Sh*t My Husband Says

I'm going to segue from reading Sh*t My Dad Says, a Twitter account that turned into a New York Times best seller, into writing a book of my own:  Sh*t My Husband Says.  Maybe I'll make a cool million, too.  Maybe not.  I could write sequels, including Sh*t My Teenagers Say and Sh*t William Says.  I could go on endlessly.

Just this week, I found that I was going to have to reorganize the kitchen, moving all the heavy dishes to the pantry, and the food in the pantry to the dishes cabinet.  The cabinet shelves are falling apart, the shelves bowing.  There was much moaning by family about how it was going to be confusing to remember where everything is located.

Dh looked in the cabinet and declared that he didn't see a problem;  I should just put the dishes back in.  I pictured my obituary in the paper, Woman killed by falling bowls and dishes.  I declared that I'd move them, knowing that his statement meant he wasn't going to fix it.

"Why am I responsible for fixing it?" he asked today.  Because, I declared, as the man of the house he was responsible for maintenance.  That was not a very feminist viewpoint he countered.  Fine, I compromised, I will fix the cabinet while you grocery shop, wash your own underwear, and fix us all dinner.  He laughed.  Really, we are just enjoying teasing each other.  As I sit here typing (a short break from my duties), he's out in the sun mowing.  But, I did move the dishes.  (Truth is, I've not a clue how to fix the cabinet.)

Notes:

Wm:  Something smells really, really good.

Anna:  Mom's cooking dog food.