The
following essay was produced as part of my 2013 effort for the
November National Novel Writing Month effort. As such, please
understand that while I did give it a quick review, it has not
gone through the same proofreading and editing I normally try
to give all of the material posted on this site.
I
always make some mistakes. There are errors to be found throughout
this web site, and many exist despite dozens of attempts to correct
problems. That said, ask that you approach this material in the
spirit intended – a basic thought, slightly worked out and very
informally researched, delivered in the hopes of writing more
than 50,000 words by the end of November.
Thank
you.
~ ~
~ ~ ~
A
happy wife, a happy life.
We’ve
all heard some form of that expression.
Of
course… as a husband… I wonder about it. A bit.
Ever
heard the joke about fishing? As I recall it goes something like
this… at least the basics of it…
A
man was shivering, fishing pole in his hand. It was raining. He
was wet and cold. A truly miserable day. And as he prepared to
cast out his line again, he was heard to say: “Well, at least
she’s not here.”
We
can debate the exceptions to the rule… the couples where both
love camping, both love sports, and, though I have yet to be able
to have it officially verified, I suppose it’s even possible there
are relationships where both people love cats.
But
they are exceptions.
So
why is “a happy wife, a happy life” the expression?
Five
minutes to arrive at an answer -- I suppose it’s because rhyming
“wife” and “life” is easier than rhyming “husband” with “sandwich”
or some combination of “football” and “sex” (unless, instead of
rhyming, you are allowed to delve into the regions of a haiku…
but I haven’t the time for that right now). Overall though, that’s
probably not it, and I likely need more than five minutes.
More
to the point is probably some deeper investigation of the following…
When
Terry wants to know why the dogs are tracking in mud from the
yard, she wants to know all sorts of things. She asks if it’s
raining… if I checked before letting them romp through the kitchen
with muddy paws… and if I know it should be cleaned up then and
not in a couple of hours. (Or, more specifically to the muddy
floors drying idea, after it has dried and I decide whether or
not you need to clean it up because you can still see it).
In
general, she wants details. She wants answers. I don’t have the
time for that.
When
Terry wants to know why the dogs are tracking in mud from the
yard, she wants to know if it’s raining… I just want it to be
quiet.
We
happen to have a nice, large, living room. Over time, Terry and
I… along with the dogs… selected our favorite places for settling
in, getting a fire going in the fireplace, and watching television.
About
eighteen months ago, Terry was trying to get me to change where
I sat. She had rearranged some furniture in the living room, and
placed a chair near the sofa where she would regularly sit. She
asked me to try it out.
It
was an effort for us to sit closer to each other. And… sure… so
I did.
And
it was awful.
The
angle to the television was all wrong and distracting. And while
part of that might simply have been that it was just different,
the chair was not even remotely comfortable for more than ten
to fifteen minutes of watching TV. It was a fine, nice chair.
Heck, it still is a wonderful chair. Just not a collapse into
it and have it give you a hug comfortable.
Anyway…
Back
to my regular chair I went.
Last
summer Tigg broke her wrist. She had decided it was easier to
sit in a different chair instead of her normal spot, but didn’t
like the set up around her. So I suggested she try my spot.
And
she did.
Suffice
to say, as far as her reaction, since that day she and I have
not both been in the living room at the same time with me being
located in my chair.
It’s
hers now.
(And
it’s quiet. Which, I suppose, was what I wanted all along.)
Now
look… overall I’m kidding about this.
(Not
about the chair. That’s actually true. I had a seat that without
putting up signs or some crazy “you’re in my spot” claim on it,
had more or less become where I liked to sit in the living room.
And Terry sits there now. In some crazy way… some crazy, “sure
you can wear my sweatshirt” and happily giving it to her and enjoying
that she likes it way… I’m happy that she’s happy.)
But
the reality is… I’ve got a pretty sweet deal in this whole thing
too.
Just
turns out that I’m not as concerned about the color of the dining
room walls or other assorted decisions that need to be made.
And
it’s quiet.
Now…
if I could just figure out a way to make purchasing an Aston Martin
seem a bit more realistic and sensible, we could really be on
to something.