Poor Mark!

Today I realized I assult Mark on almost an hourly basis with some sort of question or task that as a man, he is neither willing nor quailfied to deal with. Case in point. I repainted my toenails last night, so this morning I held my foot up to his face and said, 'I don't know, I'm not so fussy for this colour. What do you think?'

First, he is a man, and therefore he will never, nay, ever, have a colour preference outside of automobile colours.

Second, I bought a binkin for our trip to Puerto Vallarta at the end of the month and went about plaguing him for most of the night on whether I looked, ok, tolerable, chubby, fat, sort of hippy, or was I just plain kidding myself. He assured me I did not look like Kristy Alley before Jenny Craig then just kept saying, ' you look fine'. Which, I am sad to say, elicited a few 'how fine'(s) from me before he gave me the same look he gives Mushu when he claws the furniture.

Third, if he meets another guy, who may have a girlfriend, fiancee, or spouce who we will have to hang out with, visit, or sit with at a function, he knows absolutely nothing about this man's better half.

Me: What's her name?
Mark: Don't know.
Me:What does she do?
Mark: I don't know.
Me: Is she from here?
Mark: I don't know.