|In the beginning|
Last week I was looking around the study trying to find an excuse not to have to work on a project. At one point, I noticed that the phone line was unplugged. That seemed odd, ‘cause I had been talking on the phone earlier.
So, I did what I normally do when something seems odd. I yelled down to Kay, “Hey, why is the phone in the study unplugged? And, how is it that it still works?” – Get this—Kay yelled back, “Because we’ve got Voip!”
Stuff like that makes me want to just scream. She does it on purpose, you know? I sat staring at the computer for about, oh, a whole minute. Any more contemplation time than that, and I might come unglued. -- That’s what my Daddy used to say.
I marched downstairs and said, “Kay, darling, sweetheart… don’t ever aim a word like ‘voip’ to me and let it just hang there. What do is give me the meaning without saying the actual word.”
She could say “rabid unicycle” and it’d make more sense to me than voip. She just does stuff like that to show that the point difference in our IQs should be in her favor not mine. After my brief vent, Kay calmly said, “Oh, VOIP?” That’s when it hit me that the word was actually an acronym. I lived with her long enough to notice voice inflection for acronyms. I hate acronyms. It’s why I never joined the navy.
Kay listened to my aggravation spiel and then said, “VOIP stands for Voice Over Internet Protocol.” That’s what she said, and in doing so aggravated me even more. This time I handled it well. I said, “Ah. Voice over international… something with a P?” Then I went back to the study.
Had this happened two years into our marriage, it would’ve probably led to divorce. But as of last week, we’ve spent 43 years together. I thought our anniversary in 2013 was our 43rd, but Kay told me to do the math. Can you believe that? I thought I’d never need to know subtraction again
So, no way am I letting Internet Protocol mess up this marriage. In the words of some female singer, “I’m goin’ down with this ship.” But keeping the marriage afloat is easy for me. You wanna know why? It’s because of a recent on-line test that I failed. Failed it big. Really big.
Jill sends me an on-line test practically every day. These test help you determine stuff like which Tombstone character you’re most like, or Star Wars character, or what kind of flower you would be if you were flora instead of fauna, or what pastry you’d be. The last test I took was the one that showed how much of a woman I am… mentally, not physically? If it were physical it’d be a no-brainer. I probably wouldn’t have to even take a test.
What I did discover was that I’m Virgil Earp on Tombstone, C3PO in Star Wars, a daisy, a crème horn, and 98 percent a woman. I’m not joking. C3PO! – What? Oh, yeah, the woman thing.
Yes, that surprised me a bit, too. I don’t know if that means I’ve got a female brain, or effeminate emotions or sissified interests. Don’t forget, though, the test does not measure physicality. I’m as male as you can get. You hear me? Okay, then.
Even at that, I’m not all that worried because the test was one-sided. It had questions like – “Which of these would you rather do? A) skin a moose B) shoot a moose C) ride a moose D) paint a flowerpot.
Which would you rather do? A) jump out of helicopter B) climb Kilimanjaro C) compete at Daytona D) wear a bra in public .
Last week I went to Sam’s and got her a hardbound book that she’d already read and some flowers, a flower pot, and green stuff to arrange the flowers. The Sam’s flower lady told me how to arrange the greenery, but she wouldn’t do it for me even if I paid her. She said they only arrange flowers for Valentines.
So, I came home and stuck a recycled bow on the Jan Karon novel; then I set about to arrange the flowers. I spent a long time on those flowers. They were mint roses. Roses with red tips, but the lady called ‘em mint. Women and their flower names.
I did the flowers exactly the way I remembered the lady telling me. Unfortunately, I remembered only about 17 percent of what she told me. I’m good with percentages. Even while I was at the checkout with the flowers, a lady in line at the next register pantomimed to me how I should arrange the flowers. She didn’t realize that I was 98% woman. It doesn’t matter. I loused up the arrangement.
Kay was sweet about it, but she’s always been good at hiding disappointment. Me? Since taking the test, I find myself crying at the first sign of disappointment. I’m beginning to think that I’m more like Princess Leah than C3PO. Remember, that’s just between you and me.
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