Sick-O
I am not an understanding wife. I know this. I probably wouldn’t want to be married to me.
My capacity for compassion and empathy for a sick Filipes is pretty limited. In fact, as I see him laying all day on my new, expensive, comfy couch… I get really frustrated. I must leave the room. Fold laundry. Clean kitchen. Whatever. Just don’t look over at the couch.
If he’s not on the couch he’s slouching around the house. Grumbly. Largely useless to us. But, trying to remember the man isn’t feeling well, I tell myself “Ease up on the guy. He’s sick for cryin’ out loud. Be a good, understanding wife for a change.”
And then. He. Goes. Golfing.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!










