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I make no bones about the fact that I am married to someone addicted to workahol. Maybe I don’t always love this about my spouse, but overall, I tend to be self sufficient enough to be a-okay with it. I do my own thing most of the time, and should I see Dave, I consider it a bonus.

In this light I have been able to watch the entire season of The Simple Life, which I adore. I’ve managed to respond to emails and phone calls. I have a perfectly functional garden. I have also gone through about 564 double A batteries (read: Big Pink Meets Becky: An E! True Hollywood Story).

Life, as it has this weird tendency to do, has crept up on me, knocking the rug out beneath my feet, and *whoops* there goes gravity; Dave became a manager-type thing. Which is great for him because that’s what he wanted to do.

After the 6th straight night of being deserted shortly after dinner, I informed him that if Work was his first wife, and I was his second, then I needed a Boyfriend. Which was where he came in. I carefully laid out my game plan, highlighting such Good Points as:

1.) Think of how much LESS I’ll whine to you!


2.) I’ll stop bugging you to come hang out with me because I’m bored! Just get me a new boyfriend!

My short attention span took charge, and I quickly forgot all about my proposition.

The next morning, I roll into work, preparing for another day of death and people threatening to sue me (I am SO not a nurse!) and about mid-morning, I check my personal email (let’s be honest here. I never get emails. Ever. Like seriously, Ever) to read such interesting subject matters as ‘Sexy Baby Bad Erection’ and ‘Cheeep V1AgrA!’ with ‘Thank you for registering at’

Certain that it was a hilarious joke, and frankly quite impressed with Dave. I investigated further, assuming that the email was actually spam. The email was from not, so another dead end.

So I called Dave at work to tell him that he’d really gotten me good this time. I raved and raved about it. What a great joke! My jubilant greeting was met with dead silence. He told me that he had no idea what I was talking about (as per usual). I explained that I had been registered with by him. He denied it.

In typical Becky-fashion, I didn’t believe him, and began to press harder which was ALSO met by silence and denials. Maybe he *hadn’t* done it!?!

Then who did?

I had no memory of doing so. Dave denied it. Plus, I don’t live in Evanston or even close to Evanston. My brother does, did he do it? Unlikely. He doesn’t have my email address.

Several days passed and while IMing with Pashmina, she mentioned and certain people that we might know that use the site. I suddenly remember the online profile we’d set up years before and a lightbulb popped up over my dim head.

Thank you Pashmina, for unintentionally bringing badfish8789 back to the world of online dating.

You ready world? Because I’m BACK IN fake dating ACTION.

Daver and I happened to be sitting out on our back porch one night, mildly discussing our past relationships. Mainly, it was a back and forth game of virtual tennis, but instead of balls (hehe. BALLS!!) we hurled insults. Basically, it was like playing ‘War’ but without the cards:

Actual example:

‘Dude, you dated Sabrina. Why won’t she update her blog? Email her and have her update her blog.’

‘No. Besides you dated Nat.’

‘Right, but Nat didn’t have an entire section of his website devoted to sappy poemes about me. Didja hear the fancy way I said poemes?’

‘But it’s Nat.’

‘Dude, I so win’

‘No, you don’t. Nat trumps Sabrina.’

‘…ad nauseum

During this discussion, Dave made mention of sappy love poetry he’d written, and I was forced to reveal that although I had ‘œwhored around’ I had never had a crappy emo poeme written for me.


The Daver saw his opportunity to shine, and went a-running with it. So now, at the tender age if 25 I am in possession of my first ever crappy, sappy and lame emo poeme, reprinted here just as the author had intended it.

Becky’s Crappy Sappy Emo Poeme (I named this bad boy; Dave would probably have named it something emo-like and crappy like ‘Velvet Turbulence’).

‘Burning like tear-trails,
desire unrequited-
with a glance, your flame
flares searingly through
my veins.
Blood boiling,
then cooling,
then freezing my icy heart.’

So I retorted with this beauty:

It Tastes Like Battery Acid, You Bastard!

‘you sweet and sensuous velvet sparkly
caresses my mouth,
i yearn,
i burn,
for more.
i need you,
like i need air,
without remorse.
i listen not to others,
who complain about your taste.
as they have no more taste-buds.
you taste like angels,
and faeries,
and all that is good with the world.
like the guy at the 7-11 who provides you to me.

As I handed my prized poeme off to The Daver for inspection, expectantly waiting for the ‘Wow! You’re an amazing poet!’ compliments to start flying my way, I was sorely disappointed. For all of my .56 seconds of effort (most of those .01 seconds were spent trying to figure out how to spell angel and caress) I got a measly:

‘Becky, this poem isn’t about me. It’s about Diet Coke.’

Touche, The Daver, touche.

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am FAR more concerned about my needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when The Daver walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidentally microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that The Daver does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?


*wipes tears from eyes*


Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until The Daver stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

The Daver and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘the cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.



That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.


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