Husbands, like myself, grow weary from time to time from the objectification we suffer at the hands of our own wives. Am I right, men? There are days when I just want to shout, “Look, I am more than just washboard abs, tight butt cheeks, well-muscled shoulders, and a chiseled jawline, okay? I’m more than merely arm candy, somebody for you to parade around at your office parties and at the clubs.” For one, I have feelings. And two, more often than not, I am happy just to cuddle on the couch with you. Does intimacy always have to be about S*x?!
And then you remember she is from Venus and you from Mars. Your motives may be unaligned, yes, but the physical attraction, the constant that explains both your orbits, these are identical.
Hello! I feel as though I owe all of you an apology for the utter dearth of new content here lately, for being a desert when you want an ocean, a vacuum when you desire a concert, folded arms when you need a hug. I’ve no excuses to offer other than by the time I get home from work, settle in with a martini, catch up on the news of the day, greet Happy Wife (HW) when she gets home, discuss our respective days, help prepare (sometimes) and enjoy dinner, linger on the couch and binge-watch Nurse Jackie (spoiler alert: She spins out of control in season 7), well, my creative juices have dried up. Plus it’s dark outside. The hypothalamus’ pull to sleep is too much to resist. There’s the weekend, but lately that’s given over to chores that pile up during the week because of…Work. You see the problem here.
My brother-in-law phoned to tell me he bought five Powerball tickets. He assured me that if he won we (HW & I) would never have to work another day in our lives. I was especially hopeful because he’d recently won a new 50″ LED flat screen TV in a local raffle in Fairbanks. Luck be a Lady Tonight! I thought. Alas, he didn’t win so both of us, HW & I, must continue to…Work. Thirty years ago I should’ve gone to work for the government. I’d be retired by now, with HW & I on full benefits and our toes in the sand. Don’t get me started.
David Bowie and then Alan Rickman, both dead at 69 from Cancer, in the same week, it was a little hard to take. I dwelt in the driveway last night with the car running listening to Rebel Rebel at a high volume that might have incensed my Mother when I was coming up (Hi Mom!). Possibly my favorite Bowie song ever,
HW likes Heroes the best, which is a good song, though far less edgy. The whole Ziggy Stardust venture was an acquired taste but pretty cool if you made the investment, especially at 21 in a haze of cannabis smoke.
HW’s coined a new species name for the Black Dog, Chester, who’s a cross between a Labrador and a Husky: Huskador. Similar sounding to the place where fine cigars are stored. The only thing stored in this dog is food, the kind that’s like $4/lb (!), and then only temporarily as he metabolizes it before eventually squeezing out very expensive poops. HW caught him “nibbling” on a colorful rug upstairs and “investigating” the wooden base of a banister support with his teeth. In other words, he ain’t perfect. Although based on past experiences with young dogs in the house this is nothing. Coming home to find the couch cushions eviscerated of stuffing, or finding evidence that the Dog thought two arms on the leather Barcalounger was really probably one too many, well, that’s severely imperfect. So, so far so good when it comes to the Huskador.
To all of you (52+! this year) who received our annual newsletter (aka, The Niblet), you’re welcome. Extra credit for those of you who admit you enjoyed it! For those of you who have reached out to us to ask kindly that you be removed from the list — Fuggetaboutit!