It seemed I was not the only one! The comments on this post were hilarious, but one had me in stitches. It was written by an old uni friend of mine. She studied communications and I studied the university bar opening hours. She is now married to a Chef and has 4 boys. She writes the blog Allconsuming and is one of the funniest chicks in the computer. Click here to read more from Kim at Allconsuming.
As I said. Funny lady. And here is why...........
Chef has the capability of turning the most inane comment into a sexual one.
I believe this to be a confluence of genetics and chosen career. For example:
We're having steak for dinner. Chef: I've got a big hunk of meat you can eat.
And so on and so forth. Naturally he finds this HILARIOUS. And so so clever.
He is also completely incompetent at putting anything IN the dishwasher but
when he does he makes sure he does it all wrong just.to.annoy.me.
If he knows I'm about to have a shower he'll follow me because BOOBS!
Together 20 years people, TWENTY years, and still I get "oh good, you haven't
put them away yet".
On Sunday, at the peak of my back injury I had to utilise him to get me down
onto the ground. So of course, as my face passes his crotch, despite my CRIES OF
AGONY there was a 'oh my dreams are all coming true' and a tremor of a pelvic
thrust.
Throughout all of this complete incapacitation due to back issues I get the
gags about being in the ready position.
Chef's family have a known inheritance - you either get the fussing gene or
the schlong. Chef and his cousin? The schlong. His brother? the fussing gene.
Our boys? two have the schlong, one has the fussing gene and one seems to have
both. God help his life partner.
Whenever i walk into the bedroom and he's still in bed (because he's always
still in bed) I get a flash - just in case I forgot what his penis looks like. I
get a wave from him in the shower, a wave when he's out of the shower, a bit of
a dance in the bedroom and well, any other occasion deemed worthy. I swear to
god it's an illness.
The other day I witnessed one of my sons doing his own doodle dance post
shower, watching it swing around and around in the reflection of the TV screen.
It's seriously a miracle men, as a species, have survived this long.
But for chef there is never a disaster, unless we're not having sex often
enough. I am of the firm belief the house could be burning down and he's still
find time for a doodle dance and a smutty comment while I tear through the house
trying to remember where I put all the boys first teeth.
Chef is also possibly the most domestically lazy man alive. Seriously. It's
like I really did marry Norm. This is exacerbated by living with my mother so
any, ANY, desire to potter or plant or paint or fix is killed dead because she
may have mentioned it at some stage in the past ten years.
Chef's budget is basically this: 'it'll be alright poppet'. That is why we
have no form of any life insurance, any savings and live with my mother. Yep,
it's clearly working like a charm.
But it doesn't matter because he's got the B___ schlong.
God help me.
