The world-wide president of my church was happily married to his wife for over 67 years. It's safe to say he knew a thing or two about how to make a marriage work. A few years ago he gave a sermon about the women in our lives. I have always remembered from it an excellent quote, in which he recalled his wife saying, "You've always given me wings to fly, and I have loved you for it."
I know exactly what she meant when she said that. I have also been blessed to be with a companion who has always given me wings to fly. In our short marriage, we have both finished our undergraduate university degrees, which took a lot of mutual support and effort. She supported me during two years working on a Master's degree, and never criticized or resented my eventual decision to call it quits.
She gave me her unwavering support and enthusiasm during a three-year opportunity to sing in a world-renowned, highly competitive choir. The price of this privilege included my absence every Sunday morning from 6:30 AM until 11:00 or noon, including a whole year when she took our three small children to church alone every week.
Singing in the choir also meant I was gone many nights; every Thursday, most Tuesdays, and about 20% of Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, for at least 4 hours each time. It meant watching our children alone while I went on tours, sometimes for weeks at a time. It meant getting a babysitter, and fighting traffic and crowds, all so she could cheer me on, often while sitting with strangers in the concert hall. It meant watching the weekly Sunday morning television choir broadcast faithfully, while simultaneously fighting three little torpedo-like balls of energy.
She not only did this with grace and endurance, she did it with a smile. She was genuinely proud to support her man, even though it meant me leaving her alone with the children an additional 20 hours per week, on average. It was a difficult three years, but gave me experience and memories that will undoubtedly be among the most prized of my life.
In recent years, she supported my creative efforts when I built my photography web site. She has supported my passion for board games, spending hours play-testing prototypes with me. She supported my venture into a retail board game web site.
I recently told her I wanted to enter a nature photography contest. It would cost a little time and money to make the prints, mat them, and pay the fees. She enthusiastically encouraged me to do it, even though we both knew my chances of winning an award were slim. Awards don't matter to her. She has always believed in me, and the intrinsic value of letting me do stuff--of giving me wings to fly.
She called me this afternoon to tell me that one of my photos had won some type of award. There was genuine excitement in her voice. Her enthusiasm carried clearly over the phone line and wrapped around me, like a big, warm, bear hug. She is proud of her man. I don't know how to adequately express to her my gratitude for the love and affection I feel from her. She has taught me through her example that one of the best ways to show my love for her is to give her wings to fly. I hope I can accomplish this half as well as she does.
I love you, sweetie. Thanks for everything.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Wife Rule #10: Some Things are Definitely Woman's Work
We're not getting all sexist here, don't worry. I try to do the dishes at least as much as my fabulous wife. But there are just certain tasks that Man's brain was not meant to comprehend, such as having fun while shopping, and these are Woman's Work.
One of the most daunting tasks my wife occasionally lays at my feet is to dress our four children. I more or less understand what to put on our two boys and where to put it, but the girls are a completely different story. I might have mentioned this before, but women are a mystery. Even a little, cute, pint-sized woman like my six-year-old or eight-year-old daughter can be very mysterious. And among all the elements of the Great Female Mystery, there is one which is most incomprehensible of all: the "outfit."
Now, I know what you're thinking: What's so mysterious about buying fishing gear or ammo at an outfitter? But that's where you're wrong. I'm not talking about any run-of-the-mill mess of hunting supplies, or welding accessories, or anything simple like that. I'm talking about a real live, bona-fide, female outfit. The kind that involves color coordination and special shoes and picking one certain hair ribbon out of a drawer of approximately 25,000 hair ribbons in the bathroom. That kind of outfit.
See, with boys, an outfit is basically any pair of pants, coupled with any shirt, with socks and shoes somewhat optional. Actually, the shirt is sometimes optional too. But not so with a girly outfit. Nothing is optional, as far as I can tell. There are bows to be tied, barrettes to install, ribbons to place, sometimes even little frills on socks that mean you have to pay attention to whether the sock is inside out or not when you put it on.
But I digress--the accessories to an outfit are the least of my worries. For most outfits--anything involving a separate shirt and pants or a skirt--the task of marrying the correct top with the correct bottom is nearly hopeless. The trouble is that the Law of Outfits defies reason. For example, a white-ish shirt should clearly match a white-ish skirt. I don't understand why it should matter that they're both white, or not the same color of white (something else invented by females, might I add), or whether one has bright red accents and the other has bright magenta accents. In my mind, they all fit in the "white-ish bucket" of color, and thus they match.
Not so, according to my wife. Clearly the white top with magenta accents matches the teal skirt with puce and plum accents, which clearly matches the special sage tights with fluorescent glow-in-the-dark accents, which obviously matches the gobbledygook shoes, and blah blah blah I wonder if the lawn needs mowing blah blah blah...
So we have an agreement. I can (usually) ensure that clothes are properly oriented on our children, with appendages in the correct holes and tags in the right locations, provided that my wife or one of my daughters has already accomplished the Womanly Task of coordinating the outfit in the first place. So one of them will pick out the clothes, and then I can help get them dressed. At least that's the way it used to be. My daughters are old enough that they really don't need my help anymore. But we have another baby girl coming, so I will soon be relying heavily again on outfitting help, just like the dozens of other amazing, incomprehensible aspects of Woman's Work that my wife accomplishes with such ease. If I understood them, I would tell you what they are. But regardless, I must say "Thank You" to my wonderful wife, who does Work that Women do, so very, very well.
One of the most daunting tasks my wife occasionally lays at my feet is to dress our four children. I more or less understand what to put on our two boys and where to put it, but the girls are a completely different story. I might have mentioned this before, but women are a mystery. Even a little, cute, pint-sized woman like my six-year-old or eight-year-old daughter can be very mysterious. And among all the elements of the Great Female Mystery, there is one which is most incomprehensible of all: the "outfit."
Now, I know what you're thinking: What's so mysterious about buying fishing gear or ammo at an outfitter? But that's where you're wrong. I'm not talking about any run-of-the-mill mess of hunting supplies, or welding accessories, or anything simple like that. I'm talking about a real live, bona-fide, female outfit. The kind that involves color coordination and special shoes and picking one certain hair ribbon out of a drawer of approximately 25,000 hair ribbons in the bathroom. That kind of outfit.
See, with boys, an outfit is basically any pair of pants, coupled with any shirt, with socks and shoes somewhat optional. Actually, the shirt is sometimes optional too. But not so with a girly outfit. Nothing is optional, as far as I can tell. There are bows to be tied, barrettes to install, ribbons to place, sometimes even little frills on socks that mean you have to pay attention to whether the sock is inside out or not when you put it on.
But I digress--the accessories to an outfit are the least of my worries. For most outfits--anything involving a separate shirt and pants or a skirt--the task of marrying the correct top with the correct bottom is nearly hopeless. The trouble is that the Law of Outfits defies reason. For example, a white-ish shirt should clearly match a white-ish skirt. I don't understand why it should matter that they're both white, or not the same color of white (something else invented by females, might I add), or whether one has bright red accents and the other has bright magenta accents. In my mind, they all fit in the "white-ish bucket" of color, and thus they match.
Not so, according to my wife. Clearly the white top with magenta accents matches the teal skirt with puce and plum accents, which clearly matches the special sage tights with fluorescent glow-in-the-dark accents, which obviously matches the gobbledygook shoes, and blah blah blah I wonder if the lawn needs mowing blah blah blah...
So we have an agreement. I can (usually) ensure that clothes are properly oriented on our children, with appendages in the correct holes and tags in the right locations, provided that my wife or one of my daughters has already accomplished the Womanly Task of coordinating the outfit in the first place. So one of them will pick out the clothes, and then I can help get them dressed. At least that's the way it used to be. My daughters are old enough that they really don't need my help anymore. But we have another baby girl coming, so I will soon be relying heavily again on outfitting help, just like the dozens of other amazing, incomprehensible aspects of Woman's Work that my wife accomplishes with such ease. If I understood them, I would tell you what they are. But regardless, I must say "Thank You" to my wonderful wife, who does Work that Women do, so very, very well.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Wife Rule #9: Some Things are Man's Work
I should probably be concerned that my young son's goal in life is to be a garbage man, but I'm not.
You see, some things are Man's Work, and taking out trash is definitely one of them. My wife and I never had to discuss that point. There was a silent understanding between us. You produce the trash, and I take the trash out. I am the household garbage man, like my father before me, and like his father before him. Prehistoric Man undoubtedly spent hours each day hefting unwanted boulders out of the cave. Of course my son wants to be a garbage man.
There are other important skills that my son needs to learn related to Man's Work. For instance, mowing the lawn. For this reason, we bought my son a toy lawnmower that emits bubbles. He will follow me around the yard for an hour, bubbling, and not complaining. He is convinced he is doing Man's Work, and it makes him feel all burly inside.
There are those few things that my wife and I disagree about being Man's Work. For instance, I am perfectly willing to take on the Manly job of hanging up pictures, or curtains, or shelving, or whatever. It involves wielding a hammer and pounding stuff (another popular theme of my son's toys). However, noticing that there is a shelf lying on the floor, or a curtain rod hiding behind the bedroom door, both just hoping within their deepest inward manufactured parts that I will hang them any day now, is definitely not part of Man's Work. In fact, noticing just about anything, including a new blouse, a new rug, a new couch, a grease fire raging out of control in the kitchen, etc., is really not Man's Work. Noticing and plucking my stray renegade eyebrow hairs is definitely not Man's Work.
That's where my Woman comes in. She notices stuff. If there were something terrible like a spider or a large python living in our basement, she would notice, and then she would tell me. And then, being a Man, I would conquer the beast, preferably by squishing it's guts out with a shoe or a baseball bat (Man's Work again). If I had put my pants on backwards, my wife would notice, and I would do the Manly thing and reverse them. Yes, my wife is great at noticing. But besides noticing stuff, my wife serves many other very important functions in our household, which I will undoubtedly discuss with you another time, as soon as I notice what they are--or else I'll be sleeping on the couch, which just might be new, for all I know.
You see, some things are Man's Work, and taking out trash is definitely one of them. My wife and I never had to discuss that point. There was a silent understanding between us. You produce the trash, and I take the trash out. I am the household garbage man, like my father before me, and like his father before him. Prehistoric Man undoubtedly spent hours each day hefting unwanted boulders out of the cave. Of course my son wants to be a garbage man.
There are other important skills that my son needs to learn related to Man's Work. For instance, mowing the lawn. For this reason, we bought my son a toy lawnmower that emits bubbles. He will follow me around the yard for an hour, bubbling, and not complaining. He is convinced he is doing Man's Work, and it makes him feel all burly inside.
There are those few things that my wife and I disagree about being Man's Work. For instance, I am perfectly willing to take on the Manly job of hanging up pictures, or curtains, or shelving, or whatever. It involves wielding a hammer and pounding stuff (another popular theme of my son's toys). However, noticing that there is a shelf lying on the floor, or a curtain rod hiding behind the bedroom door, both just hoping within their deepest inward manufactured parts that I will hang them any day now, is definitely not part of Man's Work. In fact, noticing just about anything, including a new blouse, a new rug, a new couch, a grease fire raging out of control in the kitchen, etc., is really not Man's Work. Noticing and plucking my stray renegade eyebrow hairs is definitely not Man's Work.
That's where my Woman comes in. She notices stuff. If there were something terrible like a spider or a large python living in our basement, she would notice, and then she would tell me. And then, being a Man, I would conquer the beast, preferably by squishing it's guts out with a shoe or a baseball bat (Man's Work again). If I had put my pants on backwards, my wife would notice, and I would do the Manly thing and reverse them. Yes, my wife is great at noticing. But besides noticing stuff, my wife serves many other very important functions in our household, which I will undoubtedly discuss with you another time, as soon as I notice what they are--or else I'll be sleeping on the couch, which just might be new, for all I know.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Wife Rule #8: Dancing is Better With the Stars
I always hated dances.
But I liked girls.
So for most of my adolescence, I was stuck in a tortured existence. I went to most of the school dances, because there was always a big group, and there was dinner, and the obligatory after-dance activities to drain time away. And even at the dance, the ceremonial taking of the group picture--with a little skill--could easily be stretched out to well over half of the time we were there. So school dances were palatable, but barely.
I tended to avoid most of the church dances, because they didn't involve formally asking a girl on a date. This meant that none of the non-dance distractions were there, and that meant that there wasn't much to do except, well, dance.
I thought the problem was that I didn't really like most dance music. It just didn't do anything for me. Instead of energizing me into an involuntary rhythmic frenzy like it seemed to do to everybody else around me, it sapped my energy, turning me into a drooping wall-flower, slumped deep down into an uncomfortable folding chair, if one was available. If not, I might sag all the way to the floor and start drooling or whatever.
It was even worse if I was at a dance with a date, because she might actually expect me to dance. So I had no choice, but to stand out in the middle the dance floor, absolutely everyone's eyes on me, I was sure, and look like a total lurp. I'm sure my over-excited self-consciousness caused my shoulders to droop and my back to slouch, sort of self-fulfilling my greatest fears when dancing of looking like an uncoordinated, gangly, pencil-necked, pimple-faced teenage boy with a nerve disorder.
So I would try to cope by playing it safe with the famous two-foot lurch, back and forth. My arms never knew what to do. Sometimes they might raise themselves up, rodent-like with my hands curled forward, in some psychotic attempt to turn my lurpy lurch into the happy hamster hop. But let's be realistic--no matter how out of touch with reality I might have been as a teenager, even I knew that looked stupid. So the safest option seemed to be to let my arms hang down, rigidly, lest any unintentional movement might draw more attention to myself.
Thus, I hated dancing. Sure, I had seen the TV shows and the movies, the parts where the happy couple dances together and the whole world seems to melt away into a slow-motion type of love montage. They look into each other's eyes deeply, spinning in paradise, and suddenly they are riding away into the sunset (still in slow motion) on the back of a horse, her dainty hands wrapping around his manly torso and firmly gripping his chiseled abs. I knew what was supposed to happen.
But it never quite worked out that way for me. My dancing experiences involved slow-motion spinning, but instead of ending up on horses, I was always in the center of a room full of evil clowns, which were cackling and pointing at me as I slowly melted into a puddle of Cream of Wheat on the floor.
Until I started dancing with my wife. She loves dancing, and I love her, so we did it often. We even took a couple of ballroom dance classes together in college. I won't lie--it took some time, but soon, dancing with her was just like on TV. When we would dance together the world would sort of fade away, pointing evil clowns and all, and it was just the two of us, spinning in paradise. I finally realized that for me, the music didn't have that much to do with it after all. It just took finding the right partner, the one who could put stars in my eyes, for the magic to happen.
But I liked girls.
So for most of my adolescence, I was stuck in a tortured existence. I went to most of the school dances, because there was always a big group, and there was dinner, and the obligatory after-dance activities to drain time away. And even at the dance, the ceremonial taking of the group picture--with a little skill--could easily be stretched out to well over half of the time we were there. So school dances were palatable, but barely.
I tended to avoid most of the church dances, because they didn't involve formally asking a girl on a date. This meant that none of the non-dance distractions were there, and that meant that there wasn't much to do except, well, dance.
I thought the problem was that I didn't really like most dance music. It just didn't do anything for me. Instead of energizing me into an involuntary rhythmic frenzy like it seemed to do to everybody else around me, it sapped my energy, turning me into a drooping wall-flower, slumped deep down into an uncomfortable folding chair, if one was available. If not, I might sag all the way to the floor and start drooling or whatever.
It was even worse if I was at a dance with a date, because she might actually expect me to dance. So I had no choice, but to stand out in the middle the dance floor, absolutely everyone's eyes on me, I was sure, and look like a total lurp. I'm sure my over-excited self-consciousness caused my shoulders to droop and my back to slouch, sort of self-fulfilling my greatest fears when dancing of looking like an uncoordinated, gangly, pencil-necked, pimple-faced teenage boy with a nerve disorder.
So I would try to cope by playing it safe with the famous two-foot lurch, back and forth. My arms never knew what to do. Sometimes they might raise themselves up, rodent-like with my hands curled forward, in some psychotic attempt to turn my lurpy lurch into the happy hamster hop. But let's be realistic--no matter how out of touch with reality I might have been as a teenager, even I knew that looked stupid. So the safest option seemed to be to let my arms hang down, rigidly, lest any unintentional movement might draw more attention to myself.
Thus, I hated dancing. Sure, I had seen the TV shows and the movies, the parts where the happy couple dances together and the whole world seems to melt away into a slow-motion type of love montage. They look into each other's eyes deeply, spinning in paradise, and suddenly they are riding away into the sunset (still in slow motion) on the back of a horse, her dainty hands wrapping around his manly torso and firmly gripping his chiseled abs. I knew what was supposed to happen.
But it never quite worked out that way for me. My dancing experiences involved slow-motion spinning, but instead of ending up on horses, I was always in the center of a room full of evil clowns, which were cackling and pointing at me as I slowly melted into a puddle of Cream of Wheat on the floor.
Until I started dancing with my wife. She loves dancing, and I love her, so we did it often. We even took a couple of ballroom dance classes together in college. I won't lie--it took some time, but soon, dancing with her was just like on TV. When we would dance together the world would sort of fade away, pointing evil clowns and all, and it was just the two of us, spinning in paradise. I finally realized that for me, the music didn't have that much to do with it after all. It just took finding the right partner, the one who could put stars in my eyes, for the magic to happen.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Wife Rule #7: Throw Away "The List"
The details are too personal to share, but there is no doubt in my mind that the circumstances leading to my wife and I meeting were put in place by a Higher Power. I can't speak to her story--that is hers to tell. But as for me, over the course of several years encompassing my university studies, I was led away from my probable life's trajectory just long enough to meet her and establish the foundation for a relationship. After the beginnings were put in place, the detour abruptly ended, my life direction came into sharp focus, and I resumed my course on what seemed in retrospect to be the obvious path I should have been taking all along.
I will forever be grateful to a guiding God that He took interest in helping one of His most helpless children to stumble my way into a relationship that is beautiful beyond my fondest hopes and dreams. For that's who my wife is: a gift from God, a person of such incredible beauty and virtue that when I think of the magnitude of the blessing I have to be married to her, the natural response is to fall to my knees in thanks.
She is my counterpart, my perfect fit. She embodies qualities that compliment me so well that I could not have hand-picked a better match if I had the whole universe at my disposal. Her virtue elevates me. Her beauty and influence magnify my world. Her gentle love is a balm when I am wounded; a lifeline when I am sinking; and at times eagle's wings to carry me to fair heights and future hopes that were previously unimaginable. But perhaps the most delightful parts of my wife are the many surprises I continue to discover--those hidden, sublime qualities which are only revealed over process of time and after a variety of experiences together.
Before I met my wife, I had The List that so many of us carry around, constantly sizing up potential or current mates against the items on The List. I have come to realize that The List, while undoubtedly containing many admirable and virtuous qualities for a spouse to have, also has the shortcoming of being terribly short-sighted. How could The List I created for my ideal wife be complete when I am still an incomplete person? How could I possibly comprehend what I really need, when I am still so needy in so many ways?
Thankfully, the Lord ignored most of The List and instead sent me an angel. She happens to fit many of the items on my List, but so much more importantly, she fits all of the items on His List for me. His List is so grand, so complete, so transcendent, so perfect for me. I can't wait to discover more of the items on His List; each time I do, my love for my wife grows and in turn, I grow.
So if you are still looking for your perfect match, hold The List loosely in your hands, but be ready to accept a bigger, better version that is being prepared for you. And if any of you who are married are still carrying around The List, please, take my advice, and throw it away. You don't need it anymore. Have the faith to fully enjoy the person you have with you now.
I will forever be grateful to a guiding God that He took interest in helping one of His most helpless children to stumble my way into a relationship that is beautiful beyond my fondest hopes and dreams. For that's who my wife is: a gift from God, a person of such incredible beauty and virtue that when I think of the magnitude of the blessing I have to be married to her, the natural response is to fall to my knees in thanks.
She is my counterpart, my perfect fit. She embodies qualities that compliment me so well that I could not have hand-picked a better match if I had the whole universe at my disposal. Her virtue elevates me. Her beauty and influence magnify my world. Her gentle love is a balm when I am wounded; a lifeline when I am sinking; and at times eagle's wings to carry me to fair heights and future hopes that were previously unimaginable. But perhaps the most delightful parts of my wife are the many surprises I continue to discover--those hidden, sublime qualities which are only revealed over process of time and after a variety of experiences together.
Before I met my wife, I had The List that so many of us carry around, constantly sizing up potential or current mates against the items on The List. I have come to realize that The List, while undoubtedly containing many admirable and virtuous qualities for a spouse to have, also has the shortcoming of being terribly short-sighted. How could The List I created for my ideal wife be complete when I am still an incomplete person? How could I possibly comprehend what I really need, when I am still so needy in so many ways?
Thankfully, the Lord ignored most of The List and instead sent me an angel. She happens to fit many of the items on my List, but so much more importantly, she fits all of the items on His List for me. His List is so grand, so complete, so transcendent, so perfect for me. I can't wait to discover more of the items on His List; each time I do, my love for my wife grows and in turn, I grow.
So if you are still looking for your perfect match, hold The List loosely in your hands, but be ready to accept a bigger, better version that is being prepared for you. And if any of you who are married are still carrying around The List, please, take my advice, and throw it away. You don't need it anymore. Have the faith to fully enjoy the person you have with you now.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Wife Rule #6: "Frizzy" is not a Compliment
Her hair. I still remember the first time I saw her; it was her hair that caught my eye. She had long, beautiful locks that curled gracefully down her back. We were in a freshman Biology class at the university we both attended, where I spent a good portion of each lecture period scoping out the female half of the 700-or-so students in the class. She sat several rows in front of me, and her shiny curls reflected the dim light of the auditorium like shimmering golden coins. Then she stood up, and I saw the figure connected to that gorgeous head of hair. Ooh, la la!
I would be lying if I said that it wasn't her sheer physical beauty that first caught my eye. I would also be incorrect if I didn't give her hair most of the credit. I was shy, but I just had to find out who belonged to that scrumptious scalp, those follicles that captured my foolish heart. And so I eventually mustered the courage to introduce myself, and the first words I found myself saying to her, like involuntary poetry, were "Do you use a dandruff shampoo? 'Cause it'd be a shame to let a dry flaky scalp put a damper on your amazing golden sheen."
Although that pickup-line makes a better story, in truth all I actually did was invite her to study with me and a few friends. I spent a good portion of our time studying her hair.
After we had known each other for several months, I was starting to feel pretty comfortable around her and her hair. I decided it was time to take the relationship to the next level. It was time to open up, to confide. "I love your frizzy hair," I ventured in my best suave voice. I figured that would be a harmless segue into deeper relationship talk.
"What?" she replied, a slightly annoyed edge to her voice.
"I love your frizzy hair," I repeated, a little less suavely. "It's really pretty, the way the curls are curly and stuff." I wasn't sure why this opener had not produced the desired effect.
Well, instead of a deep relationship-defining talk, we spent the next several minutes discussing the meaning of the word "frizzy." I thought frizzy meant "really wavy." Not having ever paid much attention to women's hair product advertisements, the negative connotation of this word had totally escaped me. And thus began one of my first in-depth lessons about the Mysterious World of Women, where subtle differences in word meanings can make all the difference between flattery and failure.
Thankfully, she is a patient and forgiving woman. Her permed hairdo is long gone, having been replaced over the years with various fashionable and equally attractive cuts (my wife's hair looks pretty amazing in any style). In recent years, our children's antics have even introduced a very sophisticated silver highlight to her head of gold. She complains that the new hairs' texture is not sleek and silky like her golden ones, but rather wiry. It's okay, I tell her, I like her new "wisdom hairs" and the distinguished, modern feeling they evoke. And one thing I know--whether they are wiry or not, they are definitely not frizzy.
I would be lying if I said that it wasn't her sheer physical beauty that first caught my eye. I would also be incorrect if I didn't give her hair most of the credit. I was shy, but I just had to find out who belonged to that scrumptious scalp, those follicles that captured my foolish heart. And so I eventually mustered the courage to introduce myself, and the first words I found myself saying to her, like involuntary poetry, were "Do you use a dandruff shampoo? 'Cause it'd be a shame to let a dry flaky scalp put a damper on your amazing golden sheen."
Although that pickup-line makes a better story, in truth all I actually did was invite her to study with me and a few friends. I spent a good portion of our time studying her hair.
After we had known each other for several months, I was starting to feel pretty comfortable around her and her hair. I decided it was time to take the relationship to the next level. It was time to open up, to confide. "I love your frizzy hair," I ventured in my best suave voice. I figured that would be a harmless segue into deeper relationship talk.
"What?" she replied, a slightly annoyed edge to her voice.
"I love your frizzy hair," I repeated, a little less suavely. "It's really pretty, the way the curls are curly and stuff." I wasn't sure why this opener had not produced the desired effect.
Well, instead of a deep relationship-defining talk, we spent the next several minutes discussing the meaning of the word "frizzy." I thought frizzy meant "really wavy." Not having ever paid much attention to women's hair product advertisements, the negative connotation of this word had totally escaped me. And thus began one of my first in-depth lessons about the Mysterious World of Women, where subtle differences in word meanings can make all the difference between flattery and failure.
Thankfully, she is a patient and forgiving woman. Her permed hairdo is long gone, having been replaced over the years with various fashionable and equally attractive cuts (my wife's hair looks pretty amazing in any style). In recent years, our children's antics have even introduced a very sophisticated silver highlight to her head of gold. She complains that the new hairs' texture is not sleek and silky like her golden ones, but rather wiry. It's okay, I tell her, I like her new "wisdom hairs" and the distinguished, modern feeling they evoke. And one thing I know--whether they are wiry or not, they are definitely not frizzy.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Wife Rule #5: Never Mess with a Woman Who Sings Pirate Songs
A secret. She kept it from me for the longest time. And then one day, while we were still engaged, when she was in a particularly good mood, out it came: "Oooooooooooh, a pirate's life is a wonderful life! A driftin' over the sea..."
She blurted it out with such gusto that I admit, it caught me off guard.
This is a good thing to find out before we tie the knot, I thought to myself. She likes to sing pirate songs. But what does this really mean? Is there some dark secret in her past? Does it involve booty? Swiss bank accounts?
I didn't have any answers, and this was definitely something I needed to get to the bottom of. Only trouble is, like so many other things womanly, there was no immediate explanation for this mysterious behavior. Thus, I had no choice but to be patient. I took a chance and married her anyway.
Amid the bliss of newly-wed life, the Pirate Song would occasionally surface, like a Phantom Shadow that crosses briefly over the Garden of Happiness, causing the Buttercups of Bliss to briefly shudder their Petals of Serenity. You know exactly what I mean.
Despite the sinister undercurrent, over time I discovered that there were certain advantages to being married to a self-proclaimed pirate. For one, she is very good with a knife. She can cut vegetables like they're scurvy scalliwags, and skewer chicken like a bilge rat.
She is also versed in the fine art of pirate torture. When youngin's are resisting washing their hair in the bath, she is quite proficient at dunking the ornery landlubbers. She can keehaul the little hearties, or make them walk the plank, whatever it takes.
And we must mention, of course, that she's very good with her booty. Enough said.
So, I'm married to a pirate. I'm okay with that. I still haven't gotten to the bottom of her secret--I may sleep forever in Davy Jones' locker before I do. But through our years of adventures and conquests together, this much I know: a pirate wife is a wonderful wife!
She blurted it out with such gusto that I admit, it caught me off guard.
This is a good thing to find out before we tie the knot, I thought to myself. She likes to sing pirate songs. But what does this really mean? Is there some dark secret in her past? Does it involve booty? Swiss bank accounts?
I didn't have any answers, and this was definitely something I needed to get to the bottom of. Only trouble is, like so many other things womanly, there was no immediate explanation for this mysterious behavior. Thus, I had no choice but to be patient. I took a chance and married her anyway.
Amid the bliss of newly-wed life, the Pirate Song would occasionally surface, like a Phantom Shadow that crosses briefly over the Garden of Happiness, causing the Buttercups of Bliss to briefly shudder their Petals of Serenity. You know exactly what I mean.
Despite the sinister undercurrent, over time I discovered that there were certain advantages to being married to a self-proclaimed pirate. For one, she is very good with a knife. She can cut vegetables like they're scurvy scalliwags, and skewer chicken like a bilge rat.
She is also versed in the fine art of pirate torture. When youngin's are resisting washing their hair in the bath, she is quite proficient at dunking the ornery landlubbers. She can keehaul the little hearties, or make them walk the plank, whatever it takes.
And we must mention, of course, that she's very good with her booty. Enough said.
So, I'm married to a pirate. I'm okay with that. I still haven't gotten to the bottom of her secret--I may sleep forever in Davy Jones' locker before I do. But through our years of adventures and conquests together, this much I know: a pirate wife is a wonderful wife!
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