Leonie was always pleased when husband Ralph helped with the household chores. Except for hanging out the washing. He had this thing about socks. Socks had to be hung on the line at the toe so that the water could drip out the hole at the other end.
“It’s infuriating,” said Leonie. “It makes no difference which way you hang a sock.”
Sometimes, if Leonie had hung the washing before leaving for work, she would come home at the end of the day and all the socks would have been re-hung – by the toe.
Leonie had her method of revenge. Ralph wore Y-front underwear so she would peg the Y-front onto the line and that would mean the fabric dried out of kilter. Ralph was forever sticking his hand down the front of his trousers to rearrange the equipment that insisted on poking its head through the Y-front. He hated it.
“It’s so uncomfortable,” said Ralph. “Can’t you hang them on the line better than that?”
“You hang socks the other way and I’ll fix the underwear,” said Leonie.
They’ve been married now for forty-two years. Nothing’s going to change.
Quite frankly, Liliane has grown tired of her husband saying “What?” to everything she said. It didn’t mean he was hard of hearing; it was simply a habit grown up over the years. He never used to be like that. In younger years he would listen. In his older years he’d say “What?” before she’d even finished what she was saying. And then, half way through repeating what she had just said, he’d begin to answer like he’d heard it the first time.
Honestly, Liliane would grit her teeth and smile. Marriage at times required that. It was, she convinced herself, part of them both growing older.
These days, now that he’s dead, Liliane would give anything to hear her husband say “What?” again.
You cavort around wearing your woman’s
leather rhinestone-rivet-chain quartz-bracelet-wristwatch watch
and singing Auld Lang Syne like you mean it
like there’s nobody in the world you forgot
like friends who love everybody in a great saturnalia of giving a
tu-whit tu-whoo and your original NIKE air max women’s running shoes
(worth five hundred and forty dollars fifty-eight)
that you can’t walk in cos of those tight, ripped, distressed, slim jeans, and
the knitted cat-ears faux fox fur vegan fibres beanie.
You can take that cup o’ kindness and
shove it up ya up ya up ya
tu-whit tu-whoo along with the I’m-currently-reading tome on
the life of Nefertiti which I recall you were speed-reading two years ago.
We too have run around the slopes
and picked the daisies fine
for auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne.
But you forgot, an old acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind
those days of auld lang syne
our days of auld lang syne, my dear,
our twenty-four years of auld lang syne.
I’ll be home if you want me, with the kids, though I don’t like my chances.
Yeah. Well. I was sitting unobtrusively in the corner of this pub having a think and having a quiet drink and smoking a cigarette which I had just taken up again after eleven years off them. And this guy comes up to me and says, hey, have you ever thought of doing something useful with your life?
And I say, yeah, like what?
And he says, I dunno. Get married and have kids and do something useful, instead of smoking and drinking on your own in a corner.
And I say I’ve got a wife and kids already.
And he says, well how come they’re not here or at least your wife? She might enjoy a night out.
So I stood up and socked him the biggest punch on his jaw I could muster. He fell down and I kicked him in the crotch and left.
Some people don’t know how to mind their fucking business.
At last! Helen Brown was getting a divorce. It had been a tumultuous marriage and now it was over. She was rid of her abusive, domineering, vindictive, jealous husband.
“I have been to hell and back,” announced Helen.
To celebrate, she reverted to her maiden name: Helen Back.
(Footnote: Dear Discerning Reader, Since moving house I no longer have unlimited broadband. A certain amount is paid for and allotted each month – which is needed primarily for work from home. Earlier this week, from 9 to 10.30 am on two consecutive days, when my computer wasn’t even turned on, nine GB were used up. Until this mystery of squander is solved my participation, other than daily posts, will be limited – so comments, likes, etc. from me will be minimal. Thanks. Have a nice day! Bruce)
I’m having a bit of a conundrum. Our marriage needs spicing up and I can’t decide whether to take the evening classes in pole dancing or belly dancing. Both advertisements for the courses look enticing.
The pole dancing workshops require that I have my own pole at home so I can practice. I suppose I could use the pole on the lawn that holds up the kids’ basketball hoop. The trouble is it can get a bit muddy on the lawn sometimes, especially if it has been raining. I would have to wear a pair of wellingtons or gumboots or whatever they call them. The other disadvantage is that the lawn is right next to the main road and it would be quite a spectacle for passers-by until I learnt to do it properly.
Belly dancing demands that I have my own mirror. It has to be large apparently, and I don’t think I have one big enough. Have you seen the price of mirrors these days? Couple that with the cost of paying for the ten-week lot of evening classes and I think that option has priced itself out. It’s a pity because I’ve got the veils and beads and things hidden away somewhere in a bottom drawer.
So it looks like it’ll be pole dancing. Being next to the main road might spur me on to get good at it quicker!
Oh-oh! I’ve just received a text from hubby. He says he has enrolled in evening strip-tease classes. It’s going to be an exciting ten weeks.