The other day my husband mentioned that he missed seeing

me all dressed up.

His exact words were, “I miss seeing you all dressed up.”

I think he’s trying to tell me something.

This blatant disregard for my feelings can only mean one of two things:

He doesn’t love me anymore

or

He’s developed a sudden and deadly aversion to stained drawstring pants, faded tank tops, and smeared mascara.

Which of course brings us to the real story behind his ridiculous demands.

Clearly there’s another woman.

Why else would he suddenly expect me to look like a tart when he comes home from a long day at work?

Okay.  There’s a slight possibility that I’m jumping to conclusions here.  But the truth is, the only people to see me at my best each day are a bunch of five and six year olds.  By the time my husband comes home from work, I look like a woman who spends her entire day with five and six year olds. 

I sort of maybe kind of overreacted when he lovingly let me know that he enjoyed seeing me put together as I headed out the door for a mid-week event.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” I screamed. 

I suppose, though, for the sake of our marriage, I could try and greet him at the door in something other than standard issue prison garb.

Or at least pick the leftover chicken nuggets out of my teeth.

I think Dr. Phil would be proud.

You know.

For my willingness to compromise and crap.