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I think he should be allowed to have as many wives as he wants. All men should be able to. My husband can only have one wife, however. Me. That's one of the rules.
Oh, I know they do, iconomy, which is why you almost never hear about women fantasizing about having two husbands. Unless of course, one is strictly used for yardwork and jar-opening.
I use mine for barbecuing and moving furniture. I used to tease him about how he could only seem to manage to cook if the food was being made outside, but then he sort of took over all the cooking, and now he cooks inside too. And I am not complaining. At all.
I hate to cook. Especially when I'm not eating most of the stuff that I make, because I'm either allergic to it or just not eating it for one reason or another.
Or one of those little red celluloid fish that curl up when you put them in your hand to supposedly predict the weather or your mood or something. Remember those?
After I posted that, within two seconds I thought of the fortune telling fish, no shit. That is THE consolation prize.
THEN, 1 minute later, TO THE SECOND:
I thought of a state fair where I spent about twenty fruitless dollars trying to win one of those laminated mirrors that said
"Never Mind Your Mountains, Show Me Your Bush!"
I simply could not get enough ping-pong balls into the fishbowl, so I won a stuffed snake, which I dropped after I got stoned and then disoriented when the Backstreet Boys started playing and 8 million 11 year old girls ran straight at me to get into the concert area. It was insane.
My sister won a unicycle at bingo night at school. She never did manage to learn to ride it. Then again her best friend a convertible for a graduation present, whereas Sis got rollerblades. "At least you got wheels," I consoled her.
Ah, the nineties, whatta decade. I began it underneath Times Square learning the hard way that subways are no longer free on New Years and ended it shooting of Fireworks in a Dade County apartment complex parking lot with a belly full of malt liqour. Progress?
I like Swedish fish. The red are the best, and green used to be second, but sometime in the last year they changed the green flavor and now it's pukey lime flavor! Dern.
Also, I used my husband for taking out the garbage, washing dishes, and opening jars. The most important being the jars, as I have small hands, no muscle tone, and hand bones that I'm convinced will break like little twigs if I really torque them.
Now I have to do everything myself, since I live alone, and sometimes I just can't get those jars open and have to wait until one of my best friends comes over (one large male, one female massage therapist). One time, I couldn't get a jar of pickles open to eat with my cheese sandwich and I wept.
There are not only green Swedish (Irish) fish, but yellow and orange as well! They introduced some sort of nasty blue fish too, but I'm just pretending they don't exist. The pukey lime flavor is enough disappointment for me.
Now. About these rugged good looks and bottomless sex appeal...
My primary husbandly talent is putting babies to sleep. I'm actually loaned out to other women for this. IT'S NOT MY FAULT I CAN'T GROW A PRON 'STACHE!
Specklet, try turning the jars upside down and tapping them very hard on a counter or the floor. It's rather amazing how much easier they will then be to open.
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
