by Kim Buoy
As the woman of the house, I have developed a definite routine for dealing with my spouse. This came about only after years of practice beginning immediately after the license was signed. It has become a monotonous symphony played again and again.
I really do love my husband, and I've found him much easier to live with since I put my routine into practice and began to understand him. His is really a very simple philosophy: If he can't hunt it, eat it, mechanic it, or get it into bed, it is not worth his time or consideration.
This gives me eternal hope: I fit into at least one of these categories.
I came to this understanding during one of the greatest passages of my life - the time I attempted to get my man to communicate.
Bolstering my courage, I approached my husband, who was seated as usual in his chair oblivious to all but the TV screen.
"Dear, I was hoping you could help me to better understand how you see the feminine side of marriage." I said.
"Huh?" Glazed eyes continued to stare at the football game on the screen across the room.
"Could you tell me what irritates you about women?" I asked.
His neck snapped, his head whipping toward me like a king cobra ready to strike. His eyes were wary, darting from side to side like a cornered animal.
"Why?" he asked.
"I would simply like to hear your opinion." I replied.
He sat in thoughtful silence or so I presumed. There was always the chance he had returned to his trance-like state. Slowly he began, licking his lips, his eyes flitting around the room in nervous anticipation.
"They spend too much," he announced.
"How do you mean?" I asked, fighting down the desire to whip out the checkbook and make comparisons.
His arms swept in an arc toward the living room walls as he warmed to his subject. "Like all these pictures and stuff. Wouldn't it have cost less to cut them out of magazines and frame them?"
"Certainly," I replied, repressing a snarl.
"You women see the sign, 'Sale', and you go nuts. A sale isn't a sale unless you need the stuff." He emphasized each point by jamming his finger into the arm of the chair.
To this I readily agreed. Very rarely do I go to sales. Spurred on by the belief I agreed in all areas, he continued.
"Women always have to be right. Doesn't matter what the subject is, they gotta be right." He was deeply into his subject now -- arms gesturing, eyes rolling back into his head in grotesque agony.
"Why can't women be happy with a little fried food now and then? What's with all these experiments?"
He had forgotten the dangerous lesson of fried hamburgers morning, noon, and night, for three days.
He slammed down the footrest on the recliner, leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, hands gesturing frantically.
"So what if a few magazines lay around for awhile? This is my house, too! I should have some rights, shouldn't I?"
I nodded, glancing at the cobweb-coated, dusty, three-foot stack of Fur, Fish, and Game crammed into the corner by his chair. Biting my tongue, I did not remind him who scrubbed his floors, washed his clothes, dusted his furniture, and cooked his meals.
Something had happened I never dreamed I would witness in a million years. My husband -- the couch potato, TV addict, the blob -- was talking to me. Just as if I were one of his buddies.
He had gotten out of his chair, hands on hips, eyes vivid with excitement. I felt a smile creep across my face.
"Well, am I right?" he finished.
I rose to my feet, arms encircling his torso. He was more alive and exciting than I had seen him in a very long time. He'd said everything I knew he would. I'd heard it all before but that seemed unimportant at that moment. I had witnessed my fantasy come to life.
"You're absolutely right, Dear. I'll try to do better," I said, pulling his lips nearer to mine.
It was, after all, just a man's opinion.
