It was recently brought to light (like having a solar flare go off 5’ in front of you) my wife does not consider my blog to be required reading. And it was brought to light by none other than my wife.
The other day I had referred to something I had written on my blog to which she responded, “What are you talking about?”
“My blog. The stories I write?” I’m beginning to question if this woman actually is my wife or some sort of alien imposter.
“Oh yeah, that. I don’t really read it. I’m not required to am I?” A throat punch from ButterBean would have been less painful.
“Well no but what does “You don’t really read it” mean?” While I may not be Twain, surely I have a modicum of talent worthy of my wife’s attention?
“It means I don’t have time to always read it.” Now I admit I can get a bit wordy on occasion but she doesn’t have the time? This is the same woman can take a shower longer than Iron Butterfly’s ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’…the long version. I’ve observed her spend more time on painting her nails than Michelangelo spent painting the Sistine Chapel.
“You don’t have time?” Maybe I didn’t hear her right?
“No! What? I don’t have time to sit in front of the computer all day long reading.” Apparently I did hear her right. I considered making a reference to reading my articles not really being in the same category as reading Ivanhoe, she would only need a few minutes and maybe if she spent less time buffing her nails she might have some time to read it but thought better of it (she was in the kitchen and near the knives).
“So what did you write about…don’t roll your eyes at me!” Yes, I went with the eye roll. It seemed the only appropriate response.
I have been writing on my blog for the better part of 2 years. What began as an arena to rant and rave about whatever crossed my mind quickly morphed in to ranting and raving about my life and my family (which includes my beloved bride). To me, it would make sense that my wife would be interested in what I was putting out on the World Wide Web about her and the rest of our clan (or at least be piqued to know if I’m writing about ex-girlfriends…which I haven’t). To Alicia, it would make more sense if I just gave her the audio Cliff Notes version during dinner.
Before I picked up a torch and pitchfork, gathered some neighbors, and sent my angry mob after my wife, I tried to think the situation through.
Alicia and I have been married for almost 11 years. I have told her every story I could remember. I have run every joke, quip, anecdote, and pun in my arsenal by her (let it be said, she found me much funnier before we combined our checking accounts). After being together so long, there is nothing I hide from her (okay, there are some things but seeing as how she may actually read this particular post, for our purposes today, I am an open book). She knows the stories and she knows me (which is why I often ask her if I like certain foods because for the life of me I can’t remember if I like sharp cheese or not). As far as our kids are concerned, we walk hand in hand down the pot hole filled road of parenthood. What I write she has had a direct role in or has been involved with in some way. She has lived through them. She has gone in to labor for them. She is, as much as my children, my inspiration for doing any of this at all. That’s why I understand and why I am okay with knowing she isn’t required to read it.