| Humor Non-Fiction posted March 24, 2009 | Chapters: |
1 2 -3- 4... 
|
  |
Early mariage mishaps revisited.
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
Developing Domestically
by BethShelby
At the beginning of my marriage, I had my hands full learning the artistry of being a wife. At that stage, I assumed it was something every new bride should, at least, attempt to learn. My life, up to the age of eighteen, had been about as sheltered as was possible outside of being locked in a room and chained to a bedpost. It is a gross understatement to say I was naive. In addition to my lack of sophistication, I was totally unskilled in homemaking arts.
During high school years, most of my female classmates seemed to be hoping for a M.R.S. degree as soon as possible, so they took classes in Home Economics. I chose to take Science and Speech classes instead. You would think I would have absorbed some of the skills at home, which might have prepared me for marriage, but I was simply not domestically inclined. My mother made a valiant effort to teach me, but I wasn't interested in following in her footsteps. She finally gave up; probably thinking I would never marry and would become a doctor or some other highly paid professional. With a healthy income, I would be able to afford to hire domestic help. It was not to be.
I had completed one year in the local college, when out of the blue, I decided to get married. Not only was I ill-equipped to cook or do housework, I had never held a job and had no idea how to go about getting one. What I could do was burn a kettle up while trying to boil water. I didn't even know how to hold a broom correctly. I was terrified of telephones because my family never had one until after I left home. I didn't know how to drive, and I had never ridden in a city bus. I hadn't even gone shopping alone except to buy pencils or paper. My poor husband didn't get a bargain when he got me. Luckily, he thought I was pretty and intelligent, and that was all that mattered at that stage of the game.
During the first month and a half, I made amazing progress. I mastered the art of using a can opener, and even learned how to heat the contents of a can without smoking up the kitchen over three or four times a week. After the first few times of getting lost, I learned how to catch the correct bus from downtown to our apartment. I even learned how to plan a couple of simple meals.
One of my gourmet menus consisted of heating the contents of a can of spaghetti and meatballs and also a can of green peas. This I served with white bread, coke, and Oreo cookies for desert. My alternate meal was the contents of a can of lima beans and a can of cream corn, served with white bread, root beer, and ice cream for desert. Breakfast was easy. We ate cold cereal.
One other skill I mastered was the art of keeping a chair, or some other piece of furniture, between the lecherous landlord and me. He liked to surprise me by using his master key to pop into the apartment without warning. He usually used the excuse of having to inspect something. I was thankful he was a salesman and was on the road most of the time.
I learned from the other tenants, as well as from him, and finally even from his wife, that she hadn't allowed him into her bedroom in years. He found anything that looked even remotely female, irresistible. Each week, this pervert deliberately stole one of each of my husband's socks from the apartment's basement laundry. This way, he could show up with a handful of his own 'one of a kind' socks, to see if we had "accidentally" gotten them mixed.
I also learned it wasn't smart to report these encounters to my mate if I didn't wish to become a young widow. In spite of the fact, the landlord was large enough to make three of him and had informed me he kept a loaded gun in case of intruders, my husband was ready to do battle to defend my honor. Still, my husband was strong for his size and might have triumphed, but I couldn't face the embarrassment of seeing him involved in a brawl as long as I felt I could handle things.
Even his wife was given to using her master key to check up on her boarders. However, she usually scheduled her visits for times when she knew we weren't in. We felt our privacy had been violated when we learned of these visits. However, we were too young and inexperienced to know our rights and were willing to let it pass. I must admit one of her visits was justified. Nevertheless, it caused my spouse and me considerable humiliation.
It happened in the early fall. At the end of the summer, I decided to go back to college. Since I had all afternoon classes, I didn't leave home until a half-hour before Evan got his lunch break. Because money was so short, he came home for lunch. Dutiful wife that I was, I opened the cans and heated his meal before leaving for school.
I discovered the food stayed warm if I heated the oven and then turned it off leaving the serving dishes inside. That way he could have a warm meal. I also left mushy love notes propped on the table for him to read while he dined. One day, I decided to try out the Tupperware I got for my wedding. Even I should have known better than to put hot food into plastic containers and place them in a warm oven, but I went a step further than that. I forgot to turn the oven off.
That day when my husband arrived home, his dinner of creamed corn and lima beans was in the middle of the front lawn melded into the blackened Tupperware containers. The door and windows to our little apartment were wide open, and a fan was sitting on our table blowing out the smoke and scattering the pages of my love notes. The fumes in the apartment were unbearable, both from the melted plastic and from our outraged landlady. She insisted she'd saved her house from burning to the ground by entering, at great peril, and removing the offending plastic with tongs.
After that day the oven was used for storage only. I gave up writing love notes, and my husband began taking a brown-bag lunch with him to work each morning. The honeymoon was over. We had reached a new level in our relationship.
At the beginning of my marriage, I had my hands full learning the artistry of being a wife. At that stage, I assumed it was something every new bride should, at least, attempt to learn. My life, up to the age of eighteen, had been about as sheltered as was possible outside of being locked in a room and chained to a bedpost. It is a gross understatement to say I was naive. In addition to my lack of sophistication, I was totally unskilled in homemaking arts.
During high school years, most of my female classmates seemed to be hoping for a M.R.S. degree as soon as possible, so they took classes in Home Economics. I chose to take Science and Speech classes instead. You would think I would have absorbed some of the skills at home, which might have prepared me for marriage, but I was simply not domestically inclined. My mother made a valiant effort to teach me, but I wasn't interested in following in her footsteps. She finally gave up; probably thinking I would never marry and would become a doctor or some other highly paid professional. With a healthy income, I would be able to afford to hire domestic help. It was not to be.
I had completed one year in the local college, when out of the blue, I decided to get married. Not only was I ill-equipped to cook or do housework, I had never held a job and had no idea how to go about getting one. What I could do was burn a kettle up while trying to boil water. I didn't even know how to hold a broom correctly. I was terrified of telephones because my family never had one until after I left home. I didn't know how to drive, and I had never ridden in a city bus. I hadn't even gone shopping alone except to buy pencils or paper. My poor husband didn't get a bargain when he got me. Luckily, he thought I was pretty and intelligent, and that was all that mattered at that stage of the game.
During the first month and a half, I made amazing progress. I mastered the art of using a can opener, and even learned how to heat the contents of a can without smoking up the kitchen over three or four times a week. After the first few times of getting lost, I learned how to catch the correct bus from downtown to our apartment. I even learned how to plan a couple of simple meals.
One of my gourmet menus consisted of heating the contents of a can of spaghetti and meatballs and also a can of green peas. This I served with white bread, coke, and Oreo cookies for desert. My alternate meal was the contents of a can of lima beans and a can of cream corn, served with white bread, root beer, and ice cream for desert. Breakfast was easy. We ate cold cereal.
One other skill I mastered was the art of keeping a chair, or some other piece of furniture, between the lecherous landlord and me. He liked to surprise me by using his master key to pop into the apartment without warning. He usually used the excuse of having to inspect something. I was thankful he was a salesman and was on the road most of the time.
I learned from the other tenants, as well as from him, and finally even from his wife, that she hadn't allowed him into her bedroom in years. He found anything that looked even remotely female, irresistible. Each week, this pervert deliberately stole one of each of my husband's socks from the apartment's basement laundry. This way, he could show up with a handful of his own 'one of a kind' socks, to see if we had "accidentally" gotten them mixed.
I also learned it wasn't smart to report these encounters to my mate if I didn't wish to become a young widow. In spite of the fact, the landlord was large enough to make three of him and had informed me he kept a loaded gun in case of intruders, my husband was ready to do battle to defend my honor. Still, my husband was strong for his size and might have triumphed, but I couldn't face the embarrassment of seeing him involved in a brawl as long as I felt I could handle things.
Even his wife was given to using her master key to check up on her boarders. However, she usually scheduled her visits for times when she knew we weren't in. We felt our privacy had been violated when we learned of these visits. However, we were too young and inexperienced to know our rights and were willing to let it pass. I must admit one of her visits was justified. Nevertheless, it caused my spouse and me considerable humiliation.
It happened in the early fall. At the end of the summer, I decided to go back to college. Since I had all afternoon classes, I didn't leave home until a half-hour before Evan got his lunch break. Because money was so short, he came home for lunch. Dutiful wife that I was, I opened the cans and heated his meal before leaving for school.
I also learned it wasn't smart to report these encounters to my mate if I didn't wish to become a young widow. In spite of the fact, the landlord was large enough to make three of him and had informed me he kept a loaded gun in case of intruders, my husband was ready to do battle to defend my honor. Still, my husband was strong for his size and might have triumphed, but I couldn't face the embarrassment of seeing him involved in a brawl as long as I felt I could handle things.
Even his wife was given to using her master key to check up on her boarders. However, she usually scheduled her visits for times when she knew we weren't in. We felt our privacy had been violated when we learned of these visits. However, we were too young and inexperienced to know our rights and were willing to let it pass. I must admit one of her visits was justified. Nevertheless, it caused my spouse and me considerable humiliation.
It happened in the early fall. At the end of the summer, I decided to go back to college. Since I had all afternoon classes, I didn't leave home until a half-hour before Evan got his lunch break. Because money was so short, he came home for lunch. Dutiful wife that I was, I opened the cans and heated his meal before leaving for school.
I discovered the food stayed warm if I heated the oven and then turned it off leaving the serving dishes inside. That way he could have a warm meal. I also left mushy love notes propped on the table for him to read while he dined. One day, I decided to try out the Tupperware I got for my wedding. Even I should have known better than to put hot food into plastic containers and place them in a warm oven, but I went a step further than that. I forgot to turn the oven off.
That day when my husband arrived home, his dinner of creamed corn and lima beans was in the middle of the front lawn melded into the blackened Tupperware containers. The door and windows to our little apartment were wide open, and a fan was sitting on our table blowing out the smoke and scattering the pages of my love notes. The fumes in the apartment were unbearable, both from the melted plastic and from our outraged landlady. She insisted she'd saved her house from burning to the ground by entering, at great peril, and removing the offending plastic with tongs.
After that day the oven was used for storage only. I gave up writing love notes, and my husband began taking a brown-bag lunch with him to work each morning. The honeymoon was over. We had reached a new level in our relationship.
That day when my husband arrived home, his dinner of creamed corn and lima beans was in the middle of the front lawn melded into the blackened Tupperware containers. The door and windows to our little apartment were wide open, and a fan was sitting on our table blowing out the smoke and scattering the pages of my love notes. The fumes in the apartment were unbearable, both from the melted plastic and from our outraged landlady. She insisted she'd saved her house from burning to the ground by entering, at great peril, and removing the offending plastic with tongs.
After that day the oven was used for storage only. I gave up writing love notes, and my husband began taking a brown-bag lunch with him to work each morning. The honeymoon was over. We had reached a new level in our relationship.
 Recognized |
|
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. BethShelby All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
BethShelby has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
