This is what I have decided: I need me a man. Well, kind of. I need a man that is more like my mother, without actually being anything like my mother. Trust me it makes sense.
I need me a man to cook me delicious food. He doesn’t need to be a chef or anything, but right now I am living off of left overs, bagels, energy drinks, and anything that can be made in less than 20 minutes. If I had a man, he could cook for me. Even better yet, if I had a man, he could do my dishes. If there is one thing you should know about Kristin, it is that I passionately despise doing the dishes.
I need me a man to unclog the drains. This past weekend, some slimy, hairy, goo creature decided to sneak down into my shower and make a nest. I like to pride myself on not being grossed out by too much, but this was just obnoxious. I can handle emesis and feces, oozing abscesses, and cauterized flesh. That stuff is all in a day’s work. But give me stagnant water pooled with all kinds of scuz and fur in it? No thanks, Sam. I also like to pride myself on not being terribly stupid, so knowing that you aren’t supposed to use drain-o if you have cast iron pipes was a start. What I realized after was that when it says “safe on plastic and metal pipes,” it doesn’t actually count cast IRON as a metal. Luckily, no explosions or instant corrosion happened. Unluckily, drain-o was no match for the critter in my drain. The next step, I knew, was to get a snake. My best attempts were pure failure. I had to call up my “hubby” (don’t fret, I’ll explain later) to come eradicate this monster. Since he is a boy and manly and stuff, he was successful, and I now have a shower again!
I need me a man because massages are expensive. And, I need not remind you that a medical student like me is poor. So poor that I am living purely on Monopoly money– I mean student loans. You might also remember that I am in medical school (yeah, I did just say that for the first time ever out of no where just to surprise you) which is very stressful. I practically daydream about how wonderful a back massage would be.
I need me a man to calm my nerves before an exam. All he would have to do is step on my toes, give me a big mamma bear hug, and hold me tight. It’s actually a thing, I have no idea what it is called at this point, but for people with autism and panic attacks, it stimulates the vagus nerve and you magically become calm. Or so I’ve heard. Hypothetical Man will have to try this on me before I can confirm it.
Oh, and I need me a man to fix my car. It seems to be making this wretched grinding, thumping noise when I turn corners in either direction. Plus I already know I need new struts. See, I’m not a completely naive, stupid girl! I can change my own oil and tell what a few things are when they go wrong. Mechanics hate me for that, though. I go in to have my tire changed and they come out saying my air filter is dirty. Eff, no it isn’t. I promise you. I checked. My wiper fluid, transmission fluid, or oil low? I think not. Nice try though. My serpentine belt cracked? Okay, I’ll give you that one. (But you are going to have to prove it to me first.)
I need me a man so I actually shave my legs once and a while. When it gets to be all winter like and no one is going to see them anyways, it is sometimes (most of the times) hard to find motivation for this mundane task. Having a boy around would probably amplify my girliness, or at least make me feel more girly than I was feeling before. Either way…
I need me a man so I can say “Good morning sunshine” to more than my turtle in the mornings. Dallas might be jealous of Hypothetical Man, though. He is definitely the jealous, angry type. I’m glad he loves me! Being able to say those three words, “good morning sunshine,” wakes me up and helps me realize that it is, in fact, morning. It is, in fact, a good morning. It may also help put Hypothetical Man into a good mood for all the stuff he has to do for me that day.
In all reality, I’m joking about all of the above. I haven’t ever required a boy to do any of that stuff for me, nor could I ever see myself batting my eyelashes to make him do these things he doesn’t want to do. Well, except for this “husband” I was talking about. Yes, I am Facebook married, which is obviously equal to being married in real life. It has been the running joke for a long time that my gay friend and I are the perfect couple, which all started when we would go grocery shopping together. Really, it was just me mooching off his Sam’s Club card. However, things of course progress. Hah, so last night I wanted someone to walk with me to the nearest food complex thinger, which is about ten miles away in the dark (a mile in the daylight). He, instead, picked me up in his car, drove me there, and dropped me back off at school. I thanked him, but he said, “Don’t thank me, you have to take the kids tonight!” He bloody well got me on that one.