Of Her and Football

At some point during our pre-bedtime pillow talk the missus asked me whether football matches were more interesting in comparison to herself. It was obvious that I had to answer that she was by a mile more interesting than any football match in the history of mankind, however I also felt compelled to defend my most beloved sport so I tried to buy some time by inquiring why she entertained such ghastly notion in her head.

After taking a deep breath and exhaled it loudly in exasperation, which was a clear sign of incoming feud, she proceed with a narration of a certain event that happened earlier in the evening. She described how I went home looking tired so after shower and dinner I went straight to bed. Since it was only shortly after 8, she demanded to have a decent conversation which, from her point of view, I failed to supply, being so drowsy. Yet, she continued, I managed to wake up and concentrate fully on a football match sometime at 9. That, she concluded, was why she entertained such a ghastly notion in her head.

My defense began by pointing out the football and herself were two things so irrelevant to be put on the comparison scale that the mere effort to compare them would cause fallacy in logical thinking. The comparison itself was so prone to bias and subjectivism that to provide unbiased and objective answer would be virtually as impossible as asking a vampire to be a vegetarian. Plus I had not done enough research to support the finding of something remotely resembling a definitive answer. Regardless of all the impossibilities, it was also rather unfair to compare one’s wife, a soulmate, a companion for life, to a sport so harsh yet curiously joyful to watch. As I paused before launching more of this barrage of bullcrap, I heard the sound of regular breathing. My wife, my soulmate and companion for life, had fallen asleep.

This morning when I woke up, I heard her humming as she prepared my breakfast. She had had her revenge. Things were back to normal.

I Lost My Bachelor Degree; She Got Her Master

Now that I'm married, I have to get used to the idea of living with a girl. Actually it's kinda nice that she transformed my formerly barbarian cave into something resembling a decent human dwelling. And I find it a lot easier to find my clothes because the few I own are neatly stored in the wardrobe, ironed and perfumed. And one thing that I consider nothing less than a miraculous feat: she managed to remove that horrid smell from the bathroom. Plus there's always home-cooked breakfast and a nice cup of coffee before I set out to work.

However, there are several ground rules that I have to comply. Everytime I try to challenge these rules she always threaten with something involving a headache, and my rebellion is promptly subdued. Here are some of them:

Kitchen is her absolute territory. I must never contest her authority in this area, eventhough I consider myself as a decent cook. Criticism is not encouraged. Everything she cooks, or worse,experiments with, I must risk my life consuming.

Movies with kids, babies and cats are encouraged. Those with guns, military personnels, bloodbaths, or dark environment are frowned upon. Porns are out of the question.

Smoking is forbidden in the livingroom, hallway, kitchen, bathroom and especially bedroom. The only safe place to smoke is actually out of the house. And instead of a full stick, I can only smoke half a cigarette. It's for your own sake, she said.

Any beverage containing alcohol is not allowed.

Although we are the only persons in the house, she refuse to open the bathroom door when she's taking a bath. Apparently voyeurism is not her cup of tea.

Oh well, there is always a price to pay.