“You've been promising to paint the garage all summer!” snapped a very irritated Janet Donaldson, hands on her
hips in a defensive posture. “Get out there and do it, Steve. I'm tired of having this argument with you every
weekend.”
Steve Donaldson eyed his 38-year old wife warily. She was one of those rare women who really did beautiful
when she was angry, but past experience had taught Steve not to patronize the little woman when she was in one
of these moods. Still, thought Steve, Janet had aged beautifully over the years they'd been married. Sure,
she'd put on some weight... but Steve rather liked the rounder, plumper shape of her large behind, even hidden
in a pair of middle aged “Mom Jeans,” and Steve certainly enjoyed the sight of her fat, swollen breasts
heaving up and down with angry, restrained furor behind a frumpy green sweater. Her dishwater blond hair
seemed to glow in the early afternoon sun, and her bright green eyes sparkled with vibrancy, with life, with
passion... or... was it just anger?
“Baby... Janet... I'll make it up you later, but...”
“But nothing!” she snapped. “You can go fishing with Carl any weekend. And most weekend, you do. Hell, Steve –
he's your next-door-neighbor. You can see him any damned time you choose. Just paint the lousy garage first!
Is that so much to ask? Just do that one little chore, and then you can go waste the weekend fishing and
getting drunk with Carl.”
Just then the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell, thought Steve as he flashed an innocent, apologetic smile at
Janet and ran to the door. It was Carl, carrying some fishing rods, a tackle box, and a six pack of beer.
“You ready Steve?” he asked with an urgent whisper. “I hate to rush you, but Wendy doesn't want me going
and...”
“Dammit, I don't want the two of you going either!” roared Janet, stomping towards the door. “I'm sorry Carl,
but Steve's got chores around the house to do. I'm sick and tired of being alone every weekend: washing
dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming the carpets... and then wondering why the hell Steve isn't here to lift a
finger. And now I see you're sneaking out without evening telling Wendy you're leaving?”
Carl turned beet red, looked helplessly at Steve, and shrugged his shoulders.
Just then, Carl's equally irate wife Wendy came stomping across the lawn from her home next door. Like Janet,
she also had a plump, fat, middle-aged physique with heavy thighs, a large ass, and bulging, fat breasts.
Wendy however had long, dark hair and deep brown eyes. She was dressed in a light blue, short sleeved cotton
tee, a pair of khaki, conservative length shorts, white ankle socks, and scuffed, pink and white tennis shoes.
“Carl Matson where do you think you're going?” she roared, red-faced. Pausing just a moment to catch her
breath after storming across the yard, she quickly launched in on her husband. “You've been promising for
weeks to take me out for dinner tonight! You knew I already made the reservations and hired a babysitter
and... here I find you, sneaking off to go fishing with Steve?”
“But Wendy, baby, I was going to be back in time for dinner,” Carl protested weakly.
“You weren't the last time this happened!” shouted Wendy. “Or have you already forgotten that tonight's dinner
was supposed to be your way of making up for the last time you forgot to come home in time for a special,
romantic dinner?”
Carl and Steve exchanged silent expressions of helplessness.
Wendy looked over to Janet and said, “They just don't care about our thoughts or feelings, do they?”
“No,” agreed Janet angrily. “Neither of them is capable of seeing what they put us through.”
“Carl, I wish you knew what it was like to be somebody's wife!” snapped Wendy.
“Yeah,” said Janet. “I wish the same about you Steve!”
What next?