(You gotta clicky click on this for the full horror.)
Then rip off that apron, toss the dishes in the crib, kick that husband in his Brooks Brothered ass, grab Sven the tennis coach, and book it to Vegas, baby.
That is all. I simply have no. More words.
19 comments:
He'd have to be one HELL of a man is all I can say!!!
Or do I mean one HEAVEN of a man???
Mind you, the way I feel about work right now (having just been unfairly dismissed), this kind of lifestyle almost sounds appealing. Now how does one roast slippers for one's husband's nightly homecoming again? With onion rings, wasn't it?
And the prospect of having enough hours in the day to keep one's legs permanently smooth and clothes and visage just so, is most appealing.
Poet: You may very well have a point in there somewhere. A couple hours spiffing up before hubby gets home, but the rest of the day is yours, all yours, to do with as you wish? Hmmmm . . .
I see no problem with this.
Then again I would love to stay home, do the same stuff I already do and let my wife support me in the manner I am acustomed to. Now we will change Sven to Svetlana and the picture is complete
And do it all in a smart frock, cute heels and a lovely strand of pearls at that.
**pours bourbon in morning coffee**
It didn't help. I'm still feeling ill.
I wish my Mother was alive... I'd tell her I was sorry she had to live through that crap.
No, a good wife really does know her place:
Astride her handcuffed mate, whip in hand braying: "You've been a bad bad boy."
I dunno, maybe I just have an unusual domestic situation!
I'm gonna guess that this article was written by a man. And probably by the nasty old man over at Fishy's blog.
There should be a follow up article written by the housewife, all about how to cook with arsenic and a smile.
Hey, I do all that crap for my wife while holding down a job that pays twice what hers does and homeschooling my special needs kid.
Where's my fucking pearls...that's what I'd like to know.
NYD: But can you cook?
Heather: But of course! Looking sloppy is not an option.
Boxer: I just keep thinking back to a generation of women for whom it was all too much – Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton.
Emma: Well, now. There goes a perfectly good Old Vine Zin all over the keyboard.
kwmthay: Pretty poison!
Gnome: Dahlink, you would look silly in pearls. How about a sheriff's badge?
Gnomey, you know when you talk like that, it just makes you hotter to us.
I want the pearls. I can trade them to some chick for sex.
Sweetie, I do hope you are asking me about my culinary skills.
A proper househubby would never discuss his sex life. Not unless he were on Oprah or Jerry Springer, that is.
Gnome: I dunno. Most gals prefer diamonds.
NYD: Yes, of course your culinary skills, silly! If my spousal unit were to stay at home and be a house hubby (purely hypothetical, mind you, because I'm not qualified to do anything but type), I'd send him to cooking school first. That is Numero Uno in order of El Importante.
The only part of that I could comprehend was the "...be a little gay..." line. Everything else was really blurry.
Guys, just remember, no fake boobs back in the fifties.
Shades of June Cleaver on this one. I'm not even an inkling close to this description. But of course, to these women, they viewed housework as their job. I know my mom did anyway. It was her job, she got up and did it every day. I wonder if the stay-at-home moms feel the same way in today's world.
oh yeah. this is entirely how i do it everyday.
btw, i prefer cash and/or land to pearls and diamonds. :-)
I don't see blowjobs on that list.
Shamu: I think some of the first silicone injections go back to the 1950s. Shudder.
Pam: I have nothing against house wifery, so long as it's treated as what it is: a JOB. But the supplication to the man because of it? Fork that. Anyone who has ever scrubbed a toilette after a man's gone all frat boy in the bathroom should be SHOWERED with freakin' diamonds and worshiped as a goddess.
K9: I'll take shoes.
Mandy: Did they do that in the fifties?
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