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©May 2000

Carol Jane Remsburg



Shock the Husband




It's a little game I play.  Yea, over the years I've perfected it.  It's been almost twenty-two years now, not counting the 18 considered in matrimony.  This man, I've teased, tormented, and taunted him to keep him unsettled and his fighting spirited wetted.


I remember well the words of my father, "Always marry a man just slightly more intelligent than you are."  I took those words to heart.  Yet, finding such a man, one who would also make me nervous and twitchy in all the right ways was indeed a challenge.  Then I found him.


A diamond in the rough he is.  Actually, if he could burrow down farther into the mine pits he would.  He's a quiet man, a gentle man.  He's the epitome of 'tall, dark, and handsome' yet with a hard turn.  You might think of Harrison Ford, which would be a yes, but a Sam Elliott would be a dead on.  I'm still checking bloodlines.


This self-effacing man has a keen, dry wit.  Those that know him deem him a walking encyclopedia.  He never blows his own horn.  He's one of those types that you have to brush away the debris of his diversions to discover his real self.  He is a box of wonders.  Then he'll laugh at you and wander away just outside of your grasp.


Now, how does a woman grab and keep his attention?  Tempting promises will only work for so long.  All women arrive in this world with the same equipment but their workings are a myriad of mysteries.  Any 20-something sexpot with 7-foot legs and a projectile bosom can demand attention, yet behind those vapid eyes is often found a mind that never had to work that piques nothing outside of the obvious.  Most men would gladly enter that den for a week or three only to run away screaming later on.


I was lucky.  I captured mine while at the ripe old age of 18.  I was blonde, yes, but a dark blonde.  Leggy, yes, they used to be my best asset.  Buxom?  Hell, a pillow has more than I have to offer.  No blue vapid eyes here; a smoky grey when he's looking and steely gunmetal when he isn't. 


I learned early on that in order to keep my man's attention, once I had him hooked (no small chore there), that I would have to sharpen my wits and keep him unbalanced, thus at my mercy.  What did my man learn?


Well, he learned that he never knew what woman was going to be in his bed on any given night.  They were all me, but I was a chameleon.  I could be blonde.  I could be a brunette.  I could also be one wild redhead.  Not only could I blow hot, cold, I also would shock him with a lukewarm indifference which confounded him.


Words, words, and more words, we kept each other on our toes constantly.  We challenged and we parried.  When hardships arrived, we clung together finding support and solace in each other.  He found a secure trust with me.  I ensured that I became part of him.


In those early years, I catered to him and his every whim.  He need not worry over the finances, the taxes, the house, the food, or the laundry.  I was his little magic genie—much to the chagrin of my own mother and his.  While I still manage this feat of wonder along with a demanding day job and motherhood, I've learned to keep him from feeling too settled.  The man never knows if I'll blow hot or cold.  I'm like living with an unstable volcano.  PMS and age has helped in that respect.  I often cannot control it anyway.  If I could, I'd write the patent for it.


Today is Sunday.  It's also Mother's Day.  He's been gone all day, working, and we've a very busy child who I've entertained for most of the day.  During the downtime, and to further laugh it up, I dyed my hair yet again.  On Friday, I managed a stylist to give me a new cut that, for once, is flattering.  I dressed up, put on a 'face', and surprised him—along with preparing a fine dinner.


My flowers?  My card?  My morning greeting of "Happy Mother's Day" is still in absence.  Thus I strolled into the living room just before he settled himself into his favorite chair and asked him how he liked the new color?  Like any man in his 40's he spluttered and couldn't frame a reply in the 20 seconds I allotted him.  I walked away.  Now he'll stew.  He hasn't a clue and will no longer be able to pay attention to the television program he just flipped on.  Oh, the agony of hours will pass.


I'll serve him a savory dinner when he knows he should have taken me out for one.  He'll worry and he'll fret.  He'll sit there not enjoying that chair for the next 5 hours. 


Don't worry, he'll find out it was all worth it and appreciate me all the more for it. 


Advice to the young ones—Never, ever, let them be totally in charge.  They'll never appreciate you that way.  They always have to wonder.