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When the lady of the house is sick


Carrie, my fiancé, is sick.  I don’t mean sick like a girl named Ali I once dated in college.  That was an interesting experience, because she was a binge kleptomaniac. I found that out one day when we were exploring the beautiful country roads surrounding Western Carolina University.  She suddenly screeched, “Stop!  Stop the car!”

I hit the breaks so hard they actually hit back.

To my surprise, she bolted out of the car and dashed across the lawn next to us.  Before I had time to wonder what she was up to, my girlfriend grabbed an old wagon containing several potted plants and sprinted back to where I waited, staring dumbfounded.

When she got back in the car, she breathlessly told me to punch it.  I was rather reluctant to do that because the VW I drove at the time wasn’t very fond of sudden movements.  I think it suffered from some kind of stress induced seizures because the poor thing made all kinds of wheezy, pistony, ratchety noises whenever I needed it to speed up.

And that was before I pressed down on the accelerator.


To get the thing moving I usually had to put a paper bag over its exhaust and tell it to breathe slowly.  As Ali screamed about getting the hell out of there, I was trying to reassure my car that everything was going to be okay, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t.

A big, bearded guy with a florid face and a countenance that indicated he ate college students for fun stepped out on the porch.  I could tell he was angry by the way he carried his shotgun.


That was when I put the paper bag over my own mouth and started breathing slowly.  I was about ready to carry my girlfriend and my car to get out of there when it dawned on me that the combined weight of the two of them was going to be too much to carry.  Instead, I wised up and realized that the smarter course of action was to carry the VW and leave Ali to fend for herself.  I was sure the things she stole were enough to weigh her down so that my VW and I could make it beyond buckshot range.

Luckily, my car was the only one that had in real sense.  It turns out that it was feeling its oats that day, because with a wheeze, a cough, and a backfire, we were off at a dangerously reckless twenty-five miles per hour.

Sadly, the whole thing was too much for the poor thing, though.  When we made it back to campus, it refused to budge once I got it parked.  My car must have suffered what passes for a vehicular psychotic break after that.  I know because the VW thought it was an athlete instead of an automobile.  That was the only thing I could think because my mechanic told me it had thrown a rod.


Last night I woke up to my fiancé hacking, wheezing, and backfiring.  In a waking moment of sleep induced confusion I thought I was in my old VW once more.  As soon as I was fully awake, I realized that Carrie sounded worse.  I took her to the doctor’s office where she was diagnosed with bronchitis and a sinus infection.  I would say that’s kind of like adding insult to injury, only it’s a lot worse.  When you throw a sinus infection on top of bronchitis, every time you cough, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

For a while there I was afraid Carrie was going to throw a rod, but what she did was actually worse.  She made me take care of the kids.

And those damn things have to be washed and fed!


When I tried sharing one of my hard apple ciders with the four-year-old, Carrie nearly threw a hissy fit.  How was supposed to know hard cider was no acceptable substitute for applesauce?  Jesus Christ.  And when the eight-year-old got ahold of axel grease in the garage, let me tell you, oven degreaser DOES NOT work well on preadolescents.  That shit works best when you can heat it up in the oven, and if I’d have tried putting the eight-year-old in there I’ve got a feeling I never would have heard the end of it.

I did learn one important lesson.  If one day you run out of clothes washing detergent, never, EVER substitute it with a cup of dishwashing soap.

There were enough bubbles in the hallway to throw a women’s bikini wrestling contest.  Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

What did happen was that Carrie caught the girls using the hallway floor as a slip-n-slide while I watched and laughed.  When I told her to look on the bright side, that she didn’t have to worry about mopping, my lovely, sweet angel kicked the girls and me out of the house.  I’m still looking for the water hose.  Maybe if I knock the suds off of the kids she’ll let me back in.


Look guys, seriously . . . if your wife, girlfriend, or fiance is sick, make sure you take some time to clean the house and take care of the kids if she has any.  Most likely she doesn’t ask a lot of you in that department.  Relationships honestly are about give and take, and I know of too many girls who have men in their lives that don’t do anything when they are sick.  The moral of all of this is that people make relationships harder than they need to be.  When I dated Ali (yes, she was a real person), she didn’t have enough sense to realize that compulsively stealing other people’s things could be a serious impediment to a relationship.  When I was married the first time around, I didn’t do enough to help my ex-wife.  So not only did I screw her over by cheating on her, I made her life needlessly difficult by not stepping up to the plate and giving her a hand when she was down.

Again, we make things too hard sometimes.

And Carrie, as soon as I’m done with my blog, I promise I’ll do the dishes and clean the kitchen counters.  The laundry is already in the washer.

I love you sweetie

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