Ridiculous Resolutions

As a devoted husband, father and angler extraordinaire with a typical white picket fence surrounding my picturesque home, my life simply wouldn’t be complete without a long list of useless New Year’s resolutions. As far as I’m concerned, these often lofty goals and pledges never last more than a week. Still, for the coming year I agreed to try something off the wall. Limiting her to only five, I allowed my wife of seven years to write my resolutions.


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While I really thought Sharon understood me after all of this time, after reading her letter I was completely shocked! It is now very clear to me that my wife knows absolutely nothing about the father of her own two children and in no way values our relationship. Only time will tell if we end up in litigation, or if we will be able to work through this major hurdle without some sort of counseling. For the time being I am still on the couch and refuse to make small talk. As far as I am concerned, in no way is she getting away with this insane barrage of unwarranted demands without a genuine apology, a complete revamp of household policies, and some sort of severe repercussion.

Stop storing leftover bait in the kitchen freezer right alongside tomorrow night’s dinner. The frozen peas taste like chum and I keep finding small bits of fish in my ice cubes. It is disgusting and I am sick of it! Why you buy bait in the first place is a mystery to me. You never bring home any fish! Starting right now you should spend that money on me instead of bait. I want a gift card to Macy’s so I can buy something pretty to wear to the Bon Jovi concert next month. I’m going with my sister and you’re buying the tickets!

Stop telling your boss and co-workers lies expecting me to cover for you. This is the third time this month I’ve said you’re in bed with the flu. From now on, I am telling the truth. When your manager calls and asks why you didn’t show up for work my answer will be simple, “Because snook season is open!”

Stop leaving your stuff all over the place. In the kitchen…in the mini van…in the laundry room…everywhere I look there are pieces of fishing line, sharp hooks and gooey plastic things. I won’t even mention the smelly rags and towels. And how about those wonderful sneakers of yours? I swear those things could kill somebody. Why you can’t just leave them outside is beyond me. It’s bad enough you’ve taken complete control of the entire garage and shed…and don’t think for one second that I don’t know you’re putting tackle in our son’s closet. What’s next…our bedroom?

Stop subscribing to every fishing magazine under the sun. We live in New Jersey, who cares about fishing in Florida! After all these years I’m not even convinced you can read. All you do is flip through and drool at all of the photos. The magazine rack in the bathroom was so full I could barely find the toilet, but that’s no longer an issue. Last night while giving the boys a bath an errant splash sent water flying. Truthfully, I’m glad they ruined your magazines and I thoroughly enjoyed throwing away every last one of them.

Finally, stop pretending you’re the world’s greatest fisherman who always catches fish after fish. Nothing irritates me more. Every time my parents come visit their grandchildren all you can do is fill their ears for hours about the monster something or another you claim you caught. Don’t you have anything better to talk about? My parents didn’t want me to tell you this, but they’re sick of you, too! – Sharon