The ol' ball and fur-lined chain.

My husband has been feeling slightly wounded dog about my last few posts. He feels a bit vilified, eunuched, the punching bag for all woman who read The Feminine Mystique, The Beauty Myth or anything by Gloria Steinem in college, marched for female rights, grew their underarm hair and examined their vaginas with a hand-held mirror. And now, as stay-at-home 50s-style housewives, have switched to Woman’s Weakly (no spelling mistake there).

Well I’m here to shout it from the blogtops that my man is actually one of the good ones. He does the dishes, vacuums, does laundry, is (mom look away, look away), great in bed, even better in position 37, is a fantastic father, has a nice, shiny, platinum credit card and all my friends think I’m lucky to have him. I’m not so sure they think the reverse. “Poor Noel.” Being married to THAT tiny, could-blow-at-any-second grenade can’t be easy. And I guess sometimes it’s not. Except that I am unbelievably dexterous at position 102 plus I’m funny.

So why do I make these snide, somewhat cruel remarks about him. Well it’s fun. And sometimes it’s just what married couples do. They get on each other nerves. They push the “Do not push that button because it’ll start nuclear holocaust” just to see if it will.

In marriage you see each other at your worst. Him, on the couch, watching sport with a beer ala Homer Simpson. Me, in my big brown gown, plucking the hairs out of my chin ala Blanche from the Golden Girls. Charming. But then we get those nights where we fancy up, spritz on some of the expensive stuff, share a bottle personally delivered from Bacchus and fall in love all over again.

We were chatting the other night about what we’d do if we were ever to split up. I vowed never to date again. Not for him, but because honestly it seems too much like drilling nails into your skull. He protested and insisted I marry again, not for me, but because he can’t be arsed to pay alimony while supporting a blonde stripper with huge tits. Oops I did it again. Sorry babe. Back to how wonderful you are.

And you are. I do love you. Where the fuck are those cute white puppies and cupids I ordered? Ah here they come. And the fields of corn just high enough for us to run toward the sunset in? There they are. So take my hand you big, gorgeous lug of a giant and let’s step into marriage Utopia. And on your way, do me a favor, take out the trash.n