Dinner “Conversation”

Me: What’s this?

Her: Your dinner.

Me: Since when did donkey phallus make it to the menu?

Her: It’s Polish sausage, thank you very much. And you’re welcome for my heating it up.

Me: How come I get such a small donkey schlong?

(10 year-old son giggles hysterically here.)

Daughter (6 y/o): No, Daddy, you mean Donkey Kong.

(Son explodes in laughter.)

Me: So how come you get a bigger schlong than me?

Her: Because I’m better looking?

Me: What?

(Son’s on the floor, turning red.)

Daughter: Kong, Daddy! (giggles at Daddy’s silliness)

Me: Oh, I see what you did there. Yeah, you’ve always been one for the big schlong, haven’t you?

Her: No, not really. After all, I marr—

Me: Smart woman doesn’t finish that sentence. Think it over.

Slurpin’ my Life Away

I don’t think I’ll be doing any posting this week, folks. I’m up against the deadline for the latest SRLP and may have another one in the mix for McGraw-Hill Publishing (but I’ve not heard back on that one yet). I’ve got some big fiction writing plans for when I complete this one too. But for now, I have only one thing on my mind: Finish this one.

Last week of unemployed laziness before I rejoin the shuffling zombies that are commuters to The Big Sh!tty. But it’s only for three months. I also will be able to get more serious about dropping some weight too. Here’s hoping.

My anniversary was nice. We slept in a little, hung out with the kids for a bit, then had a great steak and twice-baked potato dinner. Yum. Add in what passes for sourdough bread here in the Midwest, and it was darn close to heaven. We also managed to finagle a birthday present out of our finances for our son, so we’re happy and so is he. 🙂 Other than that, nothin’ doin’ all weekend.

Anyway, sorry I’m late but this is likely to be the last one for a bit. So let me know how your weekend was. Give details, so I can live vicariously through you. 😉

God bless and have a good week, y’all!



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I Like Her

I don’t need to tell you all I like my wife.

But I’m going to anyway.

In a time in my life when I couldn’t get my head on straight, and when I tried sorting through damage to my memories for a lot of reasons (and all of them for another post), I want to tell you how much a beacon my wife has been for me.

A lighthouse stands on the rocky shore of a coast and shines out a bright light to both warn and guide ships at sea of impending danger. They help ships steer around the hazards unseen just ahead and sailors come to count on them. So it is, my wife has helped me navigate the dark, hazardous waters of my past and helped me pick my way safely through the hidden dangers of my past.

Very poetic, but in short, my beloved has kept me from believing I was crazy or dreamed something more times than I can count.

She’s more than once gazed into the middle distance and said, “You know, I remember that, too,” or said, “Do you remember …” and it turned out to be something I not only remembered, but recalled and was afraid to bring up because everyone else I know/knew said they didn’t remember that, and I must be wrong/mistaken/crazy/stupid.

She’s never said anything like that. I can’t remember when I said “Do you remember…?” and she didn’t. A few things, and obviously things particular to me she couldn’t know, but she’s helping me in ways I can’t explain (and wouldn’t if I could) to explore my yesteryears and find things long hidden. Things I thought were wrong, remembered through a glass darkly, or simply imagined.

But I’m not so bad after all, and she’s been my proof of it. More and more, as the years go on, she’s my touchstone on such things.

I like  her. I think I’ll keep her.


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Blessings and cursing

“Son of a BI—”

“Are you all right?”

The sound of my wife’s voice cut me off mid-swear, and I looked up at her, a little surprised.

“Uh … yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

She crossed her arms and looked down at me. “Because you’ve been swearing in progressively louder and more vile oaths for about five minutes.”

“Oh,” I said. I paused the game. “Well, there’s this blue shard I need to get, see, and it’s waaaaaayyy over on this other—”

“Wait … you’re swearing at the game?”

I swallowed. “Um … I think so, yeah.”

She huffed an exasperated sigh and dismissed me with a fanning motion. “Forget it. Never mind. Go back to your ‘fun”, I guess.”

As she turned around and walked away, it occurred to me this wasn’t the first time she mistook my frustrated cursing as rage, or legitimate anger. It happened for the first time many, many moons ago, when I first equipped and began to use my garage woodshop.

The blue streak I cursed out of that 2-1/2 car torture chamber came as I became involved in the agony and ecstasy of woodworking. I built furniture – some of it nice, good-looking stuff, if I do say so myself – and along the way, as part of that rite of passage, came the old master’s way of working wood. With much discarded mistakes and cursing.

Of course, with a woodshop, the first concern is I may have injured myself. Make sure you can still count to ten when you come in the house, the old saying goes. We shortened it to “Don’t come in with nine.” Barring that, the next concern is I’ve ruined an expensive piece of equipment, then that I’ve destroyed weeks of labor by messing up an entire piece, losing hundreds of dollars in wood, etc. But really, the craft just can’t be enjoyed to its fullest without the swearing.

“It’s like a roller coaster ride,” I told her. “It’s just not as fun if you’re not screaming your guts out, right?” I hate roller coasters. I left that off.

She understood, took my word for it, and went on, but I don’t know if my wife ever embraced the philosophy. After years of not having to deal with it, she’s hearing me in that agitated, growling bark again, shouting obscenities at the TV screen and waving my arms and leaning my body to provide the proper touch to the Wii controls. Of course it’s futile, but I do it anyway. And cursing the ancestry of my games seldom makes them more cooperative to fat, aged-slowed fingers who’ve lost some of their dexterity with time. Nevertheless, like the woodworking of years past, I curse it loud and long and violently, with a vehemence she can’t match and wouldn’t if she could.

My wife, bless her heart, doesn’t understand the blessing of the cursing.

How ‘bout you? Do you have things where, to an outsider, you’re just torturing yourself, but actually is providing you invaluable, immeasurable entertainment? Do you find you enjoy a particular something more if there’s a little steam in your stride, a little piston-driving anger or venom?

Or am I just nuts?

Don’t answer that last one.


All original content copyright 2010 DarcKnyt

If not for her…

Last time we chatted, I told you about a couple of ways I’d been a heavy influence on my wife. There are others, of course. Culinary, literature, hobbies … you name it, I’ve had an effect on her world and worldview.

But it’s not been unreciprocated. She’s had heavy influence on me in many ways too.

The tricky part is, this involves much self-inspection. And the changes here have been much more subtle than the overt head-banging sorts of things she seems to have experienced. I’m a very different person today than I was when I stood and took our wedding vows, and she’s had a fair amount to do with that. The challenge has been, how much and in what areas? Do I spend enough time thinking about those types of things to be able to identify them?

Well, I don’t know. So I’ll shoot for broad strokes, just as I did before.

For one thing, if not for my wife, the Internet wouldn’t have my fiction to read. Why? Well, it never occurred to me to put my fiction on the web until my wife suggested I toss it up on my blog and see what happened. Nothing happened, of course, but a few people have read it. I’ve made a few cyberfriends with it. And for those things, I’m grateful.

I also wouldn’t be a writer. (‘Scuse me, author, not writer. I got paid.) At least, I don’t think so. See, she read my early work – written before we married – and she liked it. She wanted to be a writer. She even had a pseudonym chosen. I, being an IT geek, installed a program on our computers which allowed one of us to share usage of the other’s computer over an IP network. We would type lines to each other’s stories in as we worked on it, on the fly. We also played SimCity, but that’s beside the point.

In the end, she lost interest in writing and mine waxed and waned over time, but eventually blossomed. She encouraged it. In fact, she’s encouraged every wind of whimsy which has rattled through my near-empty skull.

So, I wouldn’t still be writing if not for her. And I know I wouldn’t be published if not for her. She was the one who urged me to take the SSRLP on. She’s the one who helped me spot typos and edit and tighten the prose and everything. She helped me with screen captures and getting the files uploaded on time. She was there for every step and has been integral to the process from day one.

She’s also single-handedly responsible for Ghost Hunters, which is on my fiction blog in rough draft form and is my first finished manuscript of which I’m not completely ashamed. Anymore. (It’s been through a lot of changes since I wrote it.) She’s been integral to every step of that process and refuses to let that story die. So in a way, it’s her story.

Oh, there are many other ways she’s influenced me, I’m sure. These are just some of the larger ones I don’t have to work too hard for.

How ‘bout you? Who’s been a great source of inspiration/motivation/aggravation/consternation for you? Who’s been the driving force for you? had a major influence on you?

Sound off, y’all.


All original content copyright 2010 DarcKnyt