My Wife Calculates the Demerits of Blogging
My wife — as suggested in an earlier post — has profound suspicions about the consequences of this blog. The other day, she framed those doubts ever-so-selflessly by contending that my long-winded, profane musings might distract me from my research projects, each of which chips away like an ice-pick at the base of my skull. Yesterday, however, the truth disclosed itself, desperate and unvarnished, when my wife conceded that my blogging activity was more likely than anything to interfere with my husbandly duties, which apparently include all sorts of ridiculous obligations such as:
1. Rubbing her feet.
2. Preparing food and coffee.
3. Composing impromptu sonnets attesting to my wife's charm and beauty.
4. Making up bedtime stories about our dogs.
5. Wheeling her around in a rickshaw.
6. Dancing for nickels on her command.
All of this, apparently, is covered by the segment in our wedding vows that promised something to the effect that we would "tenderly care" for each other. Sounds like a bunch of fucking bullshit to me. I want a legal interpretation of that phrase.
Now the wife has threatened to "go nuclear," as they say, and outsource these responsibilities for which I am clearly no longer suited. So the other night, while I wrote about my teenage pot-haven disappearing in a ball of crystal meth-fueled flame, Angela squirmed uncomfortably on the couch and announced that she was going to find someone else to do my job. As she so gracelessly put it, "I should find someone on the internet. Some fucking lunatic will want to rub my feet all day long."
Any takers?
1. Rubbing her feet.
2. Preparing food and coffee.
3. Composing impromptu sonnets attesting to my wife's charm and beauty.
4. Making up bedtime stories about our dogs.
5. Wheeling her around in a rickshaw.
6. Dancing for nickels on her command.
All of this, apparently, is covered by the segment in our wedding vows that promised something to the effect that we would "tenderly care" for each other. Sounds like a bunch of fucking bullshit to me. I want a legal interpretation of that phrase.
Now the wife has threatened to "go nuclear," as they say, and outsource these responsibilities for which I am clearly no longer suited. So the other night, while I wrote about my teenage pot-haven disappearing in a ball of crystal meth-fueled flame, Angela squirmed uncomfortably on the couch and announced that she was going to find someone else to do my job. As she so gracelessly put it, "I should find someone on the internet. Some fucking lunatic will want to rub my feet all day long."
Any takers?
