Today I was at the office "working", which is French for "talking bad about spouses to co-workers", when something dawned on me.
Mr. Man is a pretty good guy.
Please do not tell him. I like to keep my husbands a little afraid they are going to be kicked off my island at any moment. I insist they keep a bag packed by the front door at all times and I don't allow them to hang anything on my walls. I find it keeps them on their toes.
The ladies with whom I work are not so fortunate as to have a Mr. Man. They are wives to some guys that even I wouldn't marry, and you and I both know a guy has to be lot lower than a snake's belly to keep me from saying yes. It isn't that these men are physically abusive or noticeably ugly or anything. Its more that they are non-supportive and controlling.
Controlling. Now there's a word I'm not very fond of.
One of these buck-toothed Jack Leg men puts up a fuss if his wife has friends, talks to friends, eats with friends or pretty much says the word friends. She isn't "allowed" to do anything at any time with anyone for any reason.
I thought I might throw up when she was telling me about him, but I chewed it back and tried to say something supportive instead.
"Divorce him. Divorce him now. He is scum and must go live alone in the wilderness with only tree people and giant, eyeball eating frogs to keep him company."
I even offered to let her use my divorce attorney punch card so she could get a free Slurpie, but she wasn't persuaded. Something about vows and kids and til death do she part no matter how mean he is. I didn't really hear most of her excuse because I couldn't hold back my lunch any longer and was on my knees cleaning up her shoes.
"He even comes home and looks for tire tracks in my drive way that he thinks shouldn't be there. He thinks he's CSI tire guy or something."
I don't get it. She's a very pretty woman who has an amazing sense of humor. She could have any guy she wanted, and yet she stays with freaky mean tire track guy. I don't know how she survives because I might shrivel up and die if Mr. Man told me I couldn't have my friends.
And by shrivel up and die, I mean I would die laughing once I paid a voodoo witch doctor to shrivel Mr. Man's head to roughly the size of a walnut. I'd probably go ahead and throw in an extra ten bucks and some chicken lips if he'd sprinkle some of that shriveling dust on what we like to call "little Mr. Man" as well.
I love my beautiful husband terrible and awful, but I need a bunch of people around me who love me or at least fake loving me when I need them to....which is all the time 'cause I'm needy like that. I like to laugh, to chit chat, to eat food in restaurants and I like hearing "Love you, Sher" from as many people as possible as often as is possible.
The truth is Mr. Man needs me to have friends because I am a handful. There is way too much of my crazy for just one person. He couldn't care less if my friends have girl names or boy names, either. He just needs the assistance.
Since I can't get my co-worker to browse the aisles of my favorite store, "Husband-Mart" and I can't convince her that women really can grow a set of ping pong balls of their own if they clap their hands and truly believe, I'm thinking my only recourse is to kidnap her in the dark of night like they do those chanting bald people who sell flowers at the airport and de-program her.
I'll lock her in a room and force her to listen to Tina Turner and Bonnie Raitt over and over again. I'll withhold chocolate and diet Coke until she admits women are people, too. I might even let her have one or two of my friends... on loan of course... so that she understands how nice it is to have people who aren't obligated by a wedding band and threat of child support to tell her they love her. Oh, and that her hair is not ugly and she hasn't gained weight. That's the best.
Whatever happens, I'm not gonna let up. I'm going to be her very own Harriet Tubman until she hops on the underground railroad to lady freedom and at minimum goes out to supper with someone who is not him.
I'm a lucky, lucky woman. I loves me some Mr. Man and I loves me some people who are not Mr. Man and that's a very good thing.
Wow. That was very Martha Stewart Mental Health Collection of me. Pre-prison Martha, of course.
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