My husband is a treasure for too many reasons to list here, so I’ll just address one: He is always willing to do the gross stuff. That covers a lot of ground; for instance, I have never once filled my car with gas. If I’m on my own and need to fill up, I find a full-serve. You may think that makes me lame (I won’t deny it), but I’m sure he thinks I’ll spill it all over myself and some careless smoker will set me ablaze.
He handles the spiders (he’s a catch-and-release kind ‘o guy), cleans the litter box (and one particularly leaky cat’s ass every day for several years until she died), deals with any dead rodents, de-gunkifies drains – it’s all part of his “Welp, this is what I signed up for” attitude.
I marvel, though, at his imperviousness to the slimy horrors of dealing with meat and poultry (I can handle fish - just). He just shrugs, if he reacts at all. Yes, I know: my mother and grandmothers and many women out there do this routinely (I love the story about QEII killing a pheasant in front of horrified media by snapping its neck without a thought – and then that evening wearing one of its feathers in her hat).
Welp, to that I say, thanks entirely to him, “This is what I signed up for.”