Jesus had his disciples, the President consults the Cabinet, and my husband has The Guys At Work.
For him, there are no wiser men, no sager sages than these workplace whizzes. Aristotle? Ha! Socrates? Scoff. Michelangelo? Come on! We don't need them.
Not when we have the astute counsel of Jim, Gary, Bob and Other Bob.
Need to know where to get cheap tires? The Guys At Work say to go to Mr. Tire. Wonder what movie to see this weekend? The Guys At Work have seen them all. Curious which car to buy? No doubt the GAWs can tell you.
Yes, we are brushed by greatness to know these wonders of worldliness, these wizards of wisdom. They've offered my man advice on everything from child rearing to Christmas gifts to beef steak.
The phrase ''The Guys At Work said . . . '' elicits an automatic wifely eye roll from me. Not because I disagree with them. In fact, my answers usually match theirs. But the truth isn't the truth until we have the Guys' blessing.
Let's illustrate this scenario with a little dialogue, if you will:
Him: “What movie do you want to see this weekend?”
Me: “Well, I hear “We're the Millers” is good.”
*Air molecules stand still*
Fade in, two days later:
Him: “Hey - I know. Let's see “We're the Millers” Saturday. The Guys At Work say it's great!”
(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
If nothing else, at least my agreement with the GAWs proves - at least to me - that I’m right. I love being right. Don't you? I used to dream of being rich or famous, thin or gorgeous.
But I am old. I’ve given up on all that.
And occasionally - just sometimes - I know what I'm talking about. This is because I spent years living single and dirt poor.
Folks - you too can become a rocket scientist. All you need is - nothing and no one!
That's right. With good old-fashioned poverty, you’ll quickly learn the art of creative scrounging. You’ll also learn to do things yourself, because no one else is around to help. Years of lonely financial struggle have given me solid knowledge of 1040 tax forms, toilet plumbing and your basic Ford engine. Far be it from me to withhold all this valuable knowledge from my husband.
That would be selfish. I have to share.
Case in point: a while back, we hopped in the car to go out to eat. He turned the key.
Me: “Sounds like the starter.”
Him (cussing under his breath as we switched cars): “Yeah - maybe.”
Fade in, a few days later.
Me: “Hey. Did you find out what’s wrong with the Taurus?”
Him: “The Guys At Work said it's the starter.”
(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
Me: “Huh. How about that.”
*Air molecules stand still* (again).
But just then, the strangest thing happened.
Indeed, the angels sang and the clouds parted.
My husband said Those Words.
Three words that every woman dreams of.
Three words that every wife wants to hear.
Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .
''You were right.''
Still working on the book - chapter 34 now, to be exact. Thank you SO much to those of you who've stuck around to read and especially - to comment.
Here's an excerpt from a chapter tentatively title "The Shoulds."
". . . What is it, you ask?
A case of The Shoulds.
It begins every morning, when my eyes - in direct opposition to all good reasoning and the rest of my body - pop open at 4:21 a.m.
I should get up.
This is a lie. I really don’t have to get up until 5 a.m., but The Shoulds . . . they say - you guessed it - that I should.
I remain in bed, but my possibly peri-menopausal (shut up) monkey-mind jumps from tree to metaphorical tree, swinging from branches of Shoulds:
I should change these sheets.
I should clean this bedroom.
I should be a better housekeeper/wife/mother/daughter.
I should be a better person.
The clock now reads 4:22.
I should get a shower.
This? I can manage. So I roll out of bed and into the bathroom, stripping off my PJs. Then, I look in the mirror.
. . .