I’m a bad housekeeper but my hubby is worse, or at least he pretends to be.

He messes up any attempt to clean–a crafty but transparent plot to avoid housework. Supposedly he can’t remember how to sort lights from darks, or that you’re not supposed to wash plastic bags in the dishwasher.

He can’t ever find stuff, either. “You keep changing where things belong!” he complains, like it’s my fault we’ve lived here six years and he still doesn’t know where the ice cubes are. (Read the rest of “I Fought the Lawn and the Lawn Won”)

I’ve heard when men reach a certain age they become interested in younger women, new cars, and skiing. I even read something about such men trading in middle-aged wives for “two twenties and some change.”

I figure I’m safe because I’m only 39. If my hubby traded me in before I hit 58 he’d be arrested for consorting with a minor. So let’s move on. (Read the rest of “The Other Woman Is a Car”)