I’ve spent a lot of time in this column telling you about my spouse, the Carpenter, and how lucky I am to have such a great man in my life.
Well, enough about him already.
I think it’s time I tell you how incredibly lucky he is to have married me. I am a good wife.
Okay, just to clarify, I am not perfect (this is not an invitation to comment). I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I am not a trophy wife. Cough.
I will always choose flannel over lace, my barn boots over high heels, and while I know how to get dolled up for an occasion and squeeze into Spanx like any other girl who is faking their curves, I will only do so if there is a reward of chip dip and potato chips at the finish line.
You don’t want to see me pout.
I’m not really sure what makes a good wife in today’s mangled perceptions of sexual equality and feminism, or if the title is even politically correct anymore, but I am pretty sure I fail at many of the expectations of what it once meant.
My house is messy and chaotic, or as I like to call it, “comfy chic.” Most nights I don’t get home in time for a family dinner, much less have time to make it. While I remember to pay the bills, I often forget to pack a lunch.
My idea of romance is as unconventional as I am, and my timing is about as unpredictable. Strike while the iron is hot, I say, unless there is something really good on TV.
I make no apologies for being who I am.
There is no pretense in our relationship. This union was made with eyes wide open. Fools. He keeps coming home, so I figure I’m doing something right.
I am an excellent wife in many important ways.
A perfect example was last Saturday night. Our son had a hockey tournament out of town. Game time happened to coincide with the Seattle Seahawks’ NFC semi-final game. You might recall that the Carpenter has long been a die-hard fan of this team and is affectionately known as the 13th Fan.
Well, by the time we left the hockey arena to head for home, the football game was in the second quarter and the 13th Fan was missing it.
Amazing wife that I am, I provided a running commentary of the play-by-plays via the team’s Twitter updates. In my house, this is foreplay.
As fast as the Seattle Seahawks posted an update, I read them aloud; every yard, flag, point and injury. Oh, I was good.
Then it hit me: I have satellite radio in my car, which means I have sports channels I’ve never even heard. Bam. I found the live Seattle game coverage. Hot, right?
Only one thing could make this hour drive home better: silence. No chitchat.
Not a word. I made no remarks on how painfully boring football on radio is (Stop. Start. Whistle. Repeat.), nor did I suggest speeding to get home for the fourth quarter was unacceptable.
Not a peep.
Yep, I am just that good.
Seattle won. I like to think it was because of me. Kelly scores a touchdown.
Best. Wife. Ever.
Writing has been my passion since I learned how to hold a pencil (which I still cannot do properly). Despite my father’s insistence that I would starve to death in this career, I remain well fed and eager to write more. They say you should do what you love: I love to write.