Knock knock.
Who's there?
Deranged looking afro-religious guy.
Here is a brochure about how everything is going to end.
Thank you. Not interested.
Not interested?
No.
Have a good sabbath.
You too.
Door closes.
I am using the term pin cushion instead of punch bag because i mean exactly that: being prickly mean instead of downright ferocious.
And now to my point:
I find that sometimes the best thing you can do for your mate is allow her to chafe you a little bit.
Those are the cases where words of consolation won't work. The reason why they do not is why taking a minor thump does a better job:
when the other person is in that type of a mood she suffers from offset proportion. In other words, she fails to discern the truly important from the merely irritating.
so when she lashes at you if you manage to look mildly hurt she will come around in a jiffy!
Hark to the words of the experienced!
I agree with the following argument out ofJohn Banville's analysis at NYBR on Richardson's book on Emerson (yes.. this is Tal on Banville on Richardson on Emerson. I haven't read the book so it might be that this is a direct analysis of Richardson's and not Banville's on Richardson's. Well anyway:)
"...His second major theme is that of Emerson the creative reader.[1] At no point does Richardson identify to whom his book is primarily addressed, but we may make a fair guess from the fact that he opens his introduction with that splendid piece of encouragement and accommodation from Emerson's great essay "The American Scholar":
Meek young men grow up in libraries believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote those books. "
so right. of course. but this interpretation preserves a lot of meekishness still: other than instructing us to read critically, it doesn't say a whole lot about how to write, or how to muster the courage to write.
That's it. I have decided to change route and aspire to becoming the perfect wife. I just know I can be good at that. In fact, I am starting to suspect that I should have known this all along, as my natural purpose. Yes, I can feel it in my ovaries - finally, I have my direction.
First and foremost, I am going to refrain from dealing with any type of professional which isn't the cable guy, the plumber, the grocer, the dressmaker etc... I can go on and on but I know that by now you are catching my drift. I am happy to report that finally I have come to the conclusion that all these interactions with academia professionals are standing in my way of becoming expert at wifing so I am going to put that into a halt since from now on, to allow myself to concentrate on my recently identified target.
And so I am going to get up early in the morning. Prepare coffee and eggs. Smile and chat frivolously in order to make sure that Y leaves home with a song in his heart. When he decides to leave I am going to kiss him with fervor so that he knows that at home he has a loving wife and that he can go out into the world full of manly confidence. As soon as he is out the door I am going to start fulfilling my chores one after the next with the ability of an apt homemaker. And let me tell you, I am just busy busy busy. I need to: wash the dishes, call the guy from the air conditioner company, start working on dinner, send Y’s shirts to the dry cleaners, clean the leaves off of the balcony, work on the menu for the dinner party which I have planned for the weekend to which I invited Y’s boss and his wife – this is making me kind of nervous, I hear her canard a l’orange is unheard of. After that I have to go buy a beer keg for Y’s Thursday poker night as well as flour for the home-baked nachos I am going to prepare for the guys (yummy!). I have to get all that finished before my wax, nails and hairdresser appointment at 5PM. That will probably take me around two hours. Just enough time to get home for setting the table and doing the final stage of my Beef wellington before Y gets home famished as usual.
I have to stop now. Y just told me – very authoritatevly I might add – to get back to my studies. Gotta go now – you understand…
So we came back from the land of milk and honey bearing it's best fruits: Bamba and Halva.
Y sought to inculcate his co-workers on the food culture of the promised land. So over violent contestations from my end he whisked both packages of Halva and the three bags of bamba and embarked on his daily peregrination over bridges and through hay fields, hills, waste pools, outdoor malls.
Three days in, the Halva was affronted to the point it became gray. Nobody touched it. I rejoiced over the prospect of having it back and did not care so much to understand the reasons for the rejection. Y on the otherhand was mightily perplexed. He sought to decipher the reasons for this lack of interest.
By now you are probably biting your nails, waiting for the key to this mystery and so I'll share it with you: They thought it was chicken.
