In Los Angeles, some husbands show their love by buying their wives new boobs. In exchange, the wives express their gratitute by sticking with a regiment that will make them forever the "trophy wife." They make a silent promise to always ensure that their bodies stay so small, that the breasts remain the bulging and sometimes ill-proportioned edifice to their presentation.
If you have considerably less money and can naturally fill out a bra, one must be more creative when expressing their feelings. My husband and I fall into this category. But no weekend trip to Hearst Castle or dinner at Katsuya could equal the expression of love that I showed for my husband one night when a gangsta came to town.
I don't know where they came from. We were quietly lounging in the house when we heard noises outside. Pulling the curtains back, we saw a thug-like Latino in standard uniform - oversized white tee, baggy black jeans and shaved head. He was following a frightened girl pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, (he was presumably the father). He yelled, he pushed and even though it was dark, we think we heard him hitting her. She pleaded and shielded her head, screaming, "The baby!" I gasped and ran to the phone to call 911. My husband wasn't about to wait for the cops, and without a moment's hesitation, he marched straight to the abuser.
Readers, keep in mind that my husband is lanky, non-althetic and was approaching a burly, thick-necked idiot who was prone to violence. As I watched him go, my mind raced. "Wow, he's so admirable," I thought, "It's a shame he's going to die." Then I had a moment of clarity. "I love this man and if he's going down, I'm going with him." Chest out (non-silicon), chin up and determined, I marched right behind him, ready to take whatever was coming. Now that is love.
All those in LaLa Land who can't afford plastic parts or the "stay skinny" team of experts devoted to making sure those plastic parts bulge from an emaciated body, still have a chance to demonstrate their devotion. Gangs are everywhere, and you can make every day Valentine's Day. If you don't die first.
If you have considerably less money and can naturally fill out a bra, one must be more creative when expressing their feelings. My husband and I fall into this category. But no weekend trip to Hearst Castle or dinner at Katsuya could equal the expression of love that I showed for my husband one night when a gangsta came to town.
I don't know where they came from. We were quietly lounging in the house when we heard noises outside. Pulling the curtains back, we saw a thug-like Latino in standard uniform - oversized white tee, baggy black jeans and shaved head. He was following a frightened girl pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, (he was presumably the father). He yelled, he pushed and even though it was dark, we think we heard him hitting her. She pleaded and shielded her head, screaming, "The baby!" I gasped and ran to the phone to call 911. My husband wasn't about to wait for the cops, and without a moment's hesitation, he marched straight to the abuser.
Readers, keep in mind that my husband is lanky, non-althetic and was approaching a burly, thick-necked idiot who was prone to violence. As I watched him go, my mind raced. "Wow, he's so admirable," I thought, "It's a shame he's going to die." Then I had a moment of clarity. "I love this man and if he's going down, I'm going with him." Chest out (non-silicon), chin up and determined, I marched right behind him, ready to take whatever was coming. Now that is love.
All those in LaLa Land who can't afford plastic parts or the "stay skinny" team of experts devoted to making sure those plastic parts bulge from an emaciated body, still have a chance to demonstrate their devotion. Gangs are everywhere, and you can make every day Valentine's Day. If you don't die first.
