Tag: wife

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My Wife is Always Right

Led down an alley in Morocco by a stranger, far from other tourists. Any idiot could sense that perhaps we were in danger. Except this idiot.

We had earlier been approached by a suspicious looking character in the tangled web of small streets in Marrakech. He offered to take us to a nearby Berber leather market. Of course we said no. Any idiot knows not to follow a stranger offering directions in Marrakech. Even this idiot.

But the leather market did sound pretty cool.

Sometime later a friendly Moroccan in line with us at a shop asked where we were from. As we chatted, he casually mentioned the Berber leather market as something worth seeing. He paid for his items, wished us well and headed off. No weird vibes from this guy. He hadn’t offered to take us anywhere.

Independent corroboration that the market existed. Now we were really interested.

After we walked some distance in search of the market, we happened upon the friendly guy standing outside a shop with several friends. He said hello and asked how things were going. No mention of the Berber market. It was I who said that we were trying to find it. The man then said something to one of the friends who was about to leave the shop. He turned to us and said, “Ahmed here works near the market. He is heading that way now. He can show you the way if you want”. He did not push. It was up to us.

I enthusiastically agreed. We all wanted to see the market. This gift of a guide was our way to do it. But my wife’s radar went off at the offer. She wasn’t so sure. Naturally I became annoyed – we needed help to find the market, and we had clearly avoided the earlier scam. Time to live a little.

Ignoring her protests, we began to follow the man through the impossible web of tangled alleys. Each was filled with tiny shops selling all manner of goods and with smells from open air butcher shops, the sweat of donkeys, sewage, spices. It was exhilarating and overwhelming. We soon left the tourist district behind us.

Now the children joined my wife in protest. Too much walking. But just then we began to see signs for the tannery and leather district of Marrakech. The smell became overwhelming as we passed courtyards filled with leather hides being stretched in the sun. We MUST be almost at the market!

We rounded a corner and came upon a tacky tourist shop called “Berber Leather Market”. Several intimidatingly large men stood outside. It was immediately obvious, even to this idiot, that (a) we had been scammed and (b) we were someplace we ought not to be. We beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the main road, without further incident.

As we trudged back to the tourist district, I was a mix of contrition and annoyance. Both aimed squarely at myself. I apologized to the family. I moped. I placated the children with chocolate. Then I promised my wife that I would write a blog about how she is always right and how I should always listen to her. What kind of idiot makes such a promise?

PS: It turns out the Marrakech leather district scam is well known to those who read tourist blogs.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The Possum

I would like to thank Eloise, Wordsfortheweary editor, for her guest blog post last week about a Ugandan chicken. Her story was in large part the inspiration for this one, which took place in Canada. Different continents, same absurdity.

It was past midnight, and there was trouble at the henhouse.

The shrieking chickens woke the farmer from a deep winter’s sleep. He threw back the covers. It was bitterly cold, and he usually slept in the nude. He fumbled in the dark for his shotgun. He stepped through the door to the bedroom balcony to get a better view.

But in his bleary state he had neglected one crucial detail: there was no bedroom balcony. It had not yet been built. So instead, he stepped through the door into thin air and plunged two stories into a deep snowdrift. He still clutched the shotgun. He was still nude.

Now very much awake and with a chapped butt, he struggled out of the drift and through the snowy field towards the chaos in the henhouse. He flung open the door. There sat a large possum, contentedly making a meal of one of the hens. The possum was dispatched. With order restored, the farmer walked back through the snowy darkness to the farmhouse.

Which was of course locked. The only thing open was the door up where a bedroom balcony was supposed to be. He stood in the snow calling up to his wife. Nothing. He yelled. Nothing. He went round and knocked on the front door. Still nothing. Then he pounded on the door with all his might.

Finally the farmer’s wife rose from a deep winter’s sleep. She threw back the covers. It was bitterly cold, but she slept in a sensible flannel nightgown. Thankfully, she did not venture through the void to the unbuilt balcony. Instead she trudged downstairs and wearily opened the front door for her shivering husband. He was nude, he was holding a shotgun, and he had some explaining to do.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The Bear – 05/03/2018

I am a bear in a world of lonely cubs. That’s the only way to explain the frequency with which I am propositioned by other men.

It happens everywhere. Last month it was from a guy sitting at the table next to me in a restaurant in Brussels. For the record, he was six foot four and full of muscles. I was merely full of mussels. It happened in the workplace, where a male colleague made a pass during a pick-up volleyball game at a staff party. He could not possibly have been attracted to my volleyball skills. It once happened on a beach. And lets just be honest: you have to be pretty damn desperate to proposition me while I am in a bathing suit in full daylight. Or visually impaired.

It happened in an airport security line. I had just finished telling a female colleague about my being approached by other men. She rightly scoffed. Moments later, as if scripted, the man in front of me turned and asked if he could borrow the toothpaste I was putting into the little plastic security bag. Taken aback by the odd request, I handed him the crumpled tube. He thanked me, winked, and then slapped my butt. My colleague stood there stunned. I told the man to keep the toothpaste.

Having my wife with me makes no difference. She and I were once holding hands in a café booth. The waiter lingered around us with the same intensity that I have around warm lasagna. We ignored him. Then he came back with a huge chocolate cookie and sat down in the booth beside me. “You have to try this”, he said. “Its better than sex”. My wife can attest that this actually happened. And that it was, indeed, a very good cookie.

The most amusing instance took place on a crowded subway train. “Do I know you from somewhere?”, asked the fellow standing beside me. When I said no, he continued. “Are you sure? You aren’t perhaps an accountant, are you?” Again I answered in the negative. Then he just got to the point and asked me where I was getting off the train, because he could get off there too. I sensed a double entendre. I smiled and replied, “As I said sir, I am not an accountant”. Startled that I was using his code, he laughed out loud. Then he added with faux sarcasm, “Oh. That must mean you are one of those guys into IT and computing.”

Take that, Bill Gates.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Photo credit to Gastoniagrizzlies