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On being the chick in this relationship

The girl I love and I are in the perfect relationship so far.  She’s a teacher and I’m a complainer.  She’s also a bit sadistic, which plays into her hands very well, because she loves making me complain so much.  The other day she nearly crossed a line.

Carrie told me I was the chick in this relationship.

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I swear to God I nearly took my apron off and threw it at her, but the oven timer went off and I had to take the muffins out to let them cool.  So I just stomped my foot on the floor and was passive-aggressive the rest of the day.

That night she kept pushing me to talk, but I had my avocado facemask on and damn if talking doesn’t interfere with its ability to exfoliate properly.  I mean, Jeeeezus Christ, you’d think that when a guy has a bubble bath running and candles lit a girl would get the hint that I’ve gone into “me time.”

But she never does.

We’re just not into the same things, you see.

She likes Nascar.

I like poetry.

She likes the Celtics.

I like Celtic jewelry.  Especially those crosses with the intricate vine filigree and knot-work wrought all across the things.

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And she doesn’t get how disturbing it can be to a guy to claim he’s the chick in the relationship.

Can you believe that shit?

Just to think, I wanted to make her one of my famous French toast casseroles.  Ha!  And to make matters worse, she told me that I needed to change my wardrobe for her.  This was after she said something about getting my hair done so I could look nice for our next date.  It took me forever and a day to find the proper stylist to give me just the right look.  Does she even have one iota of what a guy goes through to look good for his girl?

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I think not!
First he has to find the right color combination for his dating ensemble.  I’ve been loosing weight and want something slimming . . . which of course means something dark.  And then a guy has to find shoes that don’t lift too much and interfere with his stride, especially if he’s babysitting for her.

Chasing a four-year-old can be murder on the feet.  So can shopping for candles and hair conditioner.

Oh hell.

I just read what I wrote.

Maybe I am the chick in this relationship after all.

But damn it, I’ve got an apron that says “Men do it in the kitchen, too!” so that’s got to count for something.

Anyway, I’ve got to go for now.  I’ve got a mud mask mix on the stove and think it’d starting to dry out.

Hmmmm….

I wonder if I should put a bit of chamomile in it.  They say it works wonders on crow’s feet.

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