Friday, March 14, 2008

The Perfect Husband

Does he exist? I don't think so...but maybe there is a perfect husband for everyone individually. For example, Trainer may not have made it in any household but my own (most sane women would have thrown him out on his behind by now). For a long time I thought that my husband was the only one who looked at internet porn and just drank to get drunk. But over the years I've found that he's not too abnormal. I won't call it normal, I don't want to generalize and say that all men are sex driven beings with no will power over booze. That's simply not true.

So, last night my dear husband asks me "Hey, would it be okay with you if I hung out with Peter tonight after work?" My response was, "I'm okay with it, I'll have left overs - cool?" His response "COOL!!!" (He LOVES exclamation marks, drives me batty.) Oh, and this is all done by text, I think he feels that it's safer that way. Which brings me to my next point...why even ask? I feel like I'm his mom instead of his wife. Which is another similarity between Trainer and other husbands, what makes them such children after they get married? Sorry, back to the story at hand. So, I don't care that my husband goes out with his friends or over to a friend's house to drink and kick back. I don't care if my husband drinks so much that he can't drive home and has to stay overnight someplace. I DO care that the little rat doesn't call me and tell me that he's going to stay overnight someplace. I was up half the fricken night waiting for a phone call or even a stupid text. Nothing. Nada. Every time I heard a siren I held my breath and waited for the inevitable phone call from the emergency service people. Fortunately that call never came and my husband made it home at 7am with apologies streaming out his mouth as soon as he came through the door.

I have friends who's husbands don't lift a finger to help with housework. I know other husbands who are control freaks with money. I know of husbands and boyfriends who are alcoholics and beat up their loved ones. My husband is none of those. He does 90% of the housework, he handed me the money reins, and he's never laid a hand on me. So do I have a right to complain? Hell yeah I do!

How can the men in our lives make us feel SO insignificant? We are strong women, the lot that I know are incredibly strong. Trainer can make me feel like a crazy, paranoid bi*ch who should be on her way to the loony bin. I swear it would be easier if I were a lesbian. I'm not keen on the girl/girl thing...tried it once, not sure if I liked it...I was in a tequila induced happy state. See, I told you that you may learn something new about me. I didn't say that it was information that you WANTED to know. ;)

For now I'll keep my sanity and maybe buy some spy ware and a GPS tracking device that I can secretly inject into Trainer's arm to keep up with his shenanigans. Nope, I'm not paranoid...not me...

2 comments:

The Sports Mama said...

Damn it! I KNEW there was a reason I should have gone to college! Isn't that where all that "try-it-you'll-like-it" crap happens that no one learns about you until they read it in a blog?

Anyway..... back to the subject at hand....

We've got a same-yet-different problem with my testoserone-laden half. He doesn't even give me the courtesy of a phone call to let me know he won't be coming home, and that he'll be using the debit card that comes out of the joint account for his night of trying to make himself look good to the ridiculously tiny little barmaid.

You ask me? Trainer is damn fortunate in his spouse's choice of husband. He really does kinda have the best of both worlds, doesn't he? So do you deserve a courtesy call (and HELL NO would a text suffice with me! Man up, buddy, and actually talk to me!) to let you know that yes, you will be sleeping alone again tonight.

Or at least that you now have the option of keeping his side of the bed unoccupied. Or not. Hehehe...

Wow. Sorry to hijack your comments there, babe.

Should I use my real name? said...

Shenanigans!

Your check is in the mail.