Oh Boy...

Paying the Tax (The Tax Collector) by Pieter Brueghel the Younger (Source)

As many of you know, The Chant is a global enterprise. While the Home Office (no, not that one) is located in Little Rhody in a wee New England town fast by the Bay of Narragansett, we also have branch offices in Texas (the Juvat branch) and in Sandy Eggo (the Tuna branch).

We also have Forward Operating Bases (FOBs) at each of the homes of the progeny, two in California (FOB Bay Area and FOB Lemoore) and another, FOB D.C. in Virginia. Now while I will, from time to time, visit one of the FOBs, mostly it is The Missus Herself who finds herself on the road for two to three months a year. Mostly to FOB Lemoore as both the kids have jobs there, which involve flying and deploying from time to time. Though The WSO's days of aerial activity are winding down, she still must, from time to time, go to work so that the Navy remembers who she is. Long story there for which I have not yet received authorization to tell. I have submitted a chit, but you know how bureaucracies are.

Long story short, (when my old minister used to say that you knew to standby for heavy rolls) The Missus Herself, my better half (both in looks and smarts), the love of my life, and the very reason why I live (I hope she likes all that) is, as you may have guessed, out west visiting The WSO.

Now I must fess up here and now, I do not like being a bachelor. I did that extensively when I was younger and found it most distressing. And no, it wasn't because I had to do my own laundry, though that may have factored in...

I still do not like this bachelor nonsense as I am too old and settled in my ways to go out and about, on the town, running with a fast crowd. Not that I know many in that crowd anymore, like me they have aged and grown respectable. That is, too old to bother with getting in trouble.

So while The Missus Herself is out west, I get to do all the stuff I would take for granted if I were a stupider man. Such as -

• pay the bills
• do laundry
• clean (after a fashion)
• tend to the feline staff
• feed the fish
• water the gardens
• feed myself

And various and sundry other chores about the manse which the wife does with such aplomb. I tell you, she makes it all look so easy and I'm here to tell you, it ain't. Easy that is.

So tonight, rather than entertain you with a long (winded) post grousing about politics, complaining about work, or regaling you with tales from mine own and others' histories, I am stuck doing chores. One I least like and that is,

Paying the Bills

In a traditional Korean household, the wife is responsible for managing the family finances, keeping the budget balanced, paying the bills, and generally ensuring that the heat remains on, the electricity flows, the water is not turned off, and all the various and sundry financial obligations are kept up to date. Now while we are only half of a traditional Korean family (guess which half isn't Korean), we still abide by the rules set by Those In Authority. Yes, that would be my wife, The Missus Herself. She makes the rules and as she also makes me happy, I'm really okay with that. I am the means of production, she controls the means of production. Or something...

As we all know, if such things were left to the XY chromosome types (that is, we men), while there would be plenty of cold pizza in the fridge and a never ending supply of beer in the special beer fridge, there would be sod all else in the house. For we guys, if left to our own devices, would quickly revert to a wild state and would, no doubt, regress to some early Stone Age existence. As long as we still had good Wi-Fi and a quantity of excellent games on our computers.

I speak from experience here. Why, when I was a hotel dweller for four days of every seven, The Missus Herself was explaining to the feminine progeny how their Dad (Yours Truly) was starting to get pretty independent and had, shudder, actually "talked back" once or twice. The Nuke instantly realized the problem. Not The WSO, mind you, for she is too much like her old man to complain about such things, in fact, she encourages my behavior more than her Mother cares for.

Anyhoo, The Nuke pointed out that I had probably gone "feral" and needed to be re-socialized upon returning home every weekend. By being made to do yard work and other chores. That would keep me domesticated and thriving, even when let off the leash when heading back to the road for to work in far flung locations in my employer's global enterprise. (Okay, so I was just going to Massachusetts, a scant 100 miles away.)

It worked, but when she goes out west, the call of the wild reasserts itself and I yearn to do as little as possible. At least until I run out of clean underwear.

I like it when my wife takes care of me. I truly am hopeless on my own. Not that I'd starve or anything but...

I'm not saying this is me, not saying it isn't either... (Source)

Now if you'll excuse me, I really must go pay a few of those pesky bills.