I Shared Something on Facebook that Disturbed My Wife

Last week, I saw a post on Facebook that I liked and shared on my timeline. It was one of those posts with a picture and some words. The words read, “Women are made to be loved, not understood.” I found the caption to be humorous and insightful, but my wife didn’t. Within a few moments, I receieved a text from her asking why I posted that picture. Did I not understand her, did she do something to make me not understand her?

Let me point out that I have known my wife for more than two decades. I know my wife. I know her birthday, her social security number, her favorite color, and the color of her eyes. I know what to say to make her smile and what not to say, because it makes her unhappy. Apparently I can add one more thing to the unhappy list. Despite all the things I know about my wife, and all the many things I understand, there are things I still do not understand.

I know my wife likes cards. Very early in our relationship it became quite clear that one of the ways she demonstrates her love is in the giving of cards. This was not true of me, but I quickly learned to show her affection by giving her cards. In those early days of our relationship, before cellphones, we would talk on the land line  phone during our lunch breaks. During one particular conversation, it was clear Beloved was not having a very good day. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, I considered how to make her feel better. Soon, a plan emerged, and when work was over, I put it into action.

Beloved rode home from work with me at that time. When I went to pick her up, I quickly found a parking spot and hurried into the basement of the building where she worked. I rushed into the bookstore conveniently located in the basement level and scanned the small section of greeting cards in the center of the store. I found the perfect one, It had some teddy bears on the front along with some affectionate words. I grabbed it and opened it up to makes sure it wasn’t one of those gag cards with the picture of some horrid biker guy and some awkward words scrawled across the top. Thankfully, the affectionate words continued and there were more teddy bears inside. I didn’t have time to accurately read them, but it was a card, teddy bears, and affectionate words. How could that go wrong?

I made my purchase, scurried back out to the car, signed my name, put the card in the envelope, wrote Beloved’s name on the envelope and laid it on the dash of the car for her to see when she got in. And I did it just in the nick of time. She sat down and when she saw that card she gave me that smile that gives me warm fuzzies inside.

As we pulled into traffic, Beloved let out an unexplainable sound I shall not forget. It was a cross between a loud laugh and a gasp of horror. I looked over at her, very concerned. She was aghast as she said, “Father’s Day? You bought me a Father’s Day card?!”

I don’t understand why my wife likes cards so much, even if they are Father’s day cards, but I know her, and more importantly, love her. Men smarter than I have spent years researching the human psyche and have but scratched the surface. How can I expect to understand the wonderful, complicated, exciting woman I have decided to spend my life with? I cannot, but I love her.

The dangers of car-shopping

     My beloved and I went shopping for a new van recently.  New car shopping is inherently dangerous to health, primarily because of going into sticker shock. But, as I found out, there are more insidious dangers lurking while looking at cars.

We arrived at the car dealership and spoke with a salesperson, telling him exactly what we were looking for. We had done our research, looking at “Consumer Reports”, speaking with friends and neighbors, and talking with our insurance agent. We decided on a used Toyota or Honda van with less than 30,000 miles. The salesperson took us around the lot, showing us vans that met those criteria. As we approached one van the salesperson said, “I probably shouldn’t even show you this van, it just rolled off the truck this morning and I am sure it is a mess.” Sure enough, the van was well loved. It looked like 5 kids had just climbed out of the van after playing soccer in the mud. It was trashed. I had a greater appreciation for the job dealerships do in cleaning up cars before we buy them.

We moved on to the next vehicle and I noticed that my head began to hurt. Right up on top. I felt a monstrous, painful, bump up there and immediately thought that I had bumped my head on something, but I couldn’t remember what or when. Six hours later the lymph nodes over my ears and down the back of my neck began to painfully swell. I suspected that I had been bitten by some critter and that was the cause of the painful bump on the top of my head. At first, I thought I might have been bitten by the Egyptian Cobra that had escaped from the Bronx zoo. I turned to the Internet and did some research and quickly concluded that the snake hadn’t bitten me. First, the venom can kill a full grown Indian elephant in 3 hours. I took my pulse and realized I wasn’t dead and it was six hours after the attack. Second, the escaped snake had been recaptured two weeks earlier.

Researching deeper, I came to the conclusion that I had been bitten by a brown recluse spider. I would have much preferred a black widow, since that sounds so much more theatrical and dramatic. But I suppose I will settle for the brown recluse. I imagine that when I stuck my head into the van, the sunlight glinting off the shiny dome of my head startled the introverted, venomous, eight-legged critter, and it sunk it’s fangs into my skull.

This is not the first time I have self-diagnosed maladies using the Internet. Just recently I diagnosed myself with a kidney stone. Beloved asked me if I was going to see a real medical professional. I informed her that the best web sites indicated that I should go to the doctor if I had blood in my urine, or if I developed a fever. I told her I had all ready paid myself $70 for diagnosing myself.

Beloved wrinkled her nose, rolled her eyes, and scowled at me as she asked, “What if you are wrong.”

“Then I will refund my money.” I told her.

I have not always been so accurate with my diagnoses. The first time I diagnosed myself, I discovered I had Kuru, which comes from the cannibalistic eating of undercooked brains from infected family members. When I told Beloved about my discovery she stated, “Hmmm, that’s interesting, when I cook your relatives I always make sure they are well done before we eat them.”

The dead carcass.

Thursday middlest girl and I worked on the dead car residing under the carport. It would not start, and I was sure the death was due to a dead battery. Since I was on a lifting restriction of 20 pounds, I needed help lifting the battery and middlest was kind and gracious enough to help, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. 

We had to work on the car Thursday, because Friday a snowstorm was expected. This being western New York in the dead of winter, we usually expect snow. Upon hearing we were supposed to have a storm, middlest announced, “Why do we get all the snowstorms when we are off school?  I think the teachers and the weathermen get together and conspire about this.” I assured her there was no conspiracy as we drove to the auto parts store.

Upon arriving at the store, the Sales Associate asked if I was sure the battery was dead. Not once commenting on why my 13-year-old daughter was lugging around the bazillion pound battery instead of her muscular, and quite good looking, father. Since I had measured the voltage with a voltmeter and it read 6 volts when it should have read over 12 volts, I said I was 99.999% sure it was dead. I paid the king’s ransom for the new battery, and lugged it out to the van. Well, middlest lugged it out, and still no comment from the dignified Sales Associate. 

Arriving home we, I mean she, put the battery into its new home. I tightened it in and went to start the car….nothing. Dead. Ugh. Immediately I suspected the battery. Yes, it was new, but when in doubt, I always suspect the battery. Primarily since it is the easiest thing for me to identify under the hood. Voltmeter in hand, I checked the battery. 6 volts?! It should be 12 volts. Now that was suspicious; it was brand new.  I checked a few other batteries, and a 12 volt power supply, and the meter read 6 volts for all of them. I deduced I had a problem with the voltmeter; no worry, I have two other voltmeters. Of course, I know one does not work and I do not know where either is.

Middlest asks, “What shall we do now?”  I reply, as any wise father would, “Have lunch.” She had cold pizza, and I had a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  While eating I tried to remember the last place I saw my other volt meters. I could not remember, they were lost—and my wife was not home to ask. Wives and mothers, my wife is both, have that amazing knack of knowing exactly where lost items are. The other day we lost power at our house; I started to mumble something about checking the battery. My wife rolled her eyes. Shortly after that, the power came back on. I am sure my wife found that too.

Without help, all alone, I started to look for the missing voltmeter. While looking, I kept talking with myself about it being easier to fix the broken one, but reassuring myself I would need one to figure out the problem with the other, I kept looking. While looking, I found a bunch of other stuff I forgot I had lost. Neat stuff. Shiny stuff. Stuff that distracted me for hours, until eventually I completely forgot about looking for the other voltmeter and about the dead hulking shell of a car under the carport.

That is until middlest asked me, “Whatcha gunna do about the car Dad?” Car? What was she talking about? Until after a few minutes of staring at her blankly, she said, “We left the hood open, shouldn’t we close it?” Finally, I remembered what I had been looking for and why. I mumbled something about calling the garage to have them fix it. She said, “Don’t forget to close the hood.” Me? Forget? I have a mind like a steel trap. I gazed around the porch, wondering what I was doing out here and what all these neat shiny things were in all of the boxes.

On Friday I was looking for my cordless drill and found the two other voltmeters. I was so ecstatic I totally forgot about the drill for a couple of hours. That is until I found the charger for the drill’s batteries in my room as I was looking for something else (I do not remember what I was looking for).  I got the drill out, and put the batteries in to charge. With any luck, I will not forget to bring the drill with me when I visit my brother, which is why I was looking for that in the first place. The car is at the garage, they haven’t called me yet, I hope they haven’t forgotten. 

Curse you Esther Howland, curse you.

Before Esther Howland,‭ ‬simple folks celebrated Valentine’s Day in simple ways.‭ ‬A humble man gave the lovely woman he had grown sweet on an uncomplicated gift‭;‬ a hair ribbon,‭ ‬a bird carved from a piece of pinewood,‭ ‬a tin cup he had fashioned with his own hands.‭ ‬Yes,‭ ‬these gifts were unsophisticated,‭ ‬down-to-earth,‭ ‬and straightforward‭;‬ to our modern eyes the quaint expressions of a country clodhopper.‭

Attached to‭ ‬such humble and straightforward gifts would often be a handwritten note.‭ ‬This note would match the unpretentiousness of the gift with a simple‭ “‬To:‭ ‬My beloved‭; ‬From:‭ ‬me‭”, ‬scrawled in dull pencil on a wrinkled scrap of paper.‭

Then the situation became‭ ‬a bit prickly.‭ ‬Some unknown person found that using the quill of a porcupine and a small well of ink,‭ ‬one could write fluidly.‭ ‬This fluidity was,‭ ‬of course,‭ ‬due to the ink.‭ ‬Now people started composing poems and‭ ‬fluidly‭ ‬writing them down with the help of porcupine quills and ink. To make things more outrageous,‭ ‬some nutty nincompoop decided to attach a poem to the hand-carved bluebird he gave his sweetheart for Valentine’s Day.‭ ‬This proved to be the undoing of many a man,‭ ‬as women all over now expected poetry with their hair ribbons and homemade tin cups.‭ ‬Unfortunately,‭ ‬not all of the male gender were poetic enough to write poetry, and not all were rash enough to try to pluck quills from porcupines.‭

Then,‭ ‬in‭ ‬1847,‭ ‬Esther Howland received an English valentine.‭ ‬She was so captivated by the card she decided to make her own for the American market.‭ ‬She ordered lace,‭ ‬flowers,‭ ‬and paper,‭ ‬to make her own cards.‭ ‬Now the poor simple men could give their valentines a card,‭ ‬covered in lace and pressed flowers,‭ ‬with lovely verses that were sure to melt‭ ‬any ladies heart -‭ s‬uch as the following:

‭ ‬I was going to give you a pint of pure nard,

‭ ‬Instead,‭ ‬I found this‭ ‬lace-covered card.

It is simple to understand why a tin cup or a hair ribbon could not compete with such engaging poetry.

Ms.‭ ‬Howland did well in her card sale business,‭ ‬grossing over‭ ‬$100,000‭ ‬a year.‭ ‬Much of that money came from poor pitiable non-poetic men.‭ ‬Men who could whittle an adorable bluebird,‭ ‬or robin,‭ ‬or whippoorwill;‭ ‬men who could form a piece of tin into a delightful cup,‭ ‬but who could not pluck their own porcupines,‭ ‬or compose their own poems,‭ ‬or could not cut all those tiny holes in a piece of paper to make lace.‭ ‬Strong proud men purchased these cards to give to their valentines.‭ ‬What of Ms.‭ ‬Howland and her English valentine‭? ‬I confess I only know she never married.‭

Now men all over do exactly what I do every Valentine’s Day.‭ ‬I set my jaw,‭ ‬put on my game face,‭ ‬looking as fierce as possible,‭ ‬and set out for the card store.‭ ‬Steely-eyed,‭ ‬I saunter towards the aisle festooned with pink and hearts.‭ ‬Standing there,‭ ‬looking at the plethora of cards, I start to lose my resolve.‭ ‬My palms start to sweat‭; ‬I can hear the pounding of my heart.‭ ‬Never have I faced such a formidable foe.‭ ‬With shaking hands,‭ ‬I reach for first one card,‭ ‬then another.‭ ‬My head starts to spin as I read the eloquent verses printed in each lace covered card.‭ ‬I wish silently to myself for the days of yore,‭ ‬when a simple tin cup would suffice for my beloved.‭ ‬Then I come back to my senses;‭ ‬who am I kidding!‭  I ‬could not make a tin cup if I tried‭!

I finally find a card with a sentimental verse and an appropriate amount of lace.‭ ‬Grabbing it I head out of the ring,‭ ‬I mean aisle.‭ ‬I see another man standing there at the edge of the aisle,‭ ‬psyching himself up for the battle.‭ ‬I slap his bottom to tag him as if this were some WWF wrestling bout.‭ ‬I hear him snort as‭ ‬he heads down the aisle,‭ ‬ready to do battle with lacey pink cards.‭

As I pay for my conquest,‭ ‬I hear a man coming into the store muttering under his breath,‭ “‬Curse you Esther Howland,‭ ‬curse you.‭”