In which I see a Taco Bell commercial on TV at the bar and succumb.

Last night Brett and I stopped after work at the Dead Cock for a bit. I chatted with Hattie, who was bartending, and Rachel, who dropped in briefly and told me about a new game she and her boyfriend had invented on account of his new fly-fishing motifed boxers. They call it Cock Fishing. (You figure it out. Wink.) She’s so funny.

After people left, Brett and I chatted for awhile about our day. I bitched about having to do a mail merge document for the first time in like elevently hundred years and how I was too damned stuck up to RTFM and it took me much longer than it should have; he bitched about having to re-do several window casings because some moron on his crew didn’t understand that a hexagon needed to have six equal sides.

Then we went home and I ate Taco Bell drive-thru and he had a couple of meatloaf sandwiches and we fell asleep on the couch.

~+~+~
It occurs to me that Mr. Brett and I have been together now for about seven years. Perhaps that’s why the road has recently become so rocky. I never expected marriage to be easy, exactly; I’m willing to do the work. But damn it’s rough when you want different things. We-ness ain’t always easy when you’re both stubborn, independent first-borns with wicked selfish streaks.

And yes, we’ve been talking. We’ve talked more in the past few weeks than we have in the past few years. I’m really digging the new communication level, actually. And I love the man to death. It’s just that sometimes I want to hold his head under water until he quits being so irritating.

No doubt he never feels the same about me, because I’m a fucking dream to live with.