Honey-do Lists

It's part of marriage

Honey-do lists are the scourge of marriage. I hate them with a passion. It’s not that I don’t want to ever do things for my wife. Believe me, I love her. It’s just I’m inherently lazy and prefer to interact with the least amount of humans if possible.

On the days I’m home alone, I love to lie on my comfy recliner listening to music, reading books or watching porn on my cell phone. “How come the tissue box is always empty?” my wife always asks. All I can do is just shrug my shoulders and say, “Allergies.”

Time and time again I make the same mistake informing my wife in advance when I’m taking a day off from work. Me and my big mouth! Not only do her honey-do lists grow longer, but she fully expects me to follow through on each and every little thing on the list, along with the specific verbal command "not to walk into the house until each item is crossed off the list!" Talk about pressure! By the time I’ve accomplished this herculean feat, I’ve inhaled two puffs of Albuterol to stem off an oncoming asthma attack.

Turn the tables on my wife you say? Yeah, right. When the situation is reversed (as I’ve tried many times in the past) the reaction to handing her my honey-do-list is met with a harsh "What the fuck is this? Are you out of your mind?" Just thinking about that—Whoa! I need to take a deep breath. Hang on a sec, Ok? Phew! That's better! Does anyone know if there is a support organization for the pussy-whipped? I'm convinced there's an overwhelming need and I’m sure, good money to be made. Like AA's 12 Step program, perhaps they could formulate a 12 P-Whipped program for men? Sort of like those old Red Chinese re-education camps back during the Cultural Revolution. The intent would be to refocus married men into once again being happily submissive to our individual wives’ specifications. Or just as easily, they can withhold sex from us. Whichever is easier. Sometimes both.

Just the thought of being scorned time and time again by my wife leaves me restless. At night, I lie wide awake staring up at the ceiling while breaking out into a cold sweat, drenching my pajamas like a wet dream. My anxiety begins to quickly spiral out of control. If you’ve seen baseball players on TV relentlessly eating sunflower seeds in the dugout, well then, that’s me with Xanax.

What worries me is this all may lead me to drinking Jack Daniels and eventually an encounter with the 12 Step Program. Look—I know there’s no point of drinking my problem away because I’m convinced, once back on the wagon, and in full recovery, she’ll immediately hit me up again with honey-do lists. So, after all these years, I'm now willingly resigned to living in a honey-do list hell—which I believe my wife secretly gets cheap thrills from. If not, I’m convinced she has stock in the makers of Xanax, which she never told me about.

Sorry to cut this short. I haven’t completed my honey-do list.