• Home
  • Books
  • About
    • About Bill
    • Q&A with Bill
    • Photos of Bill
  • Blog
  • News
  • Events
  • Media Room
  • Contests Winners
  • Contact

Bill A. Brier

Author of The Devil Orders Takeout

Follow Bill on FacebookFollow Bill on TwitterFollow Bill on GoodreadsFollow Bill on LinkedIn
Mailing List Sign Up


Read the First Post in the Story

Here are the first posts in The Brier Patch story:

  • Nudists Are Normal People… Or Are They?
  • Sex For Science
  • LSD…WOWEE!
  • Two Amazing Women…Which to Choose? Pt. 1
  • Two Amazing Women…Which To Choose? Part 2

Then, use the archives at the bottom of this sidebar to read the rest of the story!

Sign Up for Bill’s Blog

By signing up to receive blog posts by email, you are opting to receive Bill's mailing list and receive occasional promotions and news updates. You can remove your name from the list at any time by clicking on the unsubscribe link in any mailing you receive. Your name will not be shared with any third party.
Black Opal Books
(2017-10-21)
307 pages
$14.99/$3.99
ISBN: 9781626946897

Buy the Book

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
IndieBound

Buy the eBook

Kindle
Nook
Kobo
Google
Smashwords

Buy the Audiobook

Audible

 

Black Opal Books
(2017-04-22)
347 pages
$16.49/$3.99
ISBN: 978-1626946071

Buy the Book

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
IndieBound
Books-A-Million

Buy the eBook

Kindle
Nook
iBooks
Kobo
Google Play

Buy the Audiobook

Audible

Archives

The Brier Patch #15 How Not to Be a Husband

January 1, 2018 by Bill Brier Leave a Comment

From the more than 200 entries, Marie Roberts of Preston, Georgia was randomly chosen last week’s $25 winner with the correct answer to the question What was that masked creature? Ans: A RACCOON.

IT’S TIME TO BACKTRACK AND INTRODUCE PAM, wife number one (of many), who informed me—after ten years of marriage—“It’s not you, it’s me.” Adding, “Have a good life.”

 

 

 

 

We met in New York City. Pam was a beautiful, green-eyed nineteen-year-old working in a high-rise office. I was also nineteen, working as a high-flying combat-cameraman filming from the backseats of fighter jets.

While on assignment in New York City, I spent evenings drinking and trying to meet girls. (Actually, one would have been fine.) I spent my first night in Greenwich Village, did well in the drinking department, but not so hot where it mattered most.

My crew mates did better. They’d met two knockout brunets at a belly-dancing club, and had arranged a party at the girls’ penthouse apartment.

Did I say penthouse? Well, it was atop a building. Then again, so were chicken coops—but larger.

Nevertheless, it was there that the seeds of love were planted. Pam and I talked the entire night in her closet-size bedroom. The next morning, with the sun’s glow creeping up the Manhattan skyscrapers, we boarded a tour boat that circled the island.

All too quickly, that same afternoon, I shipped back to base in Orlando.

A day later, lying on my bunk and really missing Pam —especially her Noo Yorka accent—I wrote a letter urging her to come to Florida for a vacation.

A Year Later

We were married and living in an Orlando apartment with rooms so small you had to back out of them. But we were happy. We were in love.

One problem. Actually, more than one.

We had no idea what each other thought about such things as, money—save some or spend it all; sex—hardly ever or at least thrice daily; anger—slug it out or stuff it in; household jobs—divvy them up, and if so, how?

Take jobs, for example.

In the living room—where we sat knees together, one of us on the couch, the other in the chair opposite—stood a cabinet. In it were owl-shaped salt and pepper shakers and two decorative dinner plates.

After meals, Pam washed our two plates (her job). I dried and put them in the cabinet (my job). One plate sat flat, the other, behind it, upright, and against the back cupboard, the plate’s design aligned perfectly straight.

One day, Pam asked, “Why do you get the fun job?”

I forget my answer, but I considered the task of positioning the plates too important to leave to someone who, let’s be honest, was klutzy.

Hold on … it gets worse.

This is the part that’s hard to admit—or even think about.

As I said, our apartment was rather miniature. So one day, we learned a larger unit in the building would become available, and Pam wanted to move.

Yes, the unit was larger. Yes, we did have a new baby. And yes, it would cost more money!

A bad idea. Obviously!

But she persisted. So I said to her, “Think about it a few days and if you still want to move, we’ll move.”

I knew—knew—that after thinking about it long enough she’d come around.

The Big Day

Three days later she announced, “We’re moving.”

“No, we’re not.”

My bad. YES!

As it turned out, we did move, but only because the landlord made us managers of the four-unit building, and our rent remained the same.

This is Pam. Bill was right. He didn’t know how to share responsibility, and I didn’t know how to take it. But he’s a pretty good guy, and we’re still friends. And by the way, Bill, my eyes aren’t green, they’re blue!

 

Next Week: Okay, Let’s Get Married, But …

 

IF YOU’RE ENJOYING these goofy blogs, share them with friends (or, heck, anybody). There’s a new one each week (until I run out of drugs, girlfriends, and wives.)

MY BOOKS: billbrier.com/books/

THE DEVIL ORDERS TAKEOUT — Award-winning thriller (that Scooby loved).

THE KILLER WHO HATED SOUP — Award-winning mystery (that Scooby really loved).

THE KILLER WHO WASN’T THERE — Award-winning mystery (that Scooby’s still reading).

Filed Under: Blog

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Copyright © 2023 Bill A. Brier