I bet if she would leave his worthless fat butt he would gain some weight real quick.
You know, the gigantic primitive shows nothing but disrespect for the woman who loves him.
It's grating, how the gigantic primitive will mention that Jeanette's bright--which obviously, excepting in her choice in men, she is--but never without the qualifying "but so am
I" or some other reference to his own allegedly genius IQ.
Jeanette never got to more than a quarter of a ton; Jeanette is still ambulatory, going out-and-around in the real world, while the agoraphobic gigantic primitive waddles and wallows inside the tiny apartment. Jeanette wants to work in an honest job; the gigantic primitive's too lazy to work.
It doesn't take a genius to see who the smart one is, here.
Equally as distasteful has been the gigantic primitive's references to his wife as being, uh, not good-looking. Well, Jeanette's no eye-candy, but she does have aspects that add pleasantness and niceness and modesty to her countenance, in appearance at least someone one would feel eminently comfortable in her presence.
And then there's the gigantic primitive's disparagement of his wife's lack of confidence and competence (and hence he has to do everything for her), which very well could be true, but the gigantic primitive's neglecting one of his principal obligations to her as his spouse; couples are to help pull each other up, not drag each other down.
Perhaps the gigantic primitive enjoys having her as his "slave," utterly dependent upon him.
I have no doubt that, left to her own devices, free of any meddling from the gigantic primitive, Jeanette on her own could resolve this matter quickly and easily.
About this "a husband should support his wife" stuff, I'm not so sure, but I am sure a husband should never be a burden--and such an enormously heavy one--to his wife.
The gigantic primitive alleges himself to be a genius; in other words, he's smart enough to bring home some bacon himself.
Again, it's blatantly obvious the gigantic primitive is using his wife's problems as an excuse to not get up out of that "recumbent" thing, whatever it is, put some corn starch (available with food-stamps, by the way) on his sores, and hit the sidewalks, looking for a job for himself.
A six-month stint as bellboy in a hotel would melt away those pounds, lubricate the hips, heal the sores, de-escalate the blood sugar and the blood pressure, and he'd do so well in tips--remember, women think fat little bellboys are "cute"--they could probably move out of that little apartment, ditching Joe, and the gigantic primitive could afford to give Jeanette a dozen red roses every Friday or something, to show he truly loves her.