A Good Wife Always has her Husband’s Back

My husband works in a biohazard. Rows and rows of cubicles that house sneezing, coughing, hacking engineers, spreading around all the germs their snotty-nosed preschoolers bring home.  It’s a living.

Some of these guys are worth avoiding, not because they are physically sick, but they are sickos. One guy, in particular, I loathe. Chip. Picture the bully on the back of the bus, the captain of the football team, frat boy, Animal House, and you’ve got Chip. Just for your edification, I only stereotype as a time-saver.

When I was extremely pregnant and walked into one of the work parties, back when this auto manufacturer could afford showering its employees with extravagant parties, Chip saw me coming up the stairs and whispered to my husband, with a slimey smirk on his face, “You didn’t tell me your wife has a nice rack.”

Idiot! I’m pregnant!

You don’t say that to the husband. It’s emasculating. Or something. I vomit in the back of my throat whenever I see Chip and it has nothing to do with morning sickness. My kids are 9 and 13.

Ok. So fast forward to last evening. I get this email from my husband.

The subject line is, “You know, in case you’re wondering where I am.”

There’s no text. Just this picture:

I reply: “Order some wings. I’m on my way.”

I slide my stool up to the table next to Skye and a guy on my left who won’t scooch over and give me legroom, but I cut him some slack because even though he’s bogarting the wings, at least he’s funny.

He brings up the word divorce. The way he talks about it, he didn’t see it coming. I said “Well, what was the writing on the wall? You must have noticed something was amiss.”

“The first red flag was that we took separate vacations.”

I said, “Ooooh, Skye! Check!” I just went back to the Catskills without him.

He says, “Then she goes out with our friends and I’m not invited.”

I say to Skye, “Okay, we’re good there.”

He says, “Then she’s not in the mood.”

“Oh, nooo, Skye! Two out of three! What does this mean for us!?”

After a basket of wings and another pint, he’s telling a story about a guy from work with whom he went to Germany. My ears perk up. Did he say Chip?

Conveniently, the beer catches up to him and Skye and I have a few minutes to talk while he’s in the bathroom.

“Is he friends with the Chip?” I say to Skye out of the edge of my mouth.

“Yea. So be careful what you say.”

“Is he a snake?”

“Mmmmmm.”

He returns from the bathroom and Skye and I are wrapping up a conversation about the kids and school supplies. I need to pick up one last thing and I ask these two engineers (think built-in navi) where the nearest office supplies store is located.

Instantly, their motherboards light up. Behind their eyes you can see estimating, routing, planning. At the same time they offer: “There’s a Target next to the mall.”

I heeded Skye’s advice. I carefully chose what I said, or rather did. Skye and I stand up, slide our stools into the table and embrace. I plant a nice get-a-room kiss on my hubby, while the third wheel is just standing there… not knowing where to put his eyes. Awkward…la la la la la.

Take that to your friend Chip, pal. Bet he’s not getting those! I know you aren’t!

That’s how it’s done, ladies.

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