The Husband sends out what he thinks is a good email, “Guys, let’s get together before Dave leaves. Uh, maybe this week-end? You all free?”
Is that supposed to substitute for an actual invitation?
How girls do it: “Ladies! This Monday! 8 PM! Dinner! Continental Divide Restaurant in Crazy Town! RSVP right now!”
After this vague-ish email, The Husband (not surprisingly) receives the following emails:
- “That doesn’t really work for me.”
- “How about next week-end instead?”
- “Sat is good, but not Sun”
- “No sushi. Hate sushi.”
- “Night is good, but not day.”
- “Can do afternoon, but Charlie has a game that night, so I can’t do night.”
- “I don’t want to drive far, ‘cause then I can’t drink. Where are we meeting?”
You know what happens next. Yep, the date gets moved. Was Saturday, now it’s Sunday. Yikes—I work Sunday, who will watch the kids?!
Accommodating wife that I am, I call a co-friend and beg her to trade schedules. She is a trooper and says no problem. Good. Now I work on Saturday.
With all the advance warning of a mugger (none), the “party” is changed back to Saturday. I am too embarrassed to call my co-friend to switch back (I prefer my current Work Label of “Know-It-All” to “Wishy-Washy Girl”). I tell The Husband we will get a sitter.
The venue has been changed no fewer than six times.
The Husband is freaking out (who knows why, and anyway, couldn’t this have all been prevented had he just picked a place and time?). Amidst much pressure, I yet again trade my schedule (from a pleasing let's-sleep-in-a-little-bit 12--6 shift, to an early-riser 8--2 PM).
Needn’t have bothered. The perverse faction of the Well-Wishers of Dave that initially wanted a midday fiesta has been out-numbered and the latest news is that they are meeting up at 7 PM on Saturday night. My previous work shift would’ve been fine. I’m sure my boss is wondering why my schedule has been X-d out and re-written three times.
The Husband is no longer irritated and frustrated (frirritated?) at his so-called “friends”. Now he laughs. “What do you expect, Hon? That’s what guys do.” Now he is all smiles and inside jokes as he furtively emails back and forth pinning down the time and place like you might zero in fiercely with a rolled-up newspaper on a fly that is buzzing around your window sill—take that!
“It’s Dave,” he says, a grin as big as Alaska. “It’ll be fun.” It will be. I will hear about it later, and when The Husband retells his stories, I, too, will have a grin as big as Alaska.
(“Monsoon Of Vagueness”)