The Perfect Male

Dave is the perfect male. 

So perfect, he borders on female.

He cooks, cleans, does laundry, dishes, changes kitty litter, splits wood,  carries heavy things, takes out the garbage and fixes our cars. Not to mention the fact he makes twice as much money as me and pays almost all the bills.

You may well wonder what it is I do around here.

Well, so I do, now that you mention it.

I dunno.

The word "ornament" comes to mind.

I thought I did a lot until I started writing stuff down.

"Dave, what do I do around here?" I asked him a half a second ago.

"Same stuff as I do," he said.

"I guess," I replied. "Except I don't do kitty litter. Ew. Or fix the cars. And you do the garbage. And lift stuff."

"Huh," Dave said. "Then I don't know what you do, either."

I am writing this as I eat dinner that he prepared.

He got home a little earlier than me tonight and promptly started supper, got the fire in the woodstove going, threw in a load of laundry and cleaned out the stinky kitty litter. All he wanted from me was a kiss when I blew in the door, but I was feeling as stinky as the litter and gave him the cheek-swipe instead of a full lip lock.

"No kiss?" he asked, hurt.

"I'm grumpy," I said sulkily. 

"What'd I do?" 

"You started dinner."

What a nervy bugger, eh? Starting dinner! 

"I had it all planned, what I was going to make tonight. I stopped at the grocery store and got all the stuff I needed and everything and now it's all ruined because YOU MADE DINNER!"

He raised his eyebrows and carried on with the cooking, knowing enough about females to stay clear. 

See? I told you he was the perfect male.

We have a lesbian friend who is in awe of Dave's many talents. She said to him one day, "If you tuck that thing in I'll take ya home."

Whoa, sister. Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute.

There are other things that I haven't mentioned that Dave does very well.

And none of those things require tucking.