I’m the Busch Latte House Husband Who Tried to Build the Nuclear Bunker
I Have to Give Myself Some Credit
The key word is tried. Listen. Being cooped up in this house all day is tiring. I have to give myself some credit for taking three naps after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and reading the newspaper five times because I will absolutely not touch the vomit-inducing dishes left by my wife when she cooked to the food. Gross. I’d rather eat worms dug up by my wife’s sister’s daughter’s son, only after my dinner nap though.
He’s my son too. Not biologically though. My sperm pulled a Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn and only gave my wife daughters. One is Mary who disregards the Church of England (that my wife established, btw) and the other is Elizabeth who slams the Catholic Church (which my wife hates, btw) and establishes my wife’s bloodline as the strongest in history. But he’s my son because my wife still wanted a son and I could not give her one. I have to give myself some credit. My sperm still worked, and I haven’t lost my head. Yet.
I also have to take the time to be concerned about my wife’s health. Here’s a secret that I spill to the other house husbands when they stop by to look at my new furniture that they touch with their beer guts: she’s a chain-smoker. I’m not supposed to say anything bad about my wife because she’s the best and she provides for me and our daughters, but that woman goes through at least eleven packs of cigarettes. She gets mad at my audacity to have an opinion, though. In turn, I always have to sound sympathetic to her cancerous habits so she knows I care. I have to give myself some credit because, at the bare minimum, I somewhat care.
She only wanted the nuclear bunker because Pamela’s oldest son — who my wife adores because she doesn’t have a son — has a house with a nuclear bunker. He also lives with his wife, two kids, and the family dog. We don’t have a dog. That’s also something my wife wanted, but I couldn’t give her. I got her a cat though and she is usually the one who changes the litter because I’m always napping. But that’s okay though. I have to give myself some credit. At least I bought her the damn cat.
But, back to the nuclear bunker. It’s a hard project. I know that house husbands are expected to take on projects around the house while their wives work, but I’d rather have the opportunity to weed the garden instead of building the nuclear bunker. How the hell do I stock the east wall of the bunker with perishable foods when I don’t even know what perishable foods are? How the hell do I get the beds down there? The table with the checkered cloth and four chairs so we can have a family dinner while the world is getting blown to shit above us? The plague doctor masks to avoid radiation fallout? The copy of the U.S. Constitution to remind us of our roots? It’s good and dandy for Pamela’s son that he has a nuclear bunker, but Fuck That. I’d rather sit in my garage and drink my Busch Latte and listen to the police scanner while the world gets blown to shit. I have to give myself some credit. At least I’d go out living the life. I could maybe even pop some pills like the housewives did in the 50s.
Those women are my heroes.
So, yes, while I haven’t finished the nuclear bunker, and yes I don’t do any chores and nap all day and read the newspaper while my wife, who works 9–5, does all of the things I don’t do, I have to give myself some credit. I’m a great husband, even if I fail to try to build our nuclear bunker. At least I’m making a sacrifice by staying home.
