Friday, May 13, 2011

I Didn't Mean To Tell People You're Nice

Afternoon Readers,

     It'd been another late-night, frozen pizza pow-wow in the kitchen. Exhausted from a night of work, but still happy with how much writing I'd gotten done that morning, I leaned against the counter top, in the most alluring fashion I could muster, and re-hashed the day's exploits with Husband. As I finished my verbal waterfall of blog posts completed and word goals on my book achieved, he knit his eyebrows and said, "Ya know, I just don't buy it. I'm not that nice." I looked at him like he'd just told me he was running away with Richard Simmons in a pink limo..


"It's just, when you write about me, you always make me out to be some sort of perfect husband. I don't buy it and don't think a lot of your readers do either."
 
I waggled my pizza at him. "You are nice, and in my opinion, a great husband and father. But, if you'd like, I can tell everyone you like to club and eat baby seals in your spare time. While I'm at it, I could also throw in your hatred for old ladies and affinity for burning down the rainforest.... Too much?"

"Too much. Just don't stifle your creativity on my account."

    Errr...I'm not totally sure what James Bond meant by that last comment, but if he was giving me license to pick at his imperfections (a sweet but understandable mistake), then let's talk about his inability (nay) all men's inability to find that round recepticle that holds soiled shirts and underwear.
     Ancient Aztecs called this vessel a "lauuun-drry-basssckeeet". Husband refers to it as "the bathroom floor" or "that little space between the wall and the bed". Being the dangerous and not-nice man that he is, Husband derives great pleasure from placing his clothes wherever he sees fit. Like most men, the hamper could be two feet away, and he'll still find it within his black heart to rip off his shirt, swing it around, and aim it anything that's not meant to hold laundry. As he launches said garment, he usually lets loose an unholy bout of laughter, that echoes in the very bowels of hell.
     Meanwhile, his beleaguered wife, doomed to walk for eternity clanking her chains and picking up stray pairs of boxers and grungy socks, frightens the local children who say they can hear her at night, wailing and lamenting her lot in life. "Whoa is me! If I had only chosen wisely, I would not be trapped, picking up dirt-marked Fruit of the Looms!"
     Ok, show of hands, Readers, how'd I do? Did he sound evil enough? And because I know you're reading, you....bad husbands don't take the time to read, critique and encourage their wife's work everyday. They just don't. Now, if I could just get you to stop clubbing baby seals...

Until Next Time Readers!

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