Honey Do

A married man always wonders:  How does she have the time to create all of these jobs?  There's the broken toilet.  The cracked window.  The paint touch-ups.  The closets.  The cars.  The appliances.  The floors.  The marketing.  The weekly visits with Aunt Martha.

In time a man's honey-do list becomes his ball and chain.  He's dragging weight, moaning under heavy iron, and every time he turns around she's there with the shotgun yelling, "Where do you think you're going?" He could run (and many do).  But he won't get far.  She'll find him.  And if he thinks he's going to find a younger woman who won't have a list of her own, he's sorely mistaken.  All women have lists. Some lists are just longer than others.  And while some women only threaten, others pull the trigger from time-to-time. 

I did try to run from the list earlier in life.  I would try to make a break for it on Saturday mornings, or on those evenings when I knew she wouldn't be in the mood for the likes of me, but inevitably I'd feel the tug of the chain and come crawling back like a hound dog resolved to having the ticks plucked out of his hide. 

At my age I'm now like the ghost of Jacob Marley.  I have a ponderous chain of immense proportions wound round my ankles.  All I can do is warn other unsuspecting man-souls about the impending doom of the honey-do list.

A man may not see it.  But it's always there.  And if he forgets, he shouldn't worry.  She'll remind him.  "When are you going to fix that toilet?"