We quickly settled into a routine. Sheryl would wake up around five in the morning and start my breakfast. When it was nearly ready she would wake me with a kiss. I would stroll into the kitchen and there on the table would be my coffee and the newspaper separated into sections; comics on top, front section next followed by the local section and the editorials. As I scanned the comics she would set my breakfast in front of me.
After breakfast I would finish any schoolwork I had before heading out to ride. She would clean the apartment.
Now this was a set up I could deal with!
Don’t get the idea that it was all one way.
She was a damn good worker, and was soon the flower garden specialist. She knew the difference between a weed and a flower. The flowers she planted lived. Few of the average landscapers could truthfully make that claim.
She worked days, and I went to school for a few hours every couple nights. I was glad she was working and enjoying her job, so I made it as easy as possible for her. I had plenty of spare time to do things for her.
I would wake up early and put the coffee on before waking Sheryl with a kiss. When she came into the dining room I would have her breakfast ready. This was nothing more than what Sheryl did for me before she started working. All's fair.
After she was ready we would get on the Harley and ride to work before heading out for my day's routine. I would stop at the grocery store then go home and do the housecleaning and laundry while fixing dinner. Dinner went into the fridge and I would head to the bar to shoot pool and drink beer while watching the dancing girls. I would then pick her up from work and we'd head home. I'd finish dinner in short order and when finished give her a massage and draw her bath before taking an hour or so for study.
The dinners I made weren't hot dogs or hamburgers. I made good stuff and occasionally a gourmet dinner. One night a girlfriend of hers dropped by for dinner and was impressed with my Turkey tetrazini. We soon had people inviting themselves over for dinner on a regular basis.
It only took her a couple days to tell me, “I love you”. It scared the hell out of me. I could not say it to her, because I took that phrase very seriously. I would not say it if I did not mean it.
A few weeks after we got together her daughter joined us, having been staying with an aunt. Jennifer was thirteen going on twenty-five. Very attractive, very spoiled and with absolutely no discipline. We did not hit it off very well when she realized I wasn’t a push over. I thought that thirteen-year-olds should actually do some schoolwork, hell – I thought she should go to school - and be home at a decent time in the evening. Our relationship was not a good father-daughter one but more of a spoiled-step child, wicked-step father type of relationship. I laid down a few simple rules and tried to make her follow them. She used every bit of her intelligence to get away with breaking them. She was seldom successful, not believing that I was actually young once myself and had tried the same tricks when I was a kid.
It took a couple months for me to finally realize that I did in fact love Sheryl. Realization came around two in the morning. I woke her up to tell her.
Soon we were both in tears of joy. She called her sister in Kentucky to tell her.
They often talked on the phone – usually it was her sister calling to complain about her new life. She had fallen in love with a man who claimed to be a wealthy landowner.
He was a landowner – he owned a pig farm.
He was wealthy – compared to his neighbors.
Sharon was not a farm girl. She was a city girl. She did not like slopping hogs early in the morning. She didn’t like hogs, or live chickens, or farm dogs, or farms, or being stuck way out in the country. Often when she called Sheryl and I would be making love. Some people thought that was all we did – but that wasn’t true. We only did it about three or four hours a few times a day. Everyone needs a hobby.
Sharon would call. I would answer the bedside phone and hand it to Sheryl, and she would try to talk and not have orgasms at the same time.
Not possible.
We were both completely and totally in love.
My marriage proposal to Sheryl wasn't exactly traditional. I didn't buy her an engagement ring and propose on my knees.
She was quite content simply to live with me forever as she had a bad opinion of marriage. It was a great way to break up a good friendship. All of her married friends had regular fights and arguments – she didn't want that to happen to us. She also didn't believe that I really wanted her to stay forever. I had decided that I did want this to be a "forever" relationship, and marriage would be a good start in ensuring it. It would also make her eligible to share my medical benefits and increase my VA educational stipend.
I would jokingly mention marriage and she would laugh it off. I would come right out and tell her we should get married and she would go into her rant about the evils of marriage. Finally I had had enough. I wanted to marry her, and I knew she wanted it too but would loathe to admit it. She needed some persuasion.
I was persuasive.
One day early in January 1988 I stood behind her in the kitchen and proposed again. I put an arm block on her throat, pointed to the calendar and demanded she pick a date for our wedding. She was stunned. I watched her face, if it looked as if she really didn't want to marry I would forget about it for a year or so. Her face showed nothing but pure joy – with just a tinge of apprehension. Once again I told her to pick a date, she suggested next Christmas. I replied it would have to be a date on that calendar page and she picked the last workday of the month – we were married on the 29th of January 1988.
Sheryl brought very little with her. A couple days after moving in she retrieved her little dog – a longhaired Dachshund. She loved that little dog. That little dog loved me.
When she first brought the dog – Cassidy – home, he immediately ran to me, wagged his tail and adopted me. Anytime Sheryl showed any hostility toward me Cassidy would jump between us, bare his teeth, and defend me. Pissed Sheryl off at times.
This was indeed a strange and unusual looking dog. It was a Dachshund – long with little stubby legs – but it also had very long silky hair. One day while she was walking him, a neighbor asked what kind of a dog it was. Sheryl had a buzz, and had tired of the almost constant questions about it.
“It’s a Short Legged Irish Setter, you haven’t heard about them”? Soon it was all over the neighborhood about the rare “Short Legged Irish Setter”.
I also had pets, and was heavy into aquariums when we first got together. One of these was a large 55-gallon tank with three sharks ranging in size from about 8" to a foot. They were very aggressive, and had some very sharp teeth. Any time I had to clean the bottom, I used an extension on the underwater vacuum and a long handled scoop net.
My eyes had been going bad - cataracts on both of them - and I had a hard time seeing the bottom. One of the filter intake covers came off during cleaning, and as it was clear plastic I could not see it. I asked Sheryl to retrieve it for me. I went to the kitchen for a Budweiser. I heard a scream. I ran back to the living room. - Sheryl had used her hand, not the scoop net. The large shark was hanging from her arm, about 6 inches above the water. I told her to shake it off, and the fish fell. It left a good size scar, and she no longer had anything to do with the aquariums.
She was actually quite proud of the scar. She would show it off at every opportunity, and talk about the "shark attack" in the living room.
I also had a parrot named “Bird.” It was jealous of Sheryl, and would show it at every opportunity for several weeks.
Then he became Sheryl’s bird. One day when he was pissed at me for raising my voice at Sheryl he decided to attack. He was sitting on the curtain rod when I entered the bedroom. Suddenly he flew at me, talons outstretched.
I turned out the light and moved aside.
Bird slammed into the wall. I turned the light back on, and he was on the floor shaking it off.
He flew back to the curtain rod. He once again came at me in attack mode.
Again I killed the light and moved.
Again he hit the wall.
Sheryl heard the noise and came to see what was going on. She saw Bird attack. She saw me kill the light. She saw Bird slam the wall.
She picked him up to soothe him, and he nuzzled up to her neck.
I did find a way to make some extra money now and then. Several of the dancers at the bar sold mild cheesecake pictures to customers for five bucks apiece. I would take the pictures for some of them.
A very attractive young woman would show up at our door with a suitcase packed with costumes. Sheryl would walk outside if I took the pictures at home – and take any of her neighborhood girl friends that might be there with her. She knew that if they stayed to watch it would make the dancer nervous. At first her friends expressed shock that Sheryl would actually allow me to take pictures (unsupervised!) of scantily clad pretty ladies. They were even more shocked if I left with them for a location shoot.
Most couples seem to think in terms of “ownership” rather than “friendship” when it comes to relationships.
The women would strip and change into costume, G-string and pasties or bikinis and I would pose them, joke if I wanted them to smile or snap and snarl at them if I wanted a different look. When the session was over they’d give me money and take the film roles with them.
It worked out pretty good for everyone involved.
There was a time when both Sheryl and I enjoyed getting loaded at the local bar. Let me rephrase that; my wife got loaded, I was always the designated driver. Boy did she get loaded.
It was about 10:00PM. We finally left the bar after spending the last twelve hours shooting pool and socializing - and drinking. My dear ol’ Lady was plowed. I helped her out to the bike - a nice big stable Harley Davidson prototype FXRT. I backed it into the parking lot so she could climb aboard, blocking traffic trying to enter. Sheryl placed her foot on the peg, swung her other leg over the saddle - and bounced off to land on her butt on the other side. She got up and tried again. Foot on peg, swing leg over, hit seat - bounce over, land on ground. Now traffic is backing up, customers look irate, I snarl, and she tries again. She bounces over again. She finally concedes she might need a little help. The bros set her on the saddle and tie her down with bungi cords. Homeward bound at last!
We only had two fights in our nearly fourteen years together, and considering our backgrounds that’s a pretty good record.
We had been to the neighborhood bar for a night of drinking, pool shooting, and convivial fun. We returned home (easy walking distance) with a dozen friends. One of the women asked if I could print out the paper that I had written for my psychopharmacology class dealing with the effects of marijuana. We went into the bedroom, fired up the Commodore computer, and printed it out. We returned to the kitchen in less than five minutes.
Sheryl went off.
“You Son of a Bitch!”
“What”
“You know!”
“No, I don’t! What is it?”
She swung and missed, ending on the floor. Sheryl was very drunk. I helped her up.
“As soon as we get home you leave me and run to the bedroom with her!”
“Honey, she wanted a paper I wrote.
“You son of a bitch!”
Another swing, another miss. I help her up from the floor. I decide we should go outside where the grass is softer than the floor. I make the mistake of thinking I could explain what happened. I made the mistake of leaning against a brick wall. She swings again, I dodge, and she punches the bricks. I move out to the middle of the grass, away from anything she could hit. Sheryl charges. Sheryl swings. I dodge. Sheryl misses again and follows her fist into the ground. This is repeated a few more times. Each time I help her to her feet.
“Damn it! Hold still so I can hit you!”
Yea, right. I’ve seen her win fights with grown men when sober. She currently worked in landscaping and had worked construction. I know how hard she can hit. She doesn’t fight “like a woman”. Her brother taught her how to fight. She tried a few more times and was finally worn out. I picked her up and carried her to bed, telling her I loved her. She passed out, and I rejoined the party.
The other fight started at a party. There were about a dozen couples in attendance, and after a time it separated into two parties; the men gathered around one end of the pool, and the women on the deck near the hot tub. I was kicked back in a recliner enjoying the moment. Every time my beer would near “empty”, Sheryl would magically appear with a full one. Most of the men commented on it, and I would reply that I treated her right and we loved each other. They didn’t seem to notice – or care - that I had served her dinner from the grill so she wouldn’t have to stand in line and fight the crowd. The women however, did take notice. This had unintended consequences later.
It seems that after everyone went home we were the main topic of conversation. The men wanted service, “Get me a beer woman! Sheryl does it for Scotty”. The women wanted service, “Fix my dinner! Scotty does it for Sheryl”. The arguments started. It was all our fault.
The next party had an “interesting” segment. When the men and women separated, the women physically dragged Sheryl to the kitchen. She wanted to stay outside with me, but …
Several men asked why I waited on her. I simply said, “Why not? She waits on me.” That was enough for them and everything was settled amongst the guys. Not so with the women.
They wanted Sheryl to “stop waiting on him hand and foot”. They failed to see that it was a reciprocal servitude. Their conversation then turned to what a wonderful husband Sheryl had, how envious they were, and what uncouth barbarians they had. Sheryl always hated to hear other women talk about my better qualities; it would make her feel they might try to steal me away. It seems the conversation stayed on the topic of “My old man is meaner than your old man”. Sheryl was left out of the conversation. She had absolutely no complaints. She became determined to change that, and started on the way home.
“You ride too fast” “It’s cold” “I’m hungry” (she just ate!)
When we got home she kept it up. Everything she could think of to bitch about, she did. No sex that night either. She was mad at me, and if I couldn’t figure out why then I must be the dumbest man on Earth.
The next day it was the same, and the next and the next and the next. I could not figure out what was going on, I didn’t have a clue at the time. It finally came to a head on the sixth day. It was chilly and raining. Sheryl wanted a sub sandwich. She had to have it right now. I carefully wrote down exactly what she wanted and what shop it had to be from. I rode out into the cold and rain to get the exact sub that my love wanted. I blew off red lights to get it as fast as possible. I ran into the apartment, unwrapped it and put it on a plate. I handed it to her. She took a bite.
“I don’t want this thing, it’s not what I asked for.” She threw it at me. She smiled. I did a not-so-slow burn. She stood up and said, “Go ahead and hit me! I dare you! You’re a wimp! Go ahead and hit me!”
I did. I slapped her with my open hand on her lower jaw. I then turned around, grabbed my broken hand and went to the bedroom. Damn that woman has a strong jaw! Must be the Indian in her.
Sheryl immediately grabbed the phone and called her girlfriends to tell them that I had hit her. I wasn’t the “wonderful husband” they thought I was!
I listened on the extension.
She did not get the reaction she expected. Not one bit of sympathy! Every one of them cussed her out and demanded to know what she had done to make me lose control. She told them, and they chewed her out some more.
That night Sheryl apologized profusely. The next day people called me to offer their services. Men and women offering to use a baseball bat on her if she ever did it again. I turned down all offers, as I knew it would never happen again, and it didn’t. She accepted the fact that she would have to hear other women talk about how great I was, and that she could never join the bitch sessions.
A special note: Sheryl had a very small bruise on her jaw, I had a broken hand. We both learned a lesson.
One of the reasons we seldom had any conflicts between us is that we had no “ownership” ties on each other. No jealousy, no control. A fine example:
Sheryl is doing house cleaning; I’m trying to show my appreciation by being affectionate. For some strange reason I find the sight of an attractive woman doing housewify chores a real turnon. All that bending and stretching....
“Honey, I love you.” While giving her a hug and coping a feel.
“Go down to the bar, drink beer, shoot pool, and watch the dancers while I clean!”
“But honey! I want to be with you – let’s make love!”
“Get!”
“Ah, if I have to”.
I was at times a pushover. Sheryl had been bugging me for a while about getting a dog. Not a “real” dog, but just a little apartment sized dog. I had no use for “imitation” dogs. If we were to get a dog it would have to be after we moved to a house with a big fenced in yard, and we would have a “real” dog. It would be a Shepherd or a Rott, you know, a “real” dog.
One of her girl friends came to take her bar hopping one day; I could tell by their demeanor and the time of day – 8 AM - that something was up between them, and they were about to pull a fast one on me. All I could do was wait and see what it was. They were gone several hours.
I am sitting on the patio drinking a beer and listening to Pavarotti when they returned.
“Honey?”
“Yes dear.”
“Could you come in?”
“Yes dear.” Oh boy, here it comes. “Anita! I see you picked up another dog!”
“Well…uh… He’s not mine.”
“Sheryl, I will not have a little imitation dog! And that’s final!”
As if my word was ever final on anything she wanted. She knew what buttons to push; fortunately for me she saved them for “emergencies”, like now.
Anita had taken Sheryl to a friend’s house and showed her this woefully neglected Pomeranian. Its fur was matted, it had bald spots, and its nails were so long they had curled under and the dog could walk only with pain. It had developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder causing it to lick its paws so much the bone was showing. It was a real mess. They took it to a vet when the owner decided she didn’t really want it any more. By the time I saw him, he was pretty well cleaned up but still looked woeful.
I grabbed another beer and gulped a shot of Jack Daniel’s for good measure. I stepped around them and returned to the patio and Pavarotti. I cranked up the volume.
“Honey”
Oh well, it’s time to put my foot down. Sometimes I get my way. I turned around to face the trio.
Anita (wearing a low cut top especially for the occasion, knowing I was a sucker for big breasts) had tears rolling down her cheeks and splashing on her tits. I looked at Sheryl and of course she too was crying. Why do women’s tears have such an effect on men? Is it some exotic chemical? I looked at the little dog. He was sitting up straight, in his best begging position, and he had tears running down his furry little cheeks! Two out of three I might have been able to handle, but the dog was actually crying real tears! That’s the first time I had ever heard of it! I couldn’t hold out.
When Jennifer (Sheryl’ daughter) first moved in with us all we had for her was an empty bedroom – no furniture. I figured she should have some input on that. She told me she wanted a waterbed. I wanted to get off cheap and buy her a day bed, but what the heck – I’ll buy her a waterbed.
“I want to paint the room purple.”
I took this to mean that she wanted to do the actual painting. I asked her to give me an example of the exact color she wanted, and she produced a magazine clipping. I bought the custom mixed paint, rollers, pan and brushes.
A day passed and she was still sleeping on the couch, not even making an effort to paint.
“I don’t know how to paint.”
I showed her how to use the brush and roller.
A couple more days passed, still no work accomplished. She asked when she would get a bed to sleep on.
“After you paint your room.”
“Me?????”
“You said you wanted to paint it.”
Another day passed. Still no paint.
Sheryl and I woke up on a bright sunny Saturday and noticed that Jennifer was already up – at 6 AM. That was very strange. As we were drinking our first cup of coffee she came bounding into the kitchen, looking very excited and actually bubbling over with anticipation.
“Check out my room!”
We did. It was completely painted. I looked the job over with the critical eye of a professional Army Sergeant inspecting the work of a private. It was as near a perfect paint job as I had ever seen. No runs, no misses, no mistakes. Jennifer had reason to be beaming with pride. The waterbed was delivered that day.
