Remember Los Angeles?
me: Crap. Aren't you over that yet?
mr. delagar: He still hasn't forgiven me. Why would I be over it? (This refers to a writer we both know, and a signed first edition of a book that mr. delagar owned by that writer. I accidently included it in a box of books we were giving away. The writer had signed the book with a very touching inscription, how fond he was of mr. delagar -- and, you know it, that very writer finds it in a used bookstore, years later. Eck.)
me: I never liked him anyway.
mr. delagar: You don't like anyone.
me: And so because I don't like anyone, you're never giving away another book in your life?
mr. delagar: Exactly.
me: Okay. Fair enough. (Pause) So can we buy more bookcases?
mr. delagar (lying in bed reading the latest Robert Jordan opus)
me (kicking mr. delagar's socks out of my way as I attempt to dress for work): ####
mr. delagar: So you're heading off to leave me for another fifteen hours, are you?
me: Yes I am.
mr. delagar: well, fine. Do that.
me: (kicking my jeans out of the way, looking for a shirt I could actually teach in) Someone should do some laundry around this place.
mr. delagar: someone should make some bagels, too. We have a serious bagel shortage.
me: Someone should do the dishes, while we're on it.
mr. delagar: I did the dishes. Last Thursday.
me: Well, I cooked. Remember? On Sunday? I microwaved that Chinese chicken shit?
mr. delagar (fondly): That was really good Chinese chicken shit.
me: I was reading this blog? Linked off of White Bear?* Ladies Against Feminism?** This stay at home wife, who (I have found a shirt, by the way, and am strugging into it. It is one with buttons, so I have to remember how to work buttons. I'm not so good at buttons, folks, and it's hard for me to button and talk at the same time -- I can only do one thing at a time, as I am constantly telling mr. delagar and the kid) is so devoted to her husband and her house -- do you know what she does?
mr. delagar: (turning the page in Robert Jordan) : I bet you're going to tell me.
me: she bakes bread so that the house smells like bread when he gets home. Also, she irons their linen napkins. (My buttons have come out wrong. I start over.) I was thinking, see. Since you're a stay at home husband for the rest of the summer? Maybe you could iron our napkins?
mr. delgar: Do we have an iron?
me: Sure. My mother bought one when she was here the summer before last. It's in the garage somewhere. (I get the buttons right this time.) I wonder if this is what they mean by equal division of labor in the modern post-feminist household?
mr. delagar: I think you should stop for ice cream on the way home tonight.
I'm eating raisins at the breakfast table (it's like four in the afternoon, so I don't know if you still call it the breakfast table) and reading a book about Nat Turner.
mr. delagar: (coming into the room): so do you want to do it?
me: (giving him an incredulous look): what?
mr. delagar: Want to have a boink?
me: you're fucking messing, right? (I go back to my book)
mr. delagar: (after a long pause): does that mean you don't?
me: how long have we been together? And you don't know how yet how to get me to have sex with you?
mr. delagar: (stands considering this extremely important question.)
me: (imparting a hint): "Want to boink?" is not how.
mr. delagar: (brightening): Oh, baby, I love you.
me: (rolls eyes, turns a page.)
mr. delagar: you're so beautiful!
me: Oh, fuck up with that.
mr. delagar: I love the way you write!
mr. delagar: especially this new chapter! That epilogue you wrote yesterday, I loved that epilogue!
(Cut to: bedroom, forty minutes later, and -- well, you know.)
3 hours ago