Her next husband.

I’m not saying there will be another husband for Wife-asaurus. That’s not what I’m saying at all. In fact, I hope I’m the only husband she ever needs. (Though if I’m not, and if she winds up divorcing me and marrying someone else, the general consensus of all concerned seems to be it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for her. Her next husband almosthas to be an upgrade. That’s the scuttlebutt, anyway. There’s a few people floating round out there who think she’s got it pretty goddamn sweet and it’ll take her way longer than she thinks to find someone better than me. That ‘few people’ is really only ‘one person.’ That ‘one person’ is, yep, you guessed it, me. But hey. I’m right. Everyone else is wrong.)

What I’m saying is ... let’s say there will be another husband in her distant to immediate future. If he does wind up being better, I’m willing to wager I know the areas in which she’s gonna ‘try something different since the old way didn’t turn out so good.’ Wanna hear ‘em? Cool. Here goes.

He won’t be as tall. That’s for sure. I’m six foot three. Her next husband will be closer to five eleven or six flat. Not basing this on anything, other than every once in a while she tells me I’m too goddamn tall. (Though without me, they’re gonna hafta have a step ladder round here. Me, I can reach anything that needs reaching. Someone even only a few inches shorter, however …)

In all likelihood, what he’ll have is a more than passing knowledge of a car engine and how to handle the basics when it comes to why won’t the car start. His first response won’t be to ask if the battery’s dead, and then (even after finding the lights, power locks, power windows and radio work just fine, which means the battery’s still got juice) check the glove compartment for the thing to see if the battery’s still under warranty.

Her future man-partner won’t buy an iPod touch when the occasions he’ll actually use an iPod touch are rare indeed. (Which also means he won’t have this game I just got. Free from the App store. All you do is toss a paper ball into the wastebasket. I can’t stop playing it. My current high hot streak is 24.)

He won’t make jokes bout her wailing on him. Which I think makes him boring as paste, but … sensible as well. Commonsensical. Nonetheless, life with him won’t be chockablock with dizzying highs and desperate lows, like it is with me. Cause you can say I’m all sorts of things. Lazy, forgetful, selfish, myopic, profligate, foul, inconsiderate, boorish, mule-headed, tactless, ignorant, hinky, crotchety. The list of things you can say I am is long. Endless. But you can’t say I’m boring. I’m anything but boring. Ergo, life with me is also anything but. She better think long and hard bout this. Ask herself if she really wants to live life on a constantly even and boringkeel.

He won’t mind spending a precious weeknight off at the library. Even that stupid library over there. The one where the books’re never ever where the computer lookup system says they are. So I gotta spend all this time scouring the shelves for some book I only barely wanted in the first place, and when I ask someone who works there (they can’t all be called librarians, can they? Is everyone who works at a library a librarian? Except for the janitor. I know he’s not a librarian. But I’m not talking bout him right now, cause he’s not the one I asked) where that book is, all she does is walk me back to where the book should be and then when she can’t find it, says ‘Oh, it must be somewhere else.’

He’ll be able to whip up a delicious and fresh-tasting dinner using just crap laying round the fridge and pantry. (Last time I tried, the results weren’t pretty and much … intestinal distress ensued. Though, the silver lining of that particular bowel movement cloud is we’ve established one thing that shouldn’t be done with pork shoulder.)

Better at sports is a quality I don’t for a moment doubt is high on her list. She’s got a kid on the way, you know. My kid. And she’s gonna want that kid to learn how to play sports. For any number of ... child-development issues. Who’s gonna teach him. Me? Not if she wants that kid to be good, I won’t. And since she does, it won’t be me. It’ll be a subsequent husband.

Whoever’s next will prolly not have a full head of hair. She’s prolly starting to resent my full and thick head of hair. Gray and cowlick-y, sure, but thick and full. Though when it’s too long, it doesn’t grow down, it grows out, so that it winds up looking like a helmet made entirely of hair. Still she’s starting to resent it, I bet, so I bet she’s gonna go for someone either bald or balding.

And he’ll have brown eyes as opposed to my blue/green. His posture’ll be better. Arms and legs’ll be stronger. Stomach’ll be flatter. Butt’ll be less droopy. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. And I spose this magical, wonderful, goddamn perfect specimen of a man won’t swear so fucking much, either. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

He won’t be a church-going man, cause she’s not much interested in one of those, but I’m not a church-going man either, so in this instance, her husband-move is a lateral one.

Her next spouse will be able to sleep through the night more than once a week. And if he doesn’t, he won’t wake her up by asking her if she’s asleep, just so he can tell her he can’t sleep. He’ll lay there til Sleep once again visits him. Under no circumstances will he wake her up by asking her if she’s asleep, just so he can tell her he can’t sleep.

He’ll have a normal job, with normal hours. A job which provides a consistent, predictable, healthy paycheck. Like a salary. Not one that veers from comfy and no-worries to ‘You call this a paycheck?’ depending on business or lack thereof. Just as important, he’ll have a job which doesn’t lead him to believe that the humorous use of ‘Mexican’ as an adjective is without fail, funny as hell. (“What’re you getting so Mexican for?” was last night’s fave.)

This new guy will tuck in his shirt, shave as soon as there’s stubble, and wear fancy argyle or striped socks, not those ratty tatty tube socks, even when just lazing around on a lazy afternoon. And every single day, he will be showered and out of his robe by noon. This new guy’s gonna be a jerk. I just know it.

Husband The Next shall be handy around the house and wouldn’t fuck up something as simple as hanging a few things of art and posters on the living room wall. He’d be able to do it without having the posters or art come crashing to the ground whenever someone closes a door too hard, cause he will have hung it at the stud, which is something I can’t seem to get, even when I do the hammer/towel trick.

And, after successfully hanging yet another framed bit of tasteful this and that, when he makes the ‘Wanna help me find the stud?’ joke, she’ll go along with it. She’ll point at him and, with that certain glint in her eye, (you know the glint), say ‘There’s the stud,’ as opposed to either ignoring him or pretending there’s no stud to be found, anywhere in the house, except for in the walls, which is not the kinda stud I’m talking bout when I make that joke.

Comments

[theparakeet]

She does wink at you and say "there's the stud", doesn't she? because I dont think you can make that stuff up