One of my favourite graduate school colleagues is a fabulous, sexy and smart woman named Jen. She and I were swapping stories about relationships and she told me that when she first married her husband he was a bit bewildered to discover that the marriage ceremony didn’t automatically transform her into a domestic goddess.
One morning, early on, he came out of the bedroom holding a wrinkled shirt and said, very matter-of-factly: “Why aren’t my shirts ironed?” He wasn’t mad, just… confused.
Jen said, “Well…um… could it be because you didn’t take them to the dry cleaner?” Then proceeded to explain that she didn’t iron. In fact, she didn’t even own an iron.
Brow furrowed, filled with concern, he replied: “But… you’re a wife…” whereby she asked one of my favourite questions of all time:
“Did my vagina come with an iron?”