So sometimes I feel sorry for Hubba-hubba.
What must it be like to live with someone such as myself?
Someone, that is, who is always right?
It must take some serious self-esteem building to survive as long as he has. I don't know how he does it. Perhpas he does a Stuart Smalley number on himself when I am not looking, but I have to give him credit. He has a degree and all, but what is a simple piece of paper compared to a woman who is right at least ninety percent of the time? And really, I am being hard on myself with that figure.
Pefectly predicting his mother's behavior? Check.
Knowing that white car is going to cut us off? Yup.
The correct definition, spelling, and pronunciation of a word? Uh-huh.
That the 2-for-1 sale is over and don't bother asking the clerk? Correctamundo.
The proper way to make oatmeal so Mr. Personality will eat it? Ayup.
The exact location of the Philips screwdriver at all times? Of course.
When and where traffic will hit? Yessiree.
That it is going to get cold and he shouldn't wear shorts? Why even ask?
My friends, these are only a few examples of the numerous ways in which I am never wrong.
But perhaps there are some perks cohabiting with such a perfect specimen of correctness. He probably just kind of sits back and lets me do all the work, with the knowledge that I will be around to save the day. It would be too much effort for him to actually know which direction we are driving. Why put the brain cells to so much work when Gina is around?