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Familiar Complaints

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Lois drained the last of her beer and slammed the glass back on the small wobbling table. "Oh, I've got one!"

"Let's hear it," Dinah said, waving at the waiter--who'd learned quickly to respond when these two women beckoned.

"When Clark takes off his costume, he dumps it next to the laundry bin, rather than in it." She glared into her empty glass before smiling sweetly at the waiter as he dove forward to put a new bottle down with a thunk.

Dinah rolled her eyes. "God, yes. Can't tell you how many times I come home to find bits of green clothing strewn on the floor inches away from the laundry basket. He can hit a gun hand from blocks away, but the huge laundry basket opening is too tough to find."

"And, of course, they're never the ones who do the damn laundry, are they?"

"Hell, no." Dinah took a slug of beer. "It's always, 'Honey, I was up for two days tracking down that serial killer. Do you think you could take care of it just this once?'"

"Right! Like we didn't just spend the same two days on a stakeout trying to catch a politician on the take!"

"Or in Burma busting up a drug ring, coming back in the luggage compartment of some smelly airplane!"

Their voices rose. The night manager--who'd just come on duty--turned to say something to them, but she was stopped by two waiters who grabbed her arm, whispering furiously into her ears. She stopped in her tracks, looking depressed, and went into her office instead, shutting the door with a slam.

Neither Lois nor Dinah noticed.

"And cooking," Lois said, "that's almost the last straw. He can cook ten times better, but somehow I'm the one scrounging in the kitchen and then giving up and ordering Chinese."

Dinah nodded sagely. "You bet. Except with mine there's that damn chili. I'll never eat chili again, I swear."

"Oooh," Lois said with a shudder, "I've heard stories about the chili."

"How about this?" Dinah refilled her glass, waving it so that the liquid came precariously close to spilling. "Arrows abso-frickin-everywhere. And when he gets bored, he does target practice wherever the hell he is. Gotta keep a permanent stock of joint compound to fill the holes. Beat that, babe."

Lois laughed, taking another swig of beer. "Two words for you: Heat. Vision."