There are certain things my husband will gladly discuss.
For example, last Saturday while in the car, the conversation turned to what might happen if the earth wrests free of it's axis and the poles shift.
Maybe the warm parts of the world would become cold, high winds would flatten everything in their path, deserts would become oceans and the seabeds would heave and quake until they became deserts.
|Jon Hamm, I will destroy you.|
Obviously, we'd slide right off the face of the planet to float helplessly forever, everyone's breast implants would explode, the Kardashians would survive and rule outer space showing no mercy to Jon Hamm as he floats by in need of help.
|I toldja but you didn't|
He might even discuss the fact that Lou Diamond Phillips has aged badly, agreeing that, career-wise, his high point appears to have been when he portrayed Richie Valens in "La Bamba."
He will remain polite when I wonder aloud if Dr. Phil's wife, after all these years, is sick of sitting in the audience for every single show and he may even comment when I opine if David Letterman wears white socks because he's allergic to dye.
He may smile when I mention that there's a woodpecker in the backyard who's out to get me and might listen as I rhapsodize about how much fun it is to dispense your own yogurt in that new place in town.
|I am out to get her.|
He will not chime in about how he understands what a problem this is because I love the two women who work there and what great pedis they give because they last for nearly three weeks with no chipping unless I bang a toe into something. Nor will he engage in any way about how I don't want to bring my own polish because the cost of the pedicure includes the polish and it's expensive enough already.
There appears to be just so far one can go with husbands.
Now, enjoy Lou in his prime.