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).
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