My wife creates the perfect cat bed by purging

At risk of turning this into a bloggy version of “I Love Lucy” or “Look at the goofy thing my wife did this time,” I’m going to tell one more story about my wife because, damn it, making fun of her quirky ways is one of the only joys left in my black, black heart. (Well, there’s that and there’s beer and there’s boobs, so actually there’s still a lot of joy in my life.)

Like most people, we have stacks of magazines at our house. And it’s not just the typical “Big Jugs” most would assume I subscribe to year after year.

No. We also have a lot of magazines that deal primarily with cooking. We have Cooking Light, Taste of Home, Everyday Food and Best Meals to Eat Off a Hooker’s Chest.

No copies of "Jugs" were found in this collection.

No copies of “Jugs” were found in this collection.

That last one might be made up — but the point is, my wife likes cooking magazines which is odd because her husband is functionally “food retarded.” Given a choice in the matter, I’d survive wholly on Frosted Flakes and frozen pizza. I’m exactly the opposite of a “foodie.” Left to my own devices I have subsisted on nothing more than Hamburger Helper and beer.

My two favorite foods are meat and potatoes. That’s about it. I view onions as an unusual and exciting flavor, carrots with deep suspicion and anything else not classified as meat or potatoes as exotic fare not to be trusted.

Despite my plebeian taste buds, my wife is on a never-ending quest to improve the pot roast, to make a better rib or to perfect her meatloaf when she cooks for me.  She, on the other hand, would eat squid eyes marinated in crushed poison ivy if she was given the opportunity because I can’t think of any food she doesn’t like.

This is why we have all these magazines stashed and stored throughout the house.

She even purchased two ottomans with removable tops and storage compartments so she could hide her magazine-hoarding fetish. These ottomans were purchased even though our sofa is the kind with the built-in foot rests.

The ottomans serve no purpose other than magazine storage.

But she recently and inexplicably discovered enough was enough. Did she come across an old magazine boldly declaring the whole World Wide Web thing was just a passing fancy or that the costs of “cellular telecommunications” would never be within the common man’s reach?

Most of the magazines are outdated and destined to never be viewed again. They’re probably all on the internet anyway, and that fancy iPad she owns (complicated though it might be for the Luddite wife) is perfect for calling up everything except porn. (The iPad is imperfect for porn perusal because I can’t figure out how to hide the history.)

And although I joked about my wife being a hoarder, the magazines were all neatly stacked, organized by topic and date and sitting around as an ordinary and orderly collection of uselessness.

After finally becoming familiar enough with our 3-year-old iPad (meaning she no longer saw to the creation and use of bookmarks as a ritual of black magic involving the sacrifice of a virgin to the late Steve Jobs) my wife decided finally the time had come to purge the house of magazines.

We’ve been through these purging episodes before. I purchased a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone a few years back and once a year of so I chuck the last 12-months-worth of magazines into the trash. On the other hand, she tearfully sometimes has to admit that the November 1998 William Sonoma catalog probably had outlived its usefulness.

But this purge was BIGGER. It was a purge of Stalinist proportions. She meant to exorcise the house of all the magazines.

I quickly hid the one Rolling Stone I did want to keep (10 year anniversary issue of the death of Hunter. S. Thompson), gleefully brought out the paper recycling bins from the garage and politely left the room to give her some privacy during this painful and highly emotional time.

After some time in the kitchen (that’s where I keep my laptop) I heard a curious noise in the living room. I could hear pages being flipped, paper being torn and then a thump as a magazine hit the recycle bin.  What the hell was she doing in there?

Putting on my detective cap (Which I imagine is a tiny little purple top hat that sits cattywampus atop his dome ~ Fran), I casually walked into the living room to observe.

Dagmar would pick up a magazine, carefully thumb through it, rip out a page or two and dump the rest into the bin.

You can see where this is going can’t you?

When I asked what she was doing, she told me that, yes she was going to get rid of all the magazines, but these particular pages were just too important to get rid of.

You can read more about cats and paper here. It's official shit, yo.

You can read more about cats and paper here.            It’s official shit, yo. 

Much like the black DVD cases I immediately saw the flaw in the plan, but being the dutiful and oft-frightened husband, I kept my mouth shut.

I’m happy to report, the cat was fully onboard, because loose magazine pages, as we all know, are the Sealy Posturepedics of cat beds.

HAFB Note: We are still offering free swag from the Had a Few Beers Café Press store if we select your Valentine’s Day horror story for publication. Details are located here.We hope to hear from you.

3 responses to “My wife creates the perfect cat bed by purging

  1. I love Dagmar stories!

  2. Settings. Safari. Delete history. Not that I ever need to delete porn from an iPad.

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