The Horror of Husbands...

I'm sure that somewhere or other a term has been invented that describes the feeling of absolute horror and disgust that is generated when one finds himself trapped in a sequence of events related to a recurring theme. "Ground Hog Day" doesn't seem to fit this particular circumstance. If anyone is familiar with that term, please e-mail me. I need it.

We are about to delve into the subject of husbands.

I do not do this willingly, but the events of this week - to date, for the week is not quite finished and who knows what other form of husband-based terrorism is still to come my way? -- compel me to discuss them. Because Karma, The Fates, Ill-Fortune, Kismet, Providence, what have you, have decided that it is time to torture me with women speaking of their husbands.

The names will be changed to protect the guilty.

This is partially my fault. For despite the invective spewed upon this page, Your Overlord can be a kindly and generous soul. You wouldn't think so, but it is true. People believe that I am a sympathetic ear, and I have had complete strangers just suddenly open up and tell me their entire life story on little more basis than "you seem like an understanding sort".

Children, for instance, trust me nearly on sight. Even the most sullen, stubborn, and unfriendly child cannot resist my charms, and considering my fondness for the Little Ones, it's hardly surprising. Put me in a room with a child and within minutes we will have become best buds. I take the time to listen to them, to play games with them, and they don't see me as threatening in any way whatsoever despite my size and grumpy demeanor.

I often joke with Mrs. Overlord -- who has herself witnessed the phenomenon up close on multiple occasions -- the whatever else I might be, I will always be loved by children, dogs, and old ladies. And She agrees. She says I'm charming....when I want to be.

Women, especially, are easily drawn to me in this fashion. "You're such a good listener". I've heard this so many times I want to puke. Sometimes I do listen, but I often have the ability to feign interest in you physically while mentally I'm wondering what it would be like to bone your sister, reciting batting averages in my head, or trying to understand the mysteries of life, like why someone shot John Lennon five times but never even aimed at fucking Yoko.

My mother tells the story of her believing that I was deaf as a child, only to be told by the doctor who examined me "No, he hears everything you're saying, he's just tuning you out.".

I wish I still possessed this ability, sometimes. It seems I still have it intermittently, but I would really like to be able to turn it on and off, as needed.

Anyway, one consequence of this approachability, this magnetic charm (snort!) of mine, is that people will often tell me things they wouldn't ordinarily say to someone else, and often feel free to volunteer extremely personal information to my confidence. Complete strangers have done this often, too. Sometimes, it's just because they need a sympathetic ear and I appear to be one, or sometimes it's because they believe they will get an objective opinion when they ask for one.

Whatever it is, I wish I knew how to turn it off. Especially on the subject of husbands, for the women in my life have all decided, in the same week, to torment me with their husbands.

I will begin with Mrs. Overlord, herself.

Although I refer to her as "Mrs. Overlord" we're not married. I have never been married (growing up in a household with a twice-divorced mother will do that to you), although Mrs. Overlord was. For 15 years. She was widowed six years ago, which is when we -- who had been something more than sweethearts as teenagers -- found one another again. At the time, her loss was still fairly recent, and the rules of common decency and respect told me that whenever she referred to her deceased husband that what was required was patience and understanding. She was still grieving.

But I think I may have been too patient, for the references to the late husband never really ceased. In fact, they occur on a daily basis, for Mrs. Overlord has a mind that operates -- and I use this in a loving way -- like the automatic door at the supermarket; it continuously opens and closes by an unseen method and what goes into it or comes out of it is a fucking crapshoot.

I live in dread of the words"One time..." and "I remember when..." triggered by who-knows-what-stimulus -- it can be a passing reference made during a television commercial, a song that comes over the radio, a clue on Jeopardy -- that begins the interminable monologue that eventually (for Mrs. Overlord is both a motormouth and a Mistress of Digression) ends at the same subject: Her Late Husband, and I must sit through another retelling of "that time when....".

Mrs. Overlord is a wonderful lady, but she needs some new material because I've heard it all at least 15 times, and she seems oblivious to the rolling eyes, the skyward glances, the pantomime of me loading a pistol and shooting myself. She loves to talk (show me a woman who doesn't?) and once the snowball of nostalgia, her favorite subject, starts rolling downhill there is nothing that can stop it.

I have tried to be polite; I have tried to be patient; I have tried to be sympathetic, but six years of listening to her -- on a daily basis -- extol the virtues of her late husband and regale me with the history of their marriage eventually became too much, and it was time to say it.

"Could you please stop? Is there some way you could find it in your head to stop torturing me with his memory? Could you probably go to therapy? And maybe take his pictures off the wall, already, and move forward with your life instead of living in the past?"

Mrs. Overlord agrees, and has at least decided to try to be more considerate.

Past experience tells me she will not be successful.

I may have to start drinking again.

As if this was not bad enough, My Mother has to get in on the act. Earlier this week, she told me of a friend of her's, recently widowed (oh, fuck no!), who was having trouble making sense of all the legalese and financial flotsam and jetsam that follows in the wake of someone's passing on. Your Overlord, in his former lives, worked for many years in the financial industry (and learned a thing or two) and is a licensed Life and Health Insurance Salesman (one of my sideshows), and would I please help the poor woman out?

This led to a two hour phone conversation in which the poor lady regaled me with the entire miniseries of her 46 year marriage, paeans to the deceased, etc., etc. Again, patience and respect compel me not to say what I'd really like to, which is "Lady, find a grief counselor", and so I endure, only to be told that while she needs the help, and indeed, is grateful I called to offer it, she just can't begin the process right now because she needs to tell me the entire story she's told me again, perhaps for emphasis. She'll call me when she's ready.

Fine by me. I have a sneaking suspicion that this future discussion will be about much more than the business at hand and probate law and insurance.

A coincidence. Two widows obsessed with their loss, still thinking of their former husbands. Could happen to anyone, right? Should be over, no?

Fuck no...because last night I had occasion to speak to my best friend in the entire universe about her broken computer (another past life: I am a systems programmer), and what happened? A litany of complaints about her husband of 21 years.

Apparently, the honeymoon is over.

Wow, who could have seen that coming?

I mean, if you did the same thing for 21 years, could you still maintain the same enthusiasm you had on the first day?

But this is my best friend, and I am obligated to offer the shoulder, the ear, and to be honest, she's done the same for me since high school. It's just I knew what was going to be said before it was, and I was right. Suffice to say, the majority of their current issues seem to fall into the categories of "you grow like your dog", "familiarity breeds contempt" and "don't ask me, you fucking married him".

I should be more understanding, but I can't really be helpful having never been married myself.

Three husbands in a week. Phew. Thank Whatever You Hold Holy that's over, right?

Guess again.

For the other constant source of husband-based aggravation in my life showed up this morning; The Housekeeper who is currently involved in attempting to obtain a divorce from an unfaithful spouse of the lowest quality (the guy truly is a dirtbag), and poor Housekeeper is one of those human beings which defies biological classification: she walks upright like a biped, but she lacks a spine, like the typical invertebrate.

What makes this torment especially fiendish is that she feels she can come to me for advice, and worse, does so in broken, heavily-accented English -- assuming you can understand anything through the crying and wailing.

Suffice to say, that foreign men of a certain Southwest Asian extraction have a skewed view of the West, in general, and America, in particular. Since their introduction to American Life most likely came from television shows and movies they come here with the expectation that the Streets Are Paved With Blowjobs, and since they come from cultures in which respect for women and especially one's wife (or wives) is hardly a consideration for anything, I guess one should not be surprised when a foreigner comes here, manages to both milk the welfare system and work off the books, and suddenly is in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Easy Booty Call For Money, and starts living a double life.

You keep asking me "Why?" and I keep telling you "because he's a degenerate scumbag from an inferior culture who thinks with his dick, released from the sexual repression and taboo of your diseased culture to act out his American Gigolo fantasies. You should divorce him, but make sure you get alimony and child support, and then have his visa revoked" and then she refuses to do any of it, only to have him torment her with Facebook posts of his escapades, slander in the small Community of a Certain Southwest Asian culture in these parts, deny his children, and otherwise find every reason to both delay the inevitable (for financial reasons) and to rub her nose in it all.

And by the way, that wasn't just this morning with the housekeeper...this is every goddamned week. I have to be told the sordid story in this week's episode of "My Fucking Stomach's Turned" before someone cleans my toilet and washes my underwear.

"But you understand everything, and give me good advice (that I never act upon, anyway)", she tells me. In that case, maybe I should stop paying you to mop my floors and start charging you for the therapy sessions?

It's still only Thursday.

And marriage is still looking like a bad bet.