My Cardboard Balcony

Grubby Hubby by Belinda Roddie There's my grubby hubby tromping down the stairs, wearing the same old T-shirt with chip crumbs in his hair. He's done with video games tonight, so now it's time for beer. He gets one for me, too, y'know - he's really such a dear. My grubby hubby gives good hugs and cusses like a tar, burping out the alphabet while he drives his beat up car. He makes the kids laugh when he does his staple "belly shake," a dance move he invented to make giggly jawlines ache. The neighbors don't like him so much - they think he's far too dirty. Except for Missus Shaw, that is - with him, she gets real flirty. She tries to sneak him pizza rolls when he's mowing the lawn, but all her talk of chia pets just makes both of us yawn. The dads along the block say that my hubby's such a mess because of how he holds himself and 'cause of how he's dressed. They want to put him in a suit and have h...

I didn't think I was going to be so selective about my wife-to-be. Yet there I was, standing in a sterile steel hallway, looking upon mannequin after mannequin as the owner tried to convince me to pick a body model and stick to it. "After you choose the physical part," he told me, "you can add the personality!" It was like the Stepford Wives giving head to the Twilight Zone.