A few people have gently pointed out the blatant heterosexism in the title of the the first part of this post I wrote last week. I would hope that anyone who regularly reads here would know that I am not a trash talker, but really a neurotic little fool who doesn't want to pick any fights with anyone. Really.
But still, it would be understandable that someone could take the title of that post as a sign of heterosexism, not to mention a sign of my general ignorance that there are people who read here who are single, and/or have not a husband, but a wife, be they male or female themselves. I was just posing as a thug for the humour of the moment, in the same way that my "Blog Blah" post wasn't a signal of encroaching malaise or anger, but just a silly and obviously misfired attempt at a satire of the sameness of what I think I sound like sometimes. The word "husband" fails as a metaphor kind of like the way
"man" used to also mean "woman" before the marginal enlightenment of
inclusive language in the 70's. No excuse there. So let me take this moment to apologize to my single friends, my gay, bi, lesbian, and poly friends, and to anyone out there without a domestic partner(s) to shine a candle to mine. How narrow of me. I am sorry.
By way of an apology, I am about to share a dirty little secret about the guy, as wonderful as he is.
It's nice, isn't it that he bought me a wheel, and gave me a carder for christmas last year, and admires my work and makes me dinner? But I think it's all powered by a funny little engine called guilt.
"What?" you say. "Guilt about what? Please don't tell me," you say assuming the worst, "that he cheated on you!"
No, not that.
"He ate your chocolate?"
"He hates your dog?"
Well, that's true, but he has a clear conscience about that one. It's the stash.
"He ate your stash?"
No. Not exactly. He has one of his own.
And it's bigger than mine. It's so big that the room he keeps it in, nay, the TWO rooms he keeps it in probably exerts enough mass to make Ford 250s passing by our house drive off the road. I know he certainly has a hard time escaping the gravitational pull of his stash room. He disappears into that place at least once a day, and no urgent phone call, no shrieking child, no crash and tinkle of china from his side of the family can bring him running.
He collects audio gear. From the vacuum tube era. Army surplus and West*rn Electric (google evasion maneuver there, sorry. There are people trolling for such things). He collects speakers. Giant refrigerator sized speakers. 35 of them when we moved in here. I've lost track of how many so I don't know if there are more or less because he's taken to hiding them in the garage.
Oscilloscopes. He owns eleven oscilloscopes.
He has crates of capacitors. Tons of transformers. And tubes? Enough tubes to support the entire post-apocalyptic military complex should an atom bomb wipe the digital landscape clean.
He defends the collection with the someday proposition. "But I might need it someday." You knitters might be familiar with that one. But at the rate be builds things, he would have to live to be 500 years old to use half of the stash. I think his SABLE quotient is of Methuselan proportions.
So he compensates in this domestic situation by enabling my fiber pursuits. It can't be an unreasonable collection if mine approaches his in bulk, right?
I love the guy. But eleven oscilloscopes?
::eyes rolling to the sky:: Men!