Warnings For My Future Husband
I know that everyone has their quirks, but I, dear future husband, have some very particular oddities that I need you to sign off on before you commit the remainder of YOUR ENTIRE LIFE to being with me.
In no particular order:
There are some days when I really want to do yard work, mowing the lawn included. I occasionally like spending an hour out in the sun, peacefully walking back and forth, making perfectly straight lines, making our yard the envy of the block. I will make these times very clear to you. I will say something to the effect of, “What a pretty day! I think I’d like to go mow the lawn!” I will literally skip outside and fire up the mower. Please assume that all other times, I would like for you to do it.
I have an unhealthy relationship with Masterpiece Theatre and Hilary Duff movies. As in, I have been known to hole myself up on the couch with a family-sized box of Wheat Thins, a case of Diet Coke and the five-hour Pride and Prejudice (where Colin Firth is so dreamy!), followed by the Lizzie McGuire Movie (where she goes to ROME!), followed by four episodes of Downton Abbey (Mr. Bates and Anna! OMG!). In fact, you can probably count on this type of hibernation occurring quarterly. Please, future husband, do not disturb me in this state. Just know that this is nothing to be concerned about, I don’t expect you to join me, and your wife who actually speaks words will return in about 8 hours.
I don’t shave my legs above the knee between November and March (October through April if we move above the Mason-Dixon). I apologize for this in advance; I know it’s not an ideal situation for you. I’m secretly hoping that you are one of those guys who grows his beard out in the winter. If you’re one of those, I think you’ll understand where I’m coming from.
I talk to my mom every day. We talk about everything. This will never change.
I don’t like carrying things. Especially when going out. I will probably ask you to hold any of the following items in your pockets: my phone, cash, ID, keys, lipgloss. Unless my dress has pockets, in which case, I will make a HUGE deal out of the fact that my dress has pockets and I don’t need to ask to use your pocket space. Because, have you seen this? It’s a dress with pockets!
I don’t play well with others in the kitchen. I will try to boss you around, even if you are making your great-grandmother’s recipe that you’ve made 200 times. If I am annoying you, please send me away to walk the dog or buy that one ingredient you “forgot.” If, however, I am taking the lead on the cooking that night, I hope you’ll humor me and allow me to bark orders at you like I’m Mario Batali when there’s only five minutes left on Iron Chef. And, while we’re on the subject, please never root for Bobby Flay when we are watching Iron Chef. I don’t care if it’s a rerun and you know he’s going to win. I hate that guy. No rooting for Flay.
I have two pugs, and they were here before you. So, no complaining when I let them sleep in the bed, when they wake us up at dawn to go out, or when they snore loudly during your favorite TV show. Honestly, if you could love the pugs more than you love me, that would be great.
I call infinite dibs on the spoon after making cookie dough. You can have the bowl.
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