***written in response the quite popular Judy Syfers piece, "Why I Want a Wife," written during the high swing of the women's lib period. please click link for original article.
And now I present, j3's 2005 version:
WHY I [REALLY] WANT A HUSBAND
I belong to the classification of people known as husbands. I am A Husband. And, not altogether incidently, I am a father. Not too long ago, I can’t remember how long because the long days have since started running together, a female friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce and, hesitantly, was ready to marry again. She had one child, who is, of course, with her ex-husband. As I thought about her one night while I was fixing the kitchen sink (even though I really know nothing about kitchen sinks or plumbing altogether, I’m just expected to), it suddenly occurred to me that I, too, would like a husband. Why do I want a husband for my own?
I would like to wake up late every day of the week and lounge around all day while my husband makes the hour and a half commute through torrential traffic to his terrible job where the work sucks but not so bad that he can’t lie to me about it when I ask the proverbial question every evening when he gets home: “Hi, honey, how was your day?” And while he’s tolerating all the pains of drudging job bringing home the fat bacon (that I’ll get to later), I’ll be at home thinking about what sort of silly daytime television program I would like to consume my required “hours at home.” I want a husband to mow the lawn, to fix the mower, to fill it with gas when it’s low, to edge the yard, to scoop the piles upon piles of dog crap and to do all without arguing no matter how inclement the weather is. In fact, my husband will also be required to do anything that requires being outside. And that means anything. Pruning trees, trimming the hedge, putting up Christmas lights, taking them down, repairing the skylights, inspecting leaks in the roof or damaged shingles no matter what danger it puts him in, taking out the trash, feeding the dogs, watering the dogs and, again, picking up the dogs’ crap, killing anything that does not belong in our backyard but might still be living in it, replacing any damaged portions of the fence, raking leaves and pine needles, resetting the mailbox in case it gets vandalized by some of our friendly neighborhood hoodlums, painting the trim or, well, the entire house if it needs it (I’d help out with picking the colors), braving the harsh winter weather to shovel snow, chunk ice off the driveway and make sure that the sidewalk up to the house is free of any dangers when I invite my friends over for our Friday night social. That’s it! Any work that require me going outside the front or the backdoor or out of the garage unless in my automobile, would need to be done by him in a complete and speedy manner. And, all of this, on one or both of his days off when he expects to kick up his feet and entertain himself. No talking back, whining or complaining. He should come with no emotions attached, a pea-sized brain, a short spine and no soul unless I decide to give him one. He has no opinions or feelings. He will express passion in nothing unless it’s me, giving me money or doing the yard work. It’s his job, really. I read it somewhere.
I want a husband that will yield to my wishes of being more independent. A husband that knows when NOT to hold the door open for me so that I can feel like a more capable person. Yes, a person! That’s what I am. He is not better than me. We are equal and he will tolerate these rants and rages whenever I decide to lay them on him. He will buy me a big ass sports utility vehicle. Yes, an impractical and wasteful automobile that guzzles gas and takes up way more room than is even necessary in the urban environment in which we will live. He will not say anything or even hint a breath when as my passenger in the sports-utility vehicle (that is, notably, not used for anything dealing with either “sports” or “utility”) I cut off another driver, don’t quite fit my big ass sports-utility vehicle in the parking place, use the fire lane as the I’m-waiting-on-someone-inside lane and/or any other violation of conventional driving practices commonly expected of law-abiding citizens. When something goes wrong with the sports-utility vehicle, he will not interrogate me, probe me for the cause, he will begin inspecting the vehicle immediately to find the problem and, if detected, he will fix it. If he can not fix it, he will send it someone who can fix it in a timely manner. The cost I’m not worried about because it’ll be his pocket supporting the bill. He will describe to them in full what he has found and then I will make lightly snide (more jokingly) remarks about how he is less of a person because he couldn’t fix it himself. He will take it. No questions or exceptions.
In fact, he will swallow any criticisms I decide to deal out about his choice of personal style, his hair, his poor since of humor (never mind mine), his terrible choice of media consumption (whether it be music, movies or television shows—God knows the stump can’t read), his friends, his family, everything that he believes in basically. Anything he endorses is open to my wrath and I will deal it out, not necessarily because I like to watch him hurt, but because I like to feel that sort of control. I get off on it. He will not cry from the badgering, he will just smile and nod in approval of my malicious ventures.
He will eat anything I make, smile and nod approvingly every night, never fail. He will smile and hum along to my bad music and he will snuggle with me as we watch sappy love stories on television. He will denounce any movies that have gunfire in them even though the Academy has garnered them in awards. If it doesn’t have the same regurgitated and tragically typical plot as all love stories do, it’s meaningless entertainment for simple-minded individuals. He will subscribe to this notion and will carry it out as I drag him around the video store—he will look happy yet submissive. That is what our marriage will be: one half happiness, one half submission. Actually, we might need to weigh the percentages more to the submission side. Ah, indecisiveness! He will not sigh or show hesitation when I’m having a hard time making up my mind. He will not make any suggestions or recommendations unless I queue him.
He will go to bed at the same time I do and there is only one acceptable response to the words, “I love you, sweetie. Good night.” The response will not be delivered in a mumble but in a hearty and fully audible voice of conviction. He will cuddle with me all night long and when he leaves to go to the restroom in the middle of the night, he will, of course, put the lid down even though, as a capable person, I could do it myself, but I like watching him work arduously at developing trivial habits that favor me.
When the dogs bark in the middle of the night, he will move quickly and quietly to inspect what it is. He will be my protector in the night whether he likes it or not. He will also rid the house of all rodents or pests by all means necessary. He will expose himself to various carried diseases, bacteria and germs without fear. He will annihilate any move organism I ask him to including but not limited to: snakes, raccoons, mice, rats, roaches, spiders, lizards, tarantulas, skunks, beetles, centipedes, millipedes, scorpions, wasps, bees, mosquitoes, rabid dogs, frogs and the friendly neighborhood hoodlum. He will not shudder, scream or yelp. He will kill quickly and methodically.
He will follow me to the grocery store (emphasis on “follow”) and will watch me spend every last penny of his earnings on only name brand, top-shelf groceries that will be thrown away half-eaten and fully-molded two months later. At the clothing store, he will stand close nearby and do nothing but nod, smile and say, “It looks wonderful with your eyes,” or, “Man, you smell so good I could eat you up right here,” with a convincing fervor. All other opinions must be kept to himself.
When I throw a party for my friends, he will spend most of his evening in the back bedroom until I need him to take out the trash so that it does not stink up the kitchen. He will be quiet and orderly. If he gets out of line, I will be permitted to use him as the butt of a few jokes. If present, he will laugh at these jokes. Also, in his moments away from the back bedroom, he will be nothing but pleasant and complimentary to my guests. He will only speak when spoken to. He will speak in short sentences and not attempt to humor or entertain the guest. He will not upstage me. And, as noted above, he has no opinion.
To continue from above, he will be expected to know how all devices in the home function: electronic, gas powered, solar powered or otherwise. When they malfunction he will be expected to bring them back to a functioning state. He will be able to do any necessary wiring, rigging and fixing to make these devices work. This includes everything in the house that is a living organism. Everything else in the house that needs fixing must be left to me because I fear his emotionless disposition on life would make him inadequate in aiding sometimes emotion situations.
My husband will enjoy sex with me, but not too much. He will not laugh, kid, tickle. He will have sex with me in the same way he kills pests—quickly and methodically. Wait, not quickly.
I will belittle his personal problems by bringing up my needs and he will understand this without explanation. He has no problems that are worth mentioning and, furthermore, discussing in detail. However, he will have to lend to my concerns. My issues are top-priority, no matter how insignificant they might seem to his small mind.
My God, who wouldn’t want a husband?