LYNNETH
Where to begin with my little princess (she would kill me if I ever called her my little princess, actually, she will probably not speak with me for two weeks if she ever reads this, but I doubt she will, she has no interest in what I do, ever)? The only time in her life she has liked the lighter colours, pinks, yellows, oranges and whites, was when she was a baby and could not yet voice her own opinion (and come to think of it, I do not think she very much liked them then as well, she spent most of her time crying and being displeased, until nighttime, when it was dark and black, and she would sleep so soundly). She has the most beautiful golden hair, and that is where her colour ends. Black shoes, black dresses (her mother is thankful she at least wears dresses), black pants, shorts, shirts, hair pieces. She has some dark green and brown clothes, but she wears them infrequently. The only other colours she wears are found on her feet. She wears striped socks. Yellows, greens, purples, reds and blues, but all coupled with black stripes. I will say, for an eight year old, she has an incredible fashion eye for footwear. She always picks out, what I think, are very intelligent and clever shoes, even if they are always black.
It should be understood that, my, our, children have very good manners. Lynneth is not an exception here, she is very well mannered. Knowing this, she can be quite rude and selfish; if it is not her way, she just leaves and spends all of her time with herself. She refers to and addresses my wife and I by our first names, which we never appreciate, and she likes to swear and use cuss words all of the time (never spoken words, but she writes them on every loose piece of paper in our house, and on every page of her school notepads and homework, which neither her teachers, nor her parents can stop her from doing. Personally, I kind of find it funny, but don’t tell my wife). She doesn’t like music, and when some music is playing, she again, leaves the room and spends time with herself. She likes to write, but she does not let anyone read it, which is odd to me. She enjoys reading very much, but she doesn’t like to talk about what she is reading, or even share her books when she is finished for that matter (I can only assume every page has a swear word or horrific doodling drawn upon it). And she has this terrible habit of just looking at you (well not you, but people, especially her brother, mother, and me, until that person feels quite uncomfortable and finds something better to do in some other place). Oh, and, before I forget, as with my other child, she does not like her given name, and wishes to be called, Lynneth (my other child doesn’t wish to be called Lynneth, but you know that already. It just sounded like one could assume that based on the way I have written it).
Her given name, Brooke Lynne W., is just not what she wants. I like that name, I created it, and thought my lovely little princess would very much appreciate it. It is clever (like Brooklyn in New York City, but not just Brooklyn, but split up into two first names; that’s good) and she should be thankful to have such a lovely name, but she is quite the opposite. She thinks it is, in her words, ‘regrettable and sad’ because she, nor I for that matter, has never visited, and quite truly, never wishes to travel to and visit New York City, and likes nothing about it. Also, she doesn’t like the name Brooke, I do not know why, probably because I thought of gifting it to her as a name, and she is okay with altering her middle name, Lynne, to make it sound more mysterious; thus, Lynneth. She has a habit of walking around, no matter what she is doing, and especially if she is just staring at you, with her arms crossed, as if she is constantly upset about something (mostly me, I think). To me, that makes her a closed person, not wanting affection or attention, and not welcoming any person into her weird little world.
There is not one girl her age, nor has there been through any of her ages, that has tried to have, nor allowed, a friendship with our daughter. And, she has never looked for another person, ever, to share her time with, not even her brother, anymore. Saying that, she seems content, she often looks angry, but she seems content. She very rarely complains, like her mother, and she just voices her disliking for things, and gives us, which is promising but sometimes heartbreaking, her honest opinion of everything. The boys, on the other hand (and this for some reason is most always the case for weird, cannot touch, self-assured and bad-ass girls) for the last year or so, always try to spend time with her at school, which she, of course, refuses, which just makes them even more desirable (god damn sick little eight year olds leave my daughter alone, that is what she wants).
She is very, very pretty, this is undeniable; she takes after me, well, mostly her mother. Even with all of the black, and crossed arms, and cuss words, she has the beauty of a little princess, though she will never be one, and it is not because there isn’t a man out there to be her prince, but because, she just doesn’t care for one (which I am quite pleased about. I am a bit scared however that this stage will turn into the next likely stage, when she matures into a young woman, which, regrettably, I hear, is unprotected, angry sexual adventures with multiple, disheveled partners. I am afraid for those years in her life, though I would be quite pleased if that was the case for her older brother. It is just more socially acceptable for that to be the life of a teenage boy, I think).
I’ll let you know how they turn out.
05 May 2010
Life with a wife 4.
LADY BOY
Sir Nicholas Mitchell (I do hate my wife sometimes, and her humour) W. is my son, our son. (You will in time know the W., but for now, since it is my given surname, and you are by no means prepared to meet me yet, W. will suffice.) He is not really a Sir, nor I for that matter, but it makes me feel better to call him a Sir for the sake of his underdeveloped masculinity. He dislikes this to the fullest, and much rather prefers the dreaded, which I should have seen coming, I take full blame for this carelessness, Nick. As in knickknack (without the k of course), as in some small object or trinket hardly cared for and just as well tossed in the rubbish or lost in a box of other once magical now stale memories forgotten, rather than cherished and appreciated for what it is, or in his case, what he may, hopefully, someday be.
So, for now, it is Nick, which, though not my favorite of nicknames, is much better than his last choice of personal recognition, for three long years, Lady Boy (and this is not the cuter and probably more profitable name for a seven year old, younger brother of Ladies Man). Again, I must take most of the responsibility for this awkward stage in my son’s life (his entire life has been awkward mind you, but this was I think the low point, or at least in my eyes, so far) because before I met his lovely, beautiful mother, and during the first six years of are celebrated marriage, I had a dog, which became our dog, which became the families dog, and I am forever sorry to my dog for letting that happen. The last years in a canine’s life should be spent fat, tired, lazy, cared for, overfed good foods, peaceful, and full of good old fashion scratching. It should not be filled with whining toddlers that pull their ears, poke them in their fat bits, try to ride on their aging, arthritic backs like a small horse, roll balls and toys at them when they are sleeping, poke fun at their graying hair and small non-cancerous lumps, and call them ‘bad dog’ when they nip them (that is a good dog). Poor Lady Guinevere Pentland. Yes, that was her name, Lady for short, it’s a good name for a dog, nothing ridiculous and dog-like, such as scratch, or fido, or bowser; not at all, a good solid name for a good solid dog, like George Burns, Samuel Cats, or Spotticus Von Broken Arrow of Stoneybrook Farms (which was my dog, of course, before Lady Guinevere Pentland).
Lady disliked my children immensely, which I was proud of her for, she lived a long wonderful life and didn’t need two disobedient, ragged little humans ruining her last years, which, sadly, I think they may have. Sir Nicholas on the other hand, and his little sister, loved Lady infinitely, that is why they poked her fat bits, tried to ride her like a horse, and rolled balls and toys at her whilst she slept, because they wanted to spend every last minute with her. They cried more than I did when she passed, which, mostly, is because children cry over everything. My son, our son I should say, just to put some of the blame on my wife as well, decided, in Lady’s memory, he would then want to be called Lady Boy, because Lady was a dog and was sometimes called Lady Dog, and he was a boy, so Lady Boy should be his name, and, I swear, that is the only thing he would answer or respond to for three years, even in school, which destroyed all of his chances for a normal social life until, probably, the age of thirty, and only then if nobody he knew when he was younger brings it up. God damn Lady Boy, he would have made a great bastard if I didn’t love his mother so much (just to be clear here, I love my son, very much, but there are times in life when the people who you care for most have that wonderful ability to drive you to life’s edge, or in his case, since he is too young to drive, walk with you very slowly and impatiently, asking ‘are we there yet?’ the entire time until you have to carry him there, set him down, and by then, you want to jump).
And that was just his nickname for three years.
He is two years older than his sister, so all that means is my wife and I have had two extra years to complain about him, which, interestingly, I do not hear her complain much about either one of them (she does of course complain sometimes, about them being slow in the mornings getting ready for school, or if they forget to tell her something their teachers were trying to relay, or if they wear their shoes on the nicely cleaned floors, but never about their character flaws, and they have many, which I find either concerning that she does not see them, or remarkable that she does not let them visually bother her). There are, however, and obviously unmistakable, characteristics about our son that cannot be overlooked when one is trying to get a more personal idea of him as a human being.
At the age of two he began to sit in chairs, but not like a two year old. He would sit straight up, perfect posture, never slouching; though his baby fat was trying to pull him into a less proper position, Nick wouldn’t have it. I remember I bought him a toy truck once for some special occasion, I do not remember for what, and he looked at it, shook his head in appreciation, and sat on the lounge room couch next to my wife and watched weekend soap operas for about two hours, sitting straight up mind you. At the age of four when most children his age were outside getting dirty, hitting each other with sticks, catching frogs and throwing rocks, he wished to be inside watching over his younger sister, playing dolls with her, though he was doing most of the playing, and helping her figure the house out (in the mind and eyes of a two year old, I can only assume, a house is a very big issue to take hold of and understand). At five, when he was enrolled in a pre-school program (which we know as kindergarten) he refused to sleep during nap time. He, rather, chose to draw colourful pictures of birds, flowers, and horses, and he was quite good at it. Also, he refused to drink milk and juices, only water and tea would please him.
As I said before, he was, and continues to be, not a fan of sport. When I would go out of my way to sign him up for a sport and drive him to practices he would just not participate (I saw him once during a soccer practice let the ball roll completely by him as he walked over and picked a butterfly up that was resting on a dandelion). But the one thing that got to me most, was, his lack of interest in eating meat (and that is not an ironic foreseeing). My boy (my little Lady Boy) loved vegetables, fruits, and pastas, and would, literally, become sick if I asked him to try a hamburger, steak, salmon, or hotdog. He is just not someone I find myself easily relating with.
His first year in school, year one for those paying attention, was mostly the same as the year before with the drawings and tea drinking and sitting up straight, and impeccable etiquette. Though, he was much more evolved, intellectually, than the remaining of his squeaky voiced, nose running classmates. My wife and I would often receive praise from his teacher for our tender, thoughtful, and obviously attentive upbringing of our son, which I would always take much credit for. Then came the three, very long, Lady Boy years, where he remained top of his class academically (falling further and further behind socially. His sister even began making fun of him at this time, only in public though, and mostly because she was nearly as socially awkward as he in the eyes of fellow students, and joining in with them made her a bit more normal, but not much closer to friendship, and for the most part she didn’t care either way. Credit to our son, he never let any harsh word or put down ever bother him, he was quite impressive in that way). And that brings us up to the past three months, where he has made major improvements in life. Well, he has changed one thing. He no longer wishes to be called upon as Lady Boy. Nick, he says, to my absolute pleasure, will be just fine for now.
Sir Nicholas Mitchell (I do hate my wife sometimes, and her humour) W. is my son, our son. (You will in time know the W., but for now, since it is my given surname, and you are by no means prepared to meet me yet, W. will suffice.) He is not really a Sir, nor I for that matter, but it makes me feel better to call him a Sir for the sake of his underdeveloped masculinity. He dislikes this to the fullest, and much rather prefers the dreaded, which I should have seen coming, I take full blame for this carelessness, Nick. As in knickknack (without the k of course), as in some small object or trinket hardly cared for and just as well tossed in the rubbish or lost in a box of other once magical now stale memories forgotten, rather than cherished and appreciated for what it is, or in his case, what he may, hopefully, someday be.
So, for now, it is Nick, which, though not my favorite of nicknames, is much better than his last choice of personal recognition, for three long years, Lady Boy (and this is not the cuter and probably more profitable name for a seven year old, younger brother of Ladies Man). Again, I must take most of the responsibility for this awkward stage in my son’s life (his entire life has been awkward mind you, but this was I think the low point, or at least in my eyes, so far) because before I met his lovely, beautiful mother, and during the first six years of are celebrated marriage, I had a dog, which became our dog, which became the families dog, and I am forever sorry to my dog for letting that happen. The last years in a canine’s life should be spent fat, tired, lazy, cared for, overfed good foods, peaceful, and full of good old fashion scratching. It should not be filled with whining toddlers that pull their ears, poke them in their fat bits, try to ride on their aging, arthritic backs like a small horse, roll balls and toys at them when they are sleeping, poke fun at their graying hair and small non-cancerous lumps, and call them ‘bad dog’ when they nip them (that is a good dog). Poor Lady Guinevere Pentland. Yes, that was her name, Lady for short, it’s a good name for a dog, nothing ridiculous and dog-like, such as scratch, or fido, or bowser; not at all, a good solid name for a good solid dog, like George Burns, Samuel Cats, or Spotticus Von Broken Arrow of Stoneybrook Farms (which was my dog, of course, before Lady Guinevere Pentland).
Lady disliked my children immensely, which I was proud of her for, she lived a long wonderful life and didn’t need two disobedient, ragged little humans ruining her last years, which, sadly, I think they may have. Sir Nicholas on the other hand, and his little sister, loved Lady infinitely, that is why they poked her fat bits, tried to ride her like a horse, and rolled balls and toys at her whilst she slept, because they wanted to spend every last minute with her. They cried more than I did when she passed, which, mostly, is because children cry over everything. My son, our son I should say, just to put some of the blame on my wife as well, decided, in Lady’s memory, he would then want to be called Lady Boy, because Lady was a dog and was sometimes called Lady Dog, and he was a boy, so Lady Boy should be his name, and, I swear, that is the only thing he would answer or respond to for three years, even in school, which destroyed all of his chances for a normal social life until, probably, the age of thirty, and only then if nobody he knew when he was younger brings it up. God damn Lady Boy, he would have made a great bastard if I didn’t love his mother so much (just to be clear here, I love my son, very much, but there are times in life when the people who you care for most have that wonderful ability to drive you to life’s edge, or in his case, since he is too young to drive, walk with you very slowly and impatiently, asking ‘are we there yet?’ the entire time until you have to carry him there, set him down, and by then, you want to jump).
And that was just his nickname for three years.
He is two years older than his sister, so all that means is my wife and I have had two extra years to complain about him, which, interestingly, I do not hear her complain much about either one of them (she does of course complain sometimes, about them being slow in the mornings getting ready for school, or if they forget to tell her something their teachers were trying to relay, or if they wear their shoes on the nicely cleaned floors, but never about their character flaws, and they have many, which I find either concerning that she does not see them, or remarkable that she does not let them visually bother her). There are, however, and obviously unmistakable, characteristics about our son that cannot be overlooked when one is trying to get a more personal idea of him as a human being.
At the age of two he began to sit in chairs, but not like a two year old. He would sit straight up, perfect posture, never slouching; though his baby fat was trying to pull him into a less proper position, Nick wouldn’t have it. I remember I bought him a toy truck once for some special occasion, I do not remember for what, and he looked at it, shook his head in appreciation, and sat on the lounge room couch next to my wife and watched weekend soap operas for about two hours, sitting straight up mind you. At the age of four when most children his age were outside getting dirty, hitting each other with sticks, catching frogs and throwing rocks, he wished to be inside watching over his younger sister, playing dolls with her, though he was doing most of the playing, and helping her figure the house out (in the mind and eyes of a two year old, I can only assume, a house is a very big issue to take hold of and understand). At five, when he was enrolled in a pre-school program (which we know as kindergarten) he refused to sleep during nap time. He, rather, chose to draw colourful pictures of birds, flowers, and horses, and he was quite good at it. Also, he refused to drink milk and juices, only water and tea would please him.
As I said before, he was, and continues to be, not a fan of sport. When I would go out of my way to sign him up for a sport and drive him to practices he would just not participate (I saw him once during a soccer practice let the ball roll completely by him as he walked over and picked a butterfly up that was resting on a dandelion). But the one thing that got to me most, was, his lack of interest in eating meat (and that is not an ironic foreseeing). My boy (my little Lady Boy) loved vegetables, fruits, and pastas, and would, literally, become sick if I asked him to try a hamburger, steak, salmon, or hotdog. He is just not someone I find myself easily relating with.
His first year in school, year one for those paying attention, was mostly the same as the year before with the drawings and tea drinking and sitting up straight, and impeccable etiquette. Though, he was much more evolved, intellectually, than the remaining of his squeaky voiced, nose running classmates. My wife and I would often receive praise from his teacher for our tender, thoughtful, and obviously attentive upbringing of our son, which I would always take much credit for. Then came the three, very long, Lady Boy years, where he remained top of his class academically (falling further and further behind socially. His sister even began making fun of him at this time, only in public though, and mostly because she was nearly as socially awkward as he in the eyes of fellow students, and joining in with them made her a bit more normal, but not much closer to friendship, and for the most part she didn’t care either way. Credit to our son, he never let any harsh word or put down ever bother him, he was quite impressive in that way). And that brings us up to the past three months, where he has made major improvements in life. Well, he has changed one thing. He no longer wishes to be called upon as Lady Boy. Nick, he says, to my absolute pleasure, will be just fine for now.
Life with a wife 3.
FACT OF THE MATTER
I can say with the last honest bone in my body (it really isn’t a bone, it is an organ that fills itself with blood and ambition, sometimes, quite comically, at the most inappropriate of moments, like on an airplane filled with passengers, or in church, or yet worse in a confessional; it’s like asking for forgiveness for a sin you are at present committing) that I am the one person in this world that was created (or evolved) for my wife’s life mate and partner, and she for mine.
I do not believe that there is one person out there, wherever there is, but in this instance we are talking of earth and humans, that is the one and only match for someone else. I know many couples that are a perfect marital match for one another, though they seem quite miserable together. I know countless other couples that are great companions, but have an absolutely horrid marriage. People can fit other people’s needs and desires with much effort. People can stand one another. People can make shit not stink. I’m just glad my wife and I do not need to do any of those things. For some reason, I am not sure how or why I was able to stumble upon such a cherished situation, I found the person I can be quiet, loud, stupid, angry, happy, drunk, and honest with and feel comfortable, and my wife has found the same.
We weren’t as lucky in terms of a perfect family though, or at least not our idea of a perfect family, but we are still working on the definition of perfect to make our family fit. Our son, lovely as he can sometimes be, is not a hardworking, popular, passively intellectual who likes sport with his friends over comic books and tea with his younger sister. And his younger sister, our daughter, who doesn’t like tea with her older brother and is much more sporty than he could ever be, is not the little, curly haired princess who likes being sweet and girly as her parents had hoped for her to be. She prefers wearing black over pink, and, at the age of eight, already calls myself and my wife by our given first names, which makes us cringe to hear, which is why I am sure she does it. Our family works, it has for ten or so years now (when I say works, I mean tends to break down but can always be temporarily managed and tied back together) and I’m told by older parents I know, we are nearly already half way to ridding them from our everyday presence anyway, and to reflect back on it, the first ten years haven’t really been that difficult, for me anyway. My wife always seems a bit put off when I say that in front of our couple-friends, and for some reason the man always agrees with yours truly, and the woman tends to take the general eye-rolling approach and light scoff that the Mrs. tends to wield.
As for the ins and outs of it (that phrase has always made me a bit nervous, it takes too much of a sexual connotation, in my mind at least, to drop so casually in conversation that really has little to do with the idea of being in and then out of something) we struggle along as well as we can. It would be a bit easier, I feel, if our children were a bit more sociable and had friends that wished to spend time with them; it has never occurred that either child has ever been asked to spend the night, as a friendly sleep-over, at another child’s (parents) house. And when I or my wife suggest to another child’s mother or father it would be good for the social growth of both children if they were to endure one another’s company for an evening, my wife, or myself, most often is the case, need to retrieve our child, or return the other parents child before the night concludes itself. Fact of the matter is our children just seem to be in a stage of life where they are just unpleasant to be around, for all parties ever in their company.
I can say with the last honest bone in my body (it really isn’t a bone, it is an organ that fills itself with blood and ambition, sometimes, quite comically, at the most inappropriate of moments, like on an airplane filled with passengers, or in church, or yet worse in a confessional; it’s like asking for forgiveness for a sin you are at present committing) that I am the one person in this world that was created (or evolved) for my wife’s life mate and partner, and she for mine.
I do not believe that there is one person out there, wherever there is, but in this instance we are talking of earth and humans, that is the one and only match for someone else. I know many couples that are a perfect marital match for one another, though they seem quite miserable together. I know countless other couples that are great companions, but have an absolutely horrid marriage. People can fit other people’s needs and desires with much effort. People can stand one another. People can make shit not stink. I’m just glad my wife and I do not need to do any of those things. For some reason, I am not sure how or why I was able to stumble upon such a cherished situation, I found the person I can be quiet, loud, stupid, angry, happy, drunk, and honest with and feel comfortable, and my wife has found the same.
We weren’t as lucky in terms of a perfect family though, or at least not our idea of a perfect family, but we are still working on the definition of perfect to make our family fit. Our son, lovely as he can sometimes be, is not a hardworking, popular, passively intellectual who likes sport with his friends over comic books and tea with his younger sister. And his younger sister, our daughter, who doesn’t like tea with her older brother and is much more sporty than he could ever be, is not the little, curly haired princess who likes being sweet and girly as her parents had hoped for her to be. She prefers wearing black over pink, and, at the age of eight, already calls myself and my wife by our given first names, which makes us cringe to hear, which is why I am sure she does it. Our family works, it has for ten or so years now (when I say works, I mean tends to break down but can always be temporarily managed and tied back together) and I’m told by older parents I know, we are nearly already half way to ridding them from our everyday presence anyway, and to reflect back on it, the first ten years haven’t really been that difficult, for me anyway. My wife always seems a bit put off when I say that in front of our couple-friends, and for some reason the man always agrees with yours truly, and the woman tends to take the general eye-rolling approach and light scoff that the Mrs. tends to wield.
As for the ins and outs of it (that phrase has always made me a bit nervous, it takes too much of a sexual connotation, in my mind at least, to drop so casually in conversation that really has little to do with the idea of being in and then out of something) we struggle along as well as we can. It would be a bit easier, I feel, if our children were a bit more sociable and had friends that wished to spend time with them; it has never occurred that either child has ever been asked to spend the night, as a friendly sleep-over, at another child’s (parents) house. And when I or my wife suggest to another child’s mother or father it would be good for the social growth of both children if they were to endure one another’s company for an evening, my wife, or myself, most often is the case, need to retrieve our child, or return the other parents child before the night concludes itself. Fact of the matter is our children just seem to be in a stage of life where they are just unpleasant to be around, for all parties ever in their company.
Life with a wife 2.
THE LIE
Twelve years ago I was sitting at a pub in California, San Francisco to be more exact, and even more specific The Whiskey Bar in the Mission District, when in walked this girl. I liked this bar because it had a billiards table. It had good beer (yes I use to drink in public, sometimes alone, when I was young and foolish, and for the most part horny and self-doubting- I was going to say underconfident but it is not a word, though confident and overconfident are. I just refuse to ever use the word unconfident, it sounds ridiculous), the finest last minute, late night women in the area, and every so often, once a year maybe, would produce a female patron as lovely to look at as the one who had walked in on that specific evening. That night, in particular, I wasn’t there to find a girl, really, I was there to get over a girl, and when I saw this woman I was over the girl, and to this day I can’t remember her name.
It turns out, this beautiful woman, who so pleasingly intruded upon my foraging and mating fields, was actually meeting someone, one of her girlfriend’s, brother’s friends, on the dreaded ‘blind date.’ It was lucky for her that I knew this girlfriend’s, brother’s friend from seeing him frequenting my drinking and hunting establishment (I really was a terrible person in those days), and I knew for certain he was not a suitable date for this woman. I found out that it was a ‘blind date’ a few moments after she walked in. I raised my eyes at her, as I did with most women I knew I would never encounter socially, and, as luck would have it, she walked over to me. She asked me if my name was Mitchell, which it is thankfully not, and I replied yes. She told me she had never been on a ‘blind date’ before and was a bit nervous. I told her she did not need to be nervous, and that I was a great guy. When I saw her reaction to this I apologized immediately, and I told her I say many stupid things when I am nervous, which I lied and said I was as well, which thankfully relieved her.
And knowing that the real Mitchell would of course show up about eight minutes later, as he always did at seven thirty on a Friday night, I apologized again to this diamond for asking her to meet me at such a horrible establishment and hired a cab to take us to a more suitable date-type restaurant, which I was not allowed into because of my attire, so we just walked around San Francisco falling in love. I don’t know how I did it, or what the hell I said, maybe just piled the lies on, but it worked. At the later end of the evening, after a lovely little meal at a Thai restaurant, we, as luck would have it (I must say I was quite a lucky man that night, and still am today- two more days of leniency) walked by The Whiskey Bar. I asked her if it was a nice enough looking place for a late night drink. She told me she didn’t even want to enter the place earlier when we met, she was glad she did though, but just then, it was a perfect pub to have a late night drink. Even more to my growing luck, as we sat at the bar and ordered our drinks, which I of course offered to pay, but was regrettably four dollars short, so I needed to borrow a five dollar note from my girl, there was a disorderly fellow at the end of the bar who in one motion fell off the bar stool and vomited on himself before he hit the floor.
I again apologized to the woman. She asked me why the apology. I pointed to the disorderly man on the floor in his own vomit and said, in all actuality, that is Mitchell, I am not Mitchell, I just saw you and fell instantly in love with you and I knew how much of a drunk and a fool Mitchell was (which was another lie, because as I knew for truth, Mitchell rarely ever drank, he just liked playing pool, but on that particular night he had too much to drink. This was because his friend had set him up with his sister’s beautiful, kind girlfriend on a ‘blind date’, and she never showed up. This made Mitchell very sad and very eager to forget his sadness by drinking heavily, which as I know, is never the right remedy for sadness. That is why they make beautiful wives like mine, to make sad men happy- add a day there) and that he could never make her as happy as I intended to do. She forgave me, mostly because the physical condition her actual ‘blind date’ was in, and we married about ten months later. It was the greatest lie I have ever told.
Twelve years ago I was sitting at a pub in California, San Francisco to be more exact, and even more specific The Whiskey Bar in the Mission District, when in walked this girl. I liked this bar because it had a billiards table. It had good beer (yes I use to drink in public, sometimes alone, when I was young and foolish, and for the most part horny and self-doubting- I was going to say underconfident but it is not a word, though confident and overconfident are. I just refuse to ever use the word unconfident, it sounds ridiculous), the finest last minute, late night women in the area, and every so often, once a year maybe, would produce a female patron as lovely to look at as the one who had walked in on that specific evening. That night, in particular, I wasn’t there to find a girl, really, I was there to get over a girl, and when I saw this woman I was over the girl, and to this day I can’t remember her name.
It turns out, this beautiful woman, who so pleasingly intruded upon my foraging and mating fields, was actually meeting someone, one of her girlfriend’s, brother’s friends, on the dreaded ‘blind date.’ It was lucky for her that I knew this girlfriend’s, brother’s friend from seeing him frequenting my drinking and hunting establishment (I really was a terrible person in those days), and I knew for certain he was not a suitable date for this woman. I found out that it was a ‘blind date’ a few moments after she walked in. I raised my eyes at her, as I did with most women I knew I would never encounter socially, and, as luck would have it, she walked over to me. She asked me if my name was Mitchell, which it is thankfully not, and I replied yes. She told me she had never been on a ‘blind date’ before and was a bit nervous. I told her she did not need to be nervous, and that I was a great guy. When I saw her reaction to this I apologized immediately, and I told her I say many stupid things when I am nervous, which I lied and said I was as well, which thankfully relieved her.
And knowing that the real Mitchell would of course show up about eight minutes later, as he always did at seven thirty on a Friday night, I apologized again to this diamond for asking her to meet me at such a horrible establishment and hired a cab to take us to a more suitable date-type restaurant, which I was not allowed into because of my attire, so we just walked around San Francisco falling in love. I don’t know how I did it, or what the hell I said, maybe just piled the lies on, but it worked. At the later end of the evening, after a lovely little meal at a Thai restaurant, we, as luck would have it (I must say I was quite a lucky man that night, and still am today- two more days of leniency) walked by The Whiskey Bar. I asked her if it was a nice enough looking place for a late night drink. She told me she didn’t even want to enter the place earlier when we met, she was glad she did though, but just then, it was a perfect pub to have a late night drink. Even more to my growing luck, as we sat at the bar and ordered our drinks, which I of course offered to pay, but was regrettably four dollars short, so I needed to borrow a five dollar note from my girl, there was a disorderly fellow at the end of the bar who in one motion fell off the bar stool and vomited on himself before he hit the floor.
I again apologized to the woman. She asked me why the apology. I pointed to the disorderly man on the floor in his own vomit and said, in all actuality, that is Mitchell, I am not Mitchell, I just saw you and fell instantly in love with you and I knew how much of a drunk and a fool Mitchell was (which was another lie, because as I knew for truth, Mitchell rarely ever drank, he just liked playing pool, but on that particular night he had too much to drink. This was because his friend had set him up with his sister’s beautiful, kind girlfriend on a ‘blind date’, and she never showed up. This made Mitchell very sad and very eager to forget his sadness by drinking heavily, which as I know, is never the right remedy for sadness. That is why they make beautiful wives like mine, to make sad men happy- add a day there) and that he could never make her as happy as I intended to do. She forgave me, mostly because the physical condition her actual ‘blind date’ was in, and we married about ten months later. It was the greatest lie I have ever told.
Life with a wife 1.
MEET MY WIFE
It pains me, not completely mind you, to say that my wife is beautiful. I can say that surely, for it is the general consensus among a watchful eye, and even more agreeable to, what can we call, a less refined majority. Though, saying she is beautiful as a general consensus is leaving out the truth of the matter. Pretty, she is, yes, and a finely shaped body as well. She is sweet and well thought, kind and incalculably, what is the word, caring. But those are features of her persona, not her person. Back to the basics of the female body. Any man, or woman if they were honest, would be severely appreciative of her looks and physical demeanor, yet, knowing this, in terms of front page women’s and teenage girl magazines, she is not perfect. She is not bone thin with little abs that are just organs bulging through skin because there is nothing else to fill space. She does not have an ass and chest that are as high and firm as the emaciated plastic dolls that grace these same published covers. She does not look like she is a curvaceous sixteen year old girl, or is it less creepy to say young woman? She is, what cover page publishers would call ‘a bit off.’ And they would be wrong.
When, before, I said it pains me to say she is beautiful, I am not physically affected in anyway. It is, more or less, (which is just a horrible contradictory phrase, I could just as well say it is ‘equal’ or ‘even’, or even ‘neutral’, which makes very little sense at all) a psychological battle. She is beautiful, which means others find her beautiful, which means they find her attractive, which means they want to take her away from me and our wonderful relationship. She knows this and further throws arms against me by playing into the ‘you best be sweet and nice to me, you know there are a lot of men out there who would be extremely happy with me as their wife’ side of things. That, I dislike immensely about my wife. And to this, I often reply ‘well that is until they get to know you. Come to think of it, I am not sure why I am still married with you’ which as you would expect never sits well with the Mrs. and usually grants me a quarrelsome nights rest with the dogs on the lounge room couches. As it goes, I love her, and would gleefully demolish and happily dismantle any man or woman that attempts my wife’s seduction.
She is, however, as lovely as she is brutal, which I wishfully assume is the same for all wives. A happy marriage is not always blowjobs and back rubs, and come to think of it, it hasn’t been for eleven years and sixty-two days now, which, coincidentally, was the day we were married. I like to think that if you spoke with any married man at a pub and asked how his wife was, before the first beer she would be ‘lovely, a good mother, working hard to help support the family, still good in bed, and a great cook.’ After four or five beers she miraculously and horrifyingly becomes a ‘cold, bitter, leeching, demanding, money-guzzling wretch of a woman who can no longer even make a good bowl of soup and has prettier, nicer friends than she.’ And just as shockingly, after three or so more beers, she transforms into a ‘beautiful, vicious little sex kitten with all the right moves and characteristics to keep a man happy for the rest of his life, and is probably at home right now with a well cooked plate of steak and potatoes lying in bed in that thin little night-top eager for her big man to come home. And the dishes are probably done as well.’ Though, after that many drinks it probably would come out more like ‘that woman, I mean wife, ahhhhh, no woman, is good. Good food. Sex, hahahha. Good.’ And all that really means is ‘she will not be too angry when I come home inebriated at midnight in a taxi cab when I said I will drive myself home safely at ten. And I will be the one doing dishes in the morning. And I will be the one who wakes up at five in the morning to take our two very annoying, very little and embarrassing dogs for a morning walk.’
This is why I do not drink. I do not wish to, and I do not need to, because, I know all of those wonderful little things about my very lovely wife before the end of an expensive night out with someone I probably do not want to be with anyway, when I could have spent that money to buy my wife a very thoughtful day at the spa and a bouquet of flowers (or more realistically, eggs, steak, fill my truck up with petrol, and a nice bottle of wine; I lied, I do drink, just not in public and only with my wife, and maybe with a friend or two at my house or theirs, or maybe, on special occasions, a restaurant or pub. Piss off).
Returning to my wife’s brutality, it is not so much brutal as it is demanding. And, really, it is not so much demanding as she just wants me to play my role as husband and father, and to live up to the oath I took (I say oath instead of marital vows because up in front of all of those people, marrying such a beautiful woman I felt like a criminal being persecuted for stealing something divine, and I needed to be completely honest in the sense of reason and the law in my efforts to be legitimate for this diamond of a woman- that will keep her happy for a few days if she reads this) when we were married, which, reasonably understood, is reasonable to understand. And I try my best, I do, I swear it. She very little complains of my laziness, mostly because I am so equipped at masking it, and is often appreciative when she asks me to perform some task, and I have, indeed, already performed it, or at least took credit for having one of the children do it. I am a good husband. The Best? Who is to qualify such things? But I will say there is hundreds of average women out there in the world who would very much welcome my companionship.
So, are we happy? She says she is. I believe her because if I didn’t I would be a mental wreck and would by all means unintentionally, but quite obviously ruin our relationship with jealous outbursts, harboring of ill, semi-destructive thoughts, and a constant need of self and co-assurance, which would drive any good, sane woman running for the hills (I do not know why they would run to the hills, it seems counterproductive to run towards a hill to get away from something, knowing that hills will increase the physical strain and slow the progression of necessary escape. Unless they lived on a high plateau and were running for the lower hills, in which case they could find some downward momentum. But realistically it would be easier to just run to their car and drive away). I am happy, beyond happy if you’ll have it, for sure. As I said I have a beautiful, caring, thoughtful, and not so brutal of a wife who is happy with me. That makes me fucking ecstatic. How did this happen? As with all relationships, it started with a lie.
It pains me, not completely mind you, to say that my wife is beautiful. I can say that surely, for it is the general consensus among a watchful eye, and even more agreeable to, what can we call, a less refined majority. Though, saying she is beautiful as a general consensus is leaving out the truth of the matter. Pretty, she is, yes, and a finely shaped body as well. She is sweet and well thought, kind and incalculably, what is the word, caring. But those are features of her persona, not her person. Back to the basics of the female body. Any man, or woman if they were honest, would be severely appreciative of her looks and physical demeanor, yet, knowing this, in terms of front page women’s and teenage girl magazines, she is not perfect. She is not bone thin with little abs that are just organs bulging through skin because there is nothing else to fill space. She does not have an ass and chest that are as high and firm as the emaciated plastic dolls that grace these same published covers. She does not look like she is a curvaceous sixteen year old girl, or is it less creepy to say young woman? She is, what cover page publishers would call ‘a bit off.’ And they would be wrong.
When, before, I said it pains me to say she is beautiful, I am not physically affected in anyway. It is, more or less, (which is just a horrible contradictory phrase, I could just as well say it is ‘equal’ or ‘even’, or even ‘neutral’, which makes very little sense at all) a psychological battle. She is beautiful, which means others find her beautiful, which means they find her attractive, which means they want to take her away from me and our wonderful relationship. She knows this and further throws arms against me by playing into the ‘you best be sweet and nice to me, you know there are a lot of men out there who would be extremely happy with me as their wife’ side of things. That, I dislike immensely about my wife. And to this, I often reply ‘well that is until they get to know you. Come to think of it, I am not sure why I am still married with you’ which as you would expect never sits well with the Mrs. and usually grants me a quarrelsome nights rest with the dogs on the lounge room couches. As it goes, I love her, and would gleefully demolish and happily dismantle any man or woman that attempts my wife’s seduction.
She is, however, as lovely as she is brutal, which I wishfully assume is the same for all wives. A happy marriage is not always blowjobs and back rubs, and come to think of it, it hasn’t been for eleven years and sixty-two days now, which, coincidentally, was the day we were married. I like to think that if you spoke with any married man at a pub and asked how his wife was, before the first beer she would be ‘lovely, a good mother, working hard to help support the family, still good in bed, and a great cook.’ After four or five beers she miraculously and horrifyingly becomes a ‘cold, bitter, leeching, demanding, money-guzzling wretch of a woman who can no longer even make a good bowl of soup and has prettier, nicer friends than she.’ And just as shockingly, after three or so more beers, she transforms into a ‘beautiful, vicious little sex kitten with all the right moves and characteristics to keep a man happy for the rest of his life, and is probably at home right now with a well cooked plate of steak and potatoes lying in bed in that thin little night-top eager for her big man to come home. And the dishes are probably done as well.’ Though, after that many drinks it probably would come out more like ‘that woman, I mean wife, ahhhhh, no woman, is good. Good food. Sex, hahahha. Good.’ And all that really means is ‘she will not be too angry when I come home inebriated at midnight in a taxi cab when I said I will drive myself home safely at ten. And I will be the one doing dishes in the morning. And I will be the one who wakes up at five in the morning to take our two very annoying, very little and embarrassing dogs for a morning walk.’
This is why I do not drink. I do not wish to, and I do not need to, because, I know all of those wonderful little things about my very lovely wife before the end of an expensive night out with someone I probably do not want to be with anyway, when I could have spent that money to buy my wife a very thoughtful day at the spa and a bouquet of flowers (or more realistically, eggs, steak, fill my truck up with petrol, and a nice bottle of wine; I lied, I do drink, just not in public and only with my wife, and maybe with a friend or two at my house or theirs, or maybe, on special occasions, a restaurant or pub. Piss off).
Returning to my wife’s brutality, it is not so much brutal as it is demanding. And, really, it is not so much demanding as she just wants me to play my role as husband and father, and to live up to the oath I took (I say oath instead of marital vows because up in front of all of those people, marrying such a beautiful woman I felt like a criminal being persecuted for stealing something divine, and I needed to be completely honest in the sense of reason and the law in my efforts to be legitimate for this diamond of a woman- that will keep her happy for a few days if she reads this) when we were married, which, reasonably understood, is reasonable to understand. And I try my best, I do, I swear it. She very little complains of my laziness, mostly because I am so equipped at masking it, and is often appreciative when she asks me to perform some task, and I have, indeed, already performed it, or at least took credit for having one of the children do it. I am a good husband. The Best? Who is to qualify such things? But I will say there is hundreds of average women out there in the world who would very much welcome my companionship.
So, are we happy? She says she is. I believe her because if I didn’t I would be a mental wreck and would by all means unintentionally, but quite obviously ruin our relationship with jealous outbursts, harboring of ill, semi-destructive thoughts, and a constant need of self and co-assurance, which would drive any good, sane woman running for the hills (I do not know why they would run to the hills, it seems counterproductive to run towards a hill to get away from something, knowing that hills will increase the physical strain and slow the progression of necessary escape. Unless they lived on a high plateau and were running for the lower hills, in which case they could find some downward momentum. But realistically it would be easier to just run to their car and drive away). I am happy, beyond happy if you’ll have it, for sure. As I said I have a beautiful, caring, thoughtful, and not so brutal of a wife who is happy with me. That makes me fucking ecstatic. How did this happen? As with all relationships, it started with a lie.
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