4 now 4 luv 4 eva. Amen
I have received a mild ticking off just over here for a comment that somewhat inadvertently implied or could possibly have implied that I was slightly minimising how absolutely good it was to have met my gorgeous wife Honey Bear.
Implying that was, of course, of all the things in the world that I could possibly do, the one that I wanted to do the least. Or, as Kevin Kline would say, I'd rather sell my nuts to a castrati.
So, let's clarify.
I met my lovely soulmate during an otherwise entirely less than good couple of years during which I lived in a town of 6000 people, mostly farmers, that for someone like me who is not a farmer and can't play Aussie Rules football for toffee, was just not an ideal place to be living.
For context, here's a few of the things that I put up with during that period:
* Shortly after I moved there, whilst living alone and knowing no-one in town, I went to the local cinema. They refused to show the film because they require a minimum of five people to make it worth the effort and I was the only one there. I seriously considered buying five tickets just so I wouldn't have to go back home but I couldn't quite justify paying $35.00 to see the Bone Collector.
* That cinema in general. It's bad when a cinema only shows one movie per week. It's worse when that movie is the Blair Witch Project.
* Visiting a church where they thought it would be a good idea to make me feel welcome by saying, in the middle of a service, "Hey, none of us have any idea who you are. Why don't you stand up and tell us a bit about yourself."
* Regularly attending a church where everyone thought I was a communist and there was one guy who was so convinced that the moon landing were faked that he actually heckled another dude for suggesting otherwise. During the children's talk
* Too much canned fruit
* Being mocked for using the term "baby cow"
* Bad coffee
* Being expected to eat something that claimed to be a "Vegetarian Italiano" at a localish Pizza Hut. It had freakin' PINEAPPLE ON IT.
* Being looked at like I was a weird uptight city boy for suggesting pineapple wasn't very Italian
* No-one being able to understand why I wasn't amused by jokes about Aborigines
* The seriously mad flatmate who set my couch on fire
* Having to explain that one, and the resulting damage to the walls, to the landlord, even though I was in another town when it happen
* Stony silence from the landlord when I tried making a light hearted reference to this six months later
* Accidentally gatecrashing a dairy farmer's convention because I tried to meet Honey Bear for dinner on a Wednesday night and the only pub that would serve us food was hosting the convention in question. I learned a lot about silage
* Somehow getting talked into driving a four hour round trip to go with my flatmate to visit her family, on the basis that said flatmate's family lived on a farm and they would be cooking a traditional old country meal. Which turned out to be sausage rolls and chips from a supermarket
* As part of running a local youth group, turning up to a combined event called "Survivor Night" which, as it truned out, involved standing in some farmer dude's paddock in the dark for three hours. When the kids asked afterwards "What did that have to do with Survivor?" I said "I don't know either."
* Hokey pokey night at the local community centre.
* A hoedown
And the list could go on. I suspect, however, that it just did.
Let me be entirely clear. Living in that town, with all the ridiculousness and houses full of rodents, was absolutely worth it in order to meet my fabulous, gorgeous, amazing Honey Bear who I love to distraction and always will.
If, as Gigglewick rather recently suggested, if my job had been pushing shards of glass up a sandpaper hill with my nose, it would still have been worth it.
Indeed, if for reasons beyond all imagining I had been elected chair of the local chapter of the Young Divas and Everyone Who Was Ever on Popstars Live Appreciation Society, again, still worth it.
Meeting Honey Bear, and being married to this stunning woman for six years with many more to come, would be worth it. No matter what.
Implying that was, of course, of all the things in the world that I could possibly do, the one that I wanted to do the least. Or, as Kevin Kline would say, I'd rather sell my nuts to a castrati.
So, let's clarify.
I met my lovely soulmate during an otherwise entirely less than good couple of years during which I lived in a town of 6000 people, mostly farmers, that for someone like me who is not a farmer and can't play Aussie Rules football for toffee, was just not an ideal place to be living.
For context, here's a few of the things that I put up with during that period:
* Shortly after I moved there, whilst living alone and knowing no-one in town, I went to the local cinema. They refused to show the film because they require a minimum of five people to make it worth the effort and I was the only one there. I seriously considered buying five tickets just so I wouldn't have to go back home but I couldn't quite justify paying $35.00 to see the Bone Collector.
* That cinema in general. It's bad when a cinema only shows one movie per week. It's worse when that movie is the Blair Witch Project.
* Visiting a church where they thought it would be a good idea to make me feel welcome by saying, in the middle of a service, "Hey, none of us have any idea who you are. Why don't you stand up and tell us a bit about yourself."
* Regularly attending a church where everyone thought I was a communist and there was one guy who was so convinced that the moon landing were faked that he actually heckled another dude for suggesting otherwise. During the children's talk
* Too much canned fruit
* Being mocked for using the term "baby cow"
* Bad coffee
* Being expected to eat something that claimed to be a "Vegetarian Italiano" at a localish Pizza Hut. It had freakin' PINEAPPLE ON IT.
* Being looked at like I was a weird uptight city boy for suggesting pineapple wasn't very Italian
* No-one being able to understand why I wasn't amused by jokes about Aborigines
* The seriously mad flatmate who set my couch on fire
* Having to explain that one, and the resulting damage to the walls, to the landlord, even though I was in another town when it happen
* Stony silence from the landlord when I tried making a light hearted reference to this six months later
* Accidentally gatecrashing a dairy farmer's convention because I tried to meet Honey Bear for dinner on a Wednesday night and the only pub that would serve us food was hosting the convention in question. I learned a lot about silage
* Somehow getting talked into driving a four hour round trip to go with my flatmate to visit her family, on the basis that said flatmate's family lived on a farm and they would be cooking a traditional old country meal. Which turned out to be sausage rolls and chips from a supermarket
* As part of running a local youth group, turning up to a combined event called "Survivor Night" which, as it truned out, involved standing in some farmer dude's paddock in the dark for three hours. When the kids asked afterwards "What did that have to do with Survivor?" I said "I don't know either."
* Hokey pokey night at the local community centre.
* A hoedown
And the list could go on. I suspect, however, that it just did.
Let me be entirely clear. Living in that town, with all the ridiculousness and houses full of rodents, was absolutely worth it in order to meet my fabulous, gorgeous, amazing Honey Bear who I love to distraction and always will.
If, as Gigglewick rather recently suggested, if my job had been pushing shards of glass up a sandpaper hill with my nose, it would still have been worth it.
Indeed, if for reasons beyond all imagining I had been elected chair of the local chapter of the Young Divas and Everyone Who Was Ever on Popstars Live Appreciation Society, again, still worth it.
Meeting Honey Bear, and being married to this stunning woman for six years with many more to come, would be worth it. No matter what.
posted by I'm not Craig at 8:34 PM
3 Comments:
Officially. The. Best. Nicest, Sweetest. Man. In. The. Blogosphere. Who. Restores. The. Faith. Of. Women. In. His. Gender.
Lovely post my friend, and all is forgiven, at least by me.
My favourite "ooh boy, sometimes they get it wrong with food in the country" story also involves pineapple.
I was once, while out for a pub meal, served a Chicken Kiev with a slice of pineapple on top.
Because, you know, the synergies between Kiev and Honolulu are obvious.
PS When did Kevin Kline say that?
Ms Batville
Thanks, you're very kind.
I can only deduce from this that your man does not have a blog. And, I confess, I'm hoping that he doesn't read this one.
Giggles
Honey Bear was quite chuffed to discover the enthusiasm amongst the blogging sisterhood for throwing down at the slightest hint of any perceived slur upon her honour or some such.
It's lucky I will never actually say anything bad about my lovely wife around these parts.
Or anywhere, obvs.
My deepest sympathies on the chicken wahu or whatever that dish was actually called.
PS Kevin Kline delivered this line with great flair in "Life as a House". If you have not seen this film, don't bother renting it, just go and buy a copy right now.
I'm serious.
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