What we have here is a failure to communicate

Today is Friday, which means tonight is date night. When Aaron and I were dating he came up with the great idea of setting aside one night a week for us to spend time together. He got the idea from his parents, who left him and his siblings with a babysitter and a pizza every Friday so they could regain some sanity (the parents, not the kids). Apparently he thinks he did this in exchange for having all day Saturday to himself, but I don’t remember it that way. I remember him offering it up as a way to ensure that we would have time to grow closer together, just the two of us. No matter what happened the rest of the week, this night would be reserved for only him and me. What Aaron didn’t realize at the time was that he could have told me straight out he was bargaining for Saturdays to himself and I would have jumped at that a lot quicker. I need my “me time”. It’s too bad Aaron married a woman who is so hard inside.

I only work until noon on Fridays. That means one whole hour less of light rock piped into my life. One hour less of Michael Bolton, Shania Twain, and that craptacular new song called “You’re Beautiful”, or something like that, where the guy seems to be attempting to sing a love song to some girl he saw for about 30 seconds on a subway. Instead, he comes across sounding like some horribly depressed loner who’s gone over the deep end obsessing about her and doing who knows what alone in his dingy, cramped apartment. Can’t figure out how that one made it up the charts; it gives me the creeps and makes me depressed all at the same time.

Other than the music, I like my job well enough. I go in at 8:00 and do data entry until my eyes start to bleed. Then I leave at 1:00 and rush home to do what I love, which is promote my husband’s art and write. The job helps pay the bills, though, and it’s a whole lot better than some of the places I’ve been, where I spent my time hiding in the bathroom from my boss, wondering if there was some type of lethal poison that, when eaten in a hot dog, could not be traced.

So, date night. I see that Aaron has mention Capote, but I, being the thoughtful and self-sacrificing wife I am, was really thinking more of seeing it Saturday since I knew Aaron didn’t get any sleep last night. When I called him on my way to work this morning and announced that I’d just seen it was playing at the Brew ‘N View, I failed to tell him this. And so we end where we began - with a slight malfunction in communication.