It's raining men, hallelujah!

Yeah, Bridget Jones was on the other night. I made Spyboy watch it. Well, at least the second half. It came on again later, but I let him switch over to Iron Chef. I mean, I did get to see my favorite scene, where Hugh Grant and Colin Firth go flying through the window while "It's Raining Men" plays in the background. I just love it.

This rain, though? Not loving it so much. We won't even get into the horrors of the commute yesterday. Though I may have been a bit snotty to Spyboy because of it. But here's the scenario. He calls while I'm waiting for my bus and says, "hey, let's just meet at Pentagon City for dinner." I figure I can just jump on a 16 bus from the Pentagon, get off a block away, have a short little walk, and it'll be good. But I panicked and got off a little early and had to walk several blocks. While I'm walking, Spyboy calls me, wondering where I was. So I answer, tell him. Meanwhile, I get to an intersection consisting of a four-lane road and the off/on-ramps for 395, which are six-lanes wide. There is no pedestrian crosswalk sign. There is no crosswalk. I can't cross over the other way any easier. So I get half way across, Spyboy still talking. I can't look left (I hurt my neck and can only turn one way). It's raining. I've got my umbrella up, further impeding visibility. Cars are speeding off the interstate towards me. I'm crossing with the light, but you've still got the people turning right out to kill me. Plus it's humid as all get out and I can feel the sweat dripping. It was just gross. And I'm still on the phone with Spyboy. As soon as I heard the words, "I don't feel well. It's just too hot out," from the boy whose outside time consists of walking to and from his car AND who did not have a hellish commute into the city that morning, I snapped a bit. And kind of hung up on him, with a bit of a warning. Hey. I never claimed to be a nice or sympathetic girlfriend...

Along those lines, Susan has declared that I should rename this blog "Bitchfest," in honor of all my stories about Spyboy. I find that a bit amusing. And it makes me feel a tad bit guilty. Oh, well. All the stories are true. Though, in his defense, Spyboy did give me neckrubs, take out the recycling, unload half the dishwasher, and cook a frozen dinner for me on Sunday. It was sweet. He then declared that I was not allowed to be mad at him last night (which I wasn't) because of his good deeds the night before.