Rhymes, Rants & Accolades from North Central BC

Archive for March, 2018

D.A.R.N.  I.T.


I work as a home support worker which means I do a lot of cooking and cleaning, something like what I hate to do most in my own home–housework. But in a client’s home it takes on new meaning and importance (Over and above the fact that I get paid). When I first started, the job description was called “homemaker”. But somewhere along the line that became politically incorrect.

It’s funny how perception and attitudes are influenced by words? It seems these words change their meaning as time goes by. Take the word “housewife” for example: Yucky. We assume the poor woman is stuck in a one-sided relationship with a big dumb husband who doesn’t appreciate her. If they have children, she is a mother which is not necessarily a good word anymore either.

We need to invent new words to perk up old jobs and responsibilities. Mothers could call themselves Child Care Givers. (An actual job position that you get paid for whenthey’re not your kids.)

Now what about men? They are also judged by the labels for what they do, or don’t do. Someone told us the story of the two little boys discussing their fathers’ occupations, back when Endako Mines was the largest employer in the Fraser Lake area. One child gushed about how his dad operated a big piece of equipment at the mine. Finally, he asked his companion what his dad did. The lad looked at his feet in embarrassment and blurted out, “My dad’s just a logger…”

I don’t know what the status of loggers is nowadays, but the fact that they are working at all should give them some points.

What about the poor sucker who doesn’t have a job? In our society he’s about equal to the untouchables in India. If he is on Employment Insurance, he’s considered to be looking for work. And if he works in the bush, that’s definitely “okay” because he’ll be back hocking his power saw or driving his feller buncher after break-up. But in some circles those who are on Employment Insurance are viewed as “digging from the public trough”. (Recipients skulk down alleys or cut across streets to avoid more privileged folk.)

When the Employment Insurance stamps run out (or whatever they call it nowadays when your assets become 100% less than your liabilities) the recipient is forced to go on Social Assistance. Then he is really in trouble—both socially and financially. The rest of us are allowed to kick sand in his face (so to speak). If he once skulked down alleys while he was on E.I. he now crawls on hands and knees clutching his Social Assistance cheque!

It is time to call this human condition whereby a man (or woman if she is the principal wage earner in the family) has reached rock bottom financially, by a new label. We already have something called G.A.I.N., which is short for Guaranteed Annual…(something or other?). Why not refer to Social Assistance cheques as  D.A.R.N.  I.T. (Short for: Did all right. Now in trouble.)

Perhaps that’s the sort of label needed to identify those of us who are down on their luck.


1990s – 2000 Sense and Nonsense

“What we need around here is a mouse-eating cat,” my husband stated after inspecting the un-sprung trap that he had set out before going to bed the previous evening. Our resident mouse had once again slipped past the trap’s deadly prong, managing to slurp up every vestige of the peanut butter bait. The night before the delicacy had been cheese that he, or as I suspected, “she” had dined upon. And before that it had been bacon bits. Our wily rodent would probably live forever, unless it developed a cholesterol problem.

Our youngest daughter had been clamoring for a kitten for some time. The problem was our big dog liked cats too–too much. If we got one, she would probably chase it through all nine of its lives before we could convince her that it was part of the family. Any cat of ours would have to remain an inside cat. The outside was the dog’s domain.

One morning I listened to the radio and sure enough, there was a listing on the Trade-eo program for a kitten “to give away” in Fraser Lake. My ten year old and I drove into town to pick up the tiniest, wimpyist-looking feline that ever lived long enough to be weaned and taken from its mother. Ithought that our Super Mouse (I saw her once and she WAS big) could easily have dragged that spindly hunk of yellow fur by the scruff of its neck and drowned it in the toilet bowl.

But “Murphy” did not stay small for long. Our daughter looked after the fragile-looking creature, feeding it the finest of fare and smothering it was love. He grew up to be big and tough to match his name, and one day left home in order to conquer the world. He never returned.

But Murphy had done his duty. Our log house was now officially mouse-free. If we spied pepper flakes on the counter we knew them to be from the shaker, not from a warmer, more animated source. Secretly though, I sometimes wondered about the mouse that was. The glimpse I’d had of her reminded me of the fatter of the two cute mice featured

in the Disney cartoon version of Cinderella.  I wondered if, when she (gulp) died, did she leave behind a family? If so, Murphy probably polished them off too.

One day having some time on my hands I composed a poem about our late belated mouse which, in a fit of sentimentality, I had named Minnie. I titled it “The Lifeand Death of Minnie Mouse”. The events described are not necessarily true, but neither can they be proven false:

Deep within the tunneled woodwork
Of an old but sturdy house
Behind the kitchen sink and cupboard
Dwells the family of a mouse
Sixteen children and a spouse
Make their home there in that house

Commuting daily ‘cross the carpet
To the stairway in the hall
Beneath the crumbling cement casing
Minnie Mouse works at the mall
In a rodent restaurant small
Below the stairway in the hall

Now she scampers happ’ly homeward
Winding through the mouldering maze
Paycheck clutched tight in her cheekbones
She has finally got a raise
Proud she is and proud displays
As she scurries through the maze

But a lean and hungry house cat
Waits for her upon the stair
When she exits from the mouse hole
He will have his supper there
Later… those of hers who care
Find her paycheck on the stair.



Circa 1900 – 2000 Sense and Nonsense

I just read about a device called an infrared spectrometer that will soon be used to analyze what’s going on inside the human body. We will no longer have to endure  boring, time-consuming (not to mention painful) surgeries for doctors to diagnose what’s not working properly.

A mechanic friend confided that they already have one for cars: “Your ailing automobile can now be scanned electronically, saving you countless hours of costly tinkering.” he told me. Following the scanning process, a computer printout reveals exactly what is wrong with your old clunker.

Our hospitals may soon catch up – diagnostically – to our automobile maintenance shops. We already have the CAT scan, the PET scan and the MIR which can analyze many of our illnesses. Perhaps one day human medical experts will be replaced entirely by electronic gadgetry. I am not sure that I am looking forward to the improvement.

My car and I have both been ill this winter. Each set of symptoms began with the influx of the flu virus, sometime in early December.  Although we both were kept warm and treated with various additives and fluids, we became increasingly hard to start in the mornings, especially when it was cold. We also had a tendency to stall at stop signs, and make strange noises.

Our symptoms became chronic. I was given Advil and anti-histamines; my car received a fuel filter and gas-line antifreeze. We appeared to recover, but not for long. Finally, my husband manoeuvred our snorting, wheezing conveyance forty miles out-of-town to a certified mechanic. Four hours later he paid out 188 dollars for spark plug wires and sundry repairs, plus labour. I manoeuvred my equally ailing body to the medical clinic and following that, the pharmacy, where I paid out a similar sum.

The car made it home all right, but then it really started to complain. I made it home all right too and, according to my husband, never stopped complaining. He thought the car and I were both hypochondriacs.

It was my turn to take the car to the mechanic.  After waiting three and a half hours and having nothing better to do than read the stack of BC Report magazines that were in the show room (I drooled over the new cars from time to time) I was finally told the truth by the hush-voiced service manager. My car was suffering from a malfunctioning throttle positioning sensor. Somehow its memory had become partially erased.  A new one was on order. My car apparently had the mechanical equivalent of Alzheimer disease or a dementia. I surmised that this obscure diagnosis could not have been made without the assistance of modern electronic technology. How I wished I could be hooked up to the wonderful new equipment because I still did not know what it was that was ailing me.

Like my car, I was sent out of town to a specialist. The specialist peered down my throat and threaded flexible wires up my nostrils before pronouncing me free of anything “bad”. He wrote out a total of four prescriptions to combat the various possible causes of my discomfort.

I paced the floor and read the newest issues of BC Report magazine while my car was given two different throttle positioning sensor transplants. It apparently rejected the first one, but seemed docile and obedient after receiving the second. It purred like a kitten all the way home. But when it reached our familiar driveway it quit, panting and wheezing from its efforts.

As it turned out my car needed nothing more complicated than a fuel pump. And the antibiotics and antibacterial medication the specialist gave me didn’t help my symptoms at all. The doctor did give me some Cimitidene though, which I understand is for stomach trouble.

Could it possibly be that I too have a faulty fuel pump?


Circa 1990-2000 Sense and Nonsense- published Tri-Town News

I was down at the Coast during the “big blow” on Easter Sunday 1997. A big wind in the country is merely an interruption between the snow or rain and the ever-popular sunshine. The important thing to remember is to stay off the lakes in your rowboat or canoe. But a wind storm in an urban setting can be an eerie experience, especially if one is imaginative and spending the night on the Riverview Hospital grounds in Port Coquitlam.

Mental patients, I have found, are like everyone else. Those whom we know and love are just fine. It’s the strangers we have a tendency to mistrust. But when I am anywhere south of Hope or Princeton, I begin to notice that there are a lot more strangers strolling about than there are friends. Many have attributes that would qualify them as being “weird” in downtown Fraser Lake. (Simply not wearing parkas and winter boots in April would do that!)

When the sun goes down in the city I never know what to do with my purse. Draping its strap across the opposite shoulder used to deter snatchers, but now I hear that is not enough. Seasoned crooks merely cut the strap and run. Even though it contains nothing more valuable than Kleenex and an occasional cough drop, I clutch mine closely to my bosom. Holding my head up I stride confidently, gazing neither left nor right, hoping to create the illusion that I am armed with a lethal weapon or at the very least have a black belt or better in karate.

Cottage 119 at Riverview is for patients’ family members to stay when they are visiting. Conveniently, it was right around the corner from where my son resided. At five-thirty

on Easter Sunday, Bruce and I were finishing dinner when there came a tremendous burst of wind, followed by a high volume of screeching and wailing sounds from somewhere outside the building. The creaking of branches from nearby trees, as they gnashed and rubbed together, completed the symphony.

Each succeeding gust of wind produced more banshee-like shrieks that pierced the air above the droning sounds of traffic on the nearby highway. These high pitched sounds were not unique to the Riverview area. Later that evening my daughter phoned and said the same eerie noises emanated from outside her in-law’s home several miles away. The hydro was off over there, she stated, which made things even spookier.

She wondered if her not-very-courageous, nervous and overly-imaginative mother was up to handling the situation. I assured her that in the event of a power failure, my finger was poised to dial the telephone for a taxicab. Bruce had to leave at 9 P.M. If I was alone in the dark at that time, I was out of there!

Bruce and I discussed the history of the large tract of land known as Riverview. We agreed that the lush grounds would be a wonderful place to live, if one were considered “sane” and did not have to be there. There has been a concerted effort afoot by entrepreneurs to get their hands on the valuable piece of real estate, and build condos and monster homes upon it. That hope is not being shared by mental health advocates and promoters of Hollywood North.

People in the film industry are often seen skulking and lurking in and around thearchitecturally – pleasing old buildings. I have noticed that mental patients are usually pretty laid back. Chances are if a really weird character was spotted on the Riverview grounds, it would be a movie or television star and not a resident.

There are many beautiful trees on the Riverview grounds, most of which shed their foliage in great heaps in the fall. Now outside our window, we could see these wrinkled pieces of brown parchment, the corpses of last year’s beautiful leaves, begin to rise and dart erratically up into the darkening sky like flocks of small, hungry bats. The scene was more reminiscent of Halloween than Easter.

My son was now mentally stable. I could tell because his sense of humour was evident. He had mentioned that there was an historic graveyard located a short distance from the cottage. Just then a gust of wind blew up, setting in motion whatever it was that caused the shrieking noises.

“Perhaps it’s the ghosts of long dead mental patients,” Bruce suggested with a grin. I was not amused.


1979 Sense and Nonsense

Lately I have been into collecting news oddities. This week I would like to share some of the recent absurdities that have me firmly convinced that “People arc the strangest of chickens”. That quote I believe is from Daffy Duck – or was it Reginald Rooster?

  • The death of Pegleg the Monkeyman: Pegleg panhandled for years in a Washington park for nickels and dimes. Upon his death it was discovered that he was far from poor. He held over 300,000 dollars worth of lucrative stocks, as well as a large investment in a thriving topless restaurant business. In his later years he had confined his begging to the warmer months of the year. During the off-season he had resided at his palatial mansion in Pensacola, Florida.
  • The couple in the Stales who are compatible about one thing – they both want a sex change: She wants to be a “he ” and he wants to become a “she “.
  • God is now legally a person: The R.C.M.P. inadvertently overheard an accused person’s voice through a microphone. He was heard to say “Please God. let me get away with it just this once!” The statement was ruled to be inadmissible in court. It was a private conversation protected by the Canadian Criminal Code, and should not have been intercepted by police without judicial authority. The man’s prayer was answered, and he was subsequently acquitted.
  • The problem of Shelley Ball, Edmonton murderess, who was originally “Sheldon” Ball of Chilliwack, B.C.: The judge ruled his hormone treatment continue in jail, and that the federal government pay for the surgical operations necessary to transform the still-mostly-male Ball, to a woman. What to do with the semi-lady after complete transformation? Ball had worked as a female prostitute, and according to newsmagazine reports was “getting along fine” in an all male penitentiary. Would Ms. Ball get along as well in Kingston, the only jail in Canada for long term female prisoners?
  • The lady who fell out of her hotel window: (I’m not sure whether or not she survived) Her husband explained that she had been bouncing on the waterbed and bounced right out the window!
  • Finally, the story from Britain about the man in a raincoat: The man had devised a truly effective method of extracting money from tardy bill-payers. He had aged the entrails of animals, their hearts, livers, kidneys etc. until they became rank. From this he had extracted “a very smelly mixture” which he carefully permeated his overcoat with. He would enter the sometimes plush offices of delinquent debtors wearing the malodorous apparel. The offenders would usually “pay up” in record time! Someone finally decided that the smell was so bad it had to be a crime and the police were called in. The police confiscated his overcoat.



Nov 6, 1980  Sense and Nonsense

There is often a bit of humour in even the most serious statements uttered by seemingly earnest individuals. The English language is a natural vehicle for expressing ambiguous opinions and phraseologies.

How about the silver-penned newsman who reported on the spectacular rescue of six American ambassadors from Iran last year? His … “They escaped, disguised as Canadians” has to be one of the most unforgettable quotes of the year!

When the Russian invasion of Afghanistan was front page news, some American liquor vendors were filmed patriotically pouring Russian vodka by the bottle-full down the drains. One onlooker was aghast. He prayerfully blurted out, “God, I hope we never go to war with Scotland!”

Our usually eloquent weatherman on a local radio station was caught with his predictions “up” and the mercury “down” one frigid January morning. I heard him mutter his excuses. …”Just a small high this time…” followed by a confused and barely audible. “An absence of heat did it.”

Even the R.C.M.P. is not above issuing confusing statements. (Confusing to the layman anyway) After a prisoner escaped from jail the following warning was broadcast on the radio: “He is not considered dangerous but should be approached with caution.” (I suppose in police terminology, “approach” isn’t a casual word?)

Perhaps the receiving apparatus in my mind is faulty but I giggle every time I hear the Red Cross announcing to the public that “over half of your heat loss is through your head!”

Our daughter and her husband live on some property which, until recently, was one in a series of lakeside tourist facilities. I was once asked directions to their home by some people who were vaguely familiar with the area. I have difficulty being explicit when it comes to giving directions.

I often envy those born and raised on the prairies. Prairie people nonchalantly use words like “northeast”, “south” and “west” and they always seem to know exactly where those directions lie. I use phrases such as “down the road a piece” and “turn left, right past the cattle guard”.

As usual I thoroughly confused my inquirers. I did however impart some pertinent (though unfair) information.

“You’ve been past their place before,” I advised. “It’s the second to last resort.”


1976 Sense and Nonsense

Weddings are fun. They are also a big hassle for almost everyone involved. I know one mother who sewed every stitch for the girls in her daughter’s wedding party. She was still sewing madly a few hours before the wedding was supposed to begin. When I commented that she was working herself into a nervous breakdown, she answered,

“No, I just haven’t got the time”. “I may have one tomorrow though”, she added hopefully.

Weddings are also a time of last minute calamities. No wedding is complete without one. At one wedding the little boy who was supposed to be the ring bearer, refused to go down the aisle. Later the little fellow admitted he thought he had to be a ring “bear” and he didn’t like bears at all.

I have always had trouble arriving at a wedding on time. Even if the church happens to be across the street, something always comes up to delay our departure. I have often considered renting a pew for a week or so before the big day.

Recently we attended a wedding in Calgary. We left home with the idea of shopping and visiting in Edmonton with plenty of time left over to leisurely drive the rest of the way on the day of the wedding. It didn’t happen that way at all. The first thing we discovered was that a tourist town which does a thriving gas pump business in the summer months is very reluctant to sell that same gas this time of year. It can be disconcerting when your gas gauge reads “empty” to drive past dozens of unlighted service stations. It can be even more disconcerting to find yourself twenty miles down the highway still looking for that mythical gas station. Contrary to rumours, Alberta does have hills steep enough to coast down, but we were unable to find any. We finally found a motel with a set of gas pumps which sold that precious fuel but only during daylight hours. We managed to catch some unexpected sleep.

Only half a day behind schedule we arrived in Edmonton, where we shopped, visited, ate and slept almost simultaneously. The next day, clad in blue jeans and hair-rollers with only a street address for directions we set off for Calgary. We got as far as the car. It was set solidly on only three good tires. A flat tire in B.C. in the country is a relatively simple thing. In Alberta in the city it is a different matter, especially if you have to buy a new one. Every tire store must sell a different size. The people who live there know exactly where to go and that is usually miles away across town.

Two hours later, we sped south breaking even the excessive speed limits allowed out there. A quick phone call from a service station assured us of a pilot car on the outskirts of Calgary. We also changed in the rest rooms which were only slightly larger than the phone booth. Needless to say we and our kindly guide arrived five seconds before confetti throwing time.

When the confetti had settled everyone left for the reception hall which was located on the other side of town. We were left with no guide to follow in an unfamiliar town. The town became less unfamiliar as time went by. We discovered where all the one-way streets were located. They all led in the opposite direction from where we wanted to go.

By a process of elimination, we found a route which finally led us to the reception hall. I have stayed awake nights dreaming up original but useful wedding gifts. They have always been duplicated and this time was no exception. No matter what gizmo we gift-wrap, at least one other person has had the same idea, sometimes even to the gift wrapping paper.

For the next wedding we are going to give money, which may not be original but is always useful. I have often wondered how to gift wrap money. This morning, the idea came to me – buy a childs’ piggy bank and fill it up with quarters. The piggy bank can later be given to the baby, which often happens as a direct result of the wedding. Weddings are fun. However, I have yet to attend one where everything happens on schedule and all the guests arrive on time. I am sure it is the unexpected that helps make them so memorable.


1974-75 Sense and Nonsense

At a recent female gabfest the conversation changed from “what’s the matter with kids today” to “weird things we did when we were children.”

One woman related how she would sometimes make chocolate fudge in her mother’s absense, clean the kitchen thoroughly to destroy the evidence, and stuff the candy in her pockets to eat at her leisure.

I have never in my life been able to make chocolate fudge that I could hide in my pockets. That is, unless I had leak-proof pockets. My fudge has always had the texture of molasses (in August). I used to believe that was because my fudge never passed the “soft ball” test. I have spent hours dropping small amounts of boiling chocolate into cupfuls of cold water. The chocolate is supposed to form a soft ball when it’s the right texture.

There were times when I used up almost every cup in the house (and almost all of the chocolate as well) My fudge never quite attained that hoped for “soft ball stage.”

Most of my life has been spent cooking, mostly for love but sometimes for money. My cookbooks  bear evidence of decades of culinary experiments, many of them successful. I can cook a steak and bake a pie. I have travelled the world in the confines of my own kitchen. All the way from Egg Foo Yonge to Spanish Rice. I faithfully watched The Galloping Gourmet and Madame Benoit when they had TV shows. Once I even bought a Playgirl Magazine because someone recommended the recipes. However, I have yet to find a successful recipe for chocolate fudge.

A few Christmases ago I thought I had the perfect recipe. A friend had made some delicious old fashioned fudge and she gave me the recipe. In my optimistic ignorance I tried to triple the ingredients and make some to send to our parents for Christmas. I boiled the candy mixture in a giant pot, stirring it constantly with a giant spoon. I excitedly allowed a thin brown drop to fall into a cupful of cold water.

Wonder of wonders! It formed a soft brown ball! I could hardly believe it! I had finally passed the “soft ball test”. The rest was easy. I beat in the butter and vanilla and poured the gorgeously gooey mixture into three large pans.

Three hours later the candy was still soft. The children arrived home from school. They sniffed the fudgy air as they entered the house. My oldest daughter spoke sympathetically to her younger sister.

“Poor Mom, she’s trying to make fudge again! It happens every Christmas!”

The fudge eventually made its way into the deep freeze where it finally hardened. The kids happily sucked on “fudge-sickles” for weeks and I baked cakes and tarts to send to our parents for Christmas.

I wish I could make fudge like my daughter did when she was only eight years old. She belonged to Brownies at the time,  and fudge making was one of the tests. This daughter was and still is, a pinch and dab type of cook. Her proportions are governed by instinct, and any resemblance to the measurements measured in the recipe, are purely coincidental. Consequently she is sometimes a brilliant cook. She somehow managed to ignore my screams of “you’re supposed to use an 8 ounce cup!” and “It says a teaspoonful!” to make the most delicious fudge I had ever tasted.

Christmas is approaching and my old fudge-making muscles are twitching. This year I shall ignore them.


Sense and Nonsense: The Endako Mine Strike- 1979

Once upon a time Mother Goose laid an egg
On a hill, near a tiny hamlet which nestled
Beside a beautiful lake. The egg was not golden,
(In fact it was a dirty grey in colour) but the people
Were happy because the egg was valuable,
And this meant prosperity throughout the land.

The hamlet grew until it became known
As an “Instant Town.” The people drove daily
To the hill, to mine the molybdenum
Which was what the egg was made of. They
Worked for a company that knew a good egg
When it saw one. It already had a basket of eggs
From all parts of the world.

One day the workers decided that their share
Of the company egg was too small.
On Valentine’s Day, instead of sending out cards,
They set up pickets.

Jack and Jill worked on the hill,
They’ve not been there for ages,
Jack left town, but Jill’s around,
On strike for higher wages.

The strike which was really a non-strike
Because the company continued to operate,
Went on…..

Placer, Placer, moly reaper,
Had a crew, but couldn’t keep ‘er
It stayed within its pumpkin shell,
And mined its moly very well

The people in the town were no longer happy,
Even those who continued to work were unhappy,
There was bitterness and frustration
Throughout the land.
The small “piece of the egg” still being shipped
Became very valuable.

Little Jack Horner sat in his corner,
Eating his Co-op food pie,
He sat on his bum and felt rather dumb,
As the trucks filled with moly rolled by.

The winter snow melted, spring and summer passed,
And now it was autumn,
Soon it would be winter again,
The people gathered in the town,
Everyone agreed that, “Something should be done.”

Cries of “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,”
Were heard throughout the land
The M.L.A. valiantly jumped over the candlestick,
But the strike went on and on.

And now children, since this is a fairytale,
It MUST have a happy ending,
Therefore I shall invent one and hope it comes true….

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of pie,
Four hundred, eighty miners comin’ through the rye,
Now the strike was over, folks began to sing,
Relatives and neighbors are happy once again!

Note: the strike ended in October 1979





08 04 1977  Sense and Nonsense

Most family magazines seem to have at least one page devoted to I.Q. tests. These tests contain a list of questions for the reader to evaluate his knowledge of, or aptitude for, certain things. Each I.Q. test is related to a topic, whether it be marriage, nutrition, the energy crisis, or some other factor pertaining to space-age living/ The topic I like best is the one relating to marriage. It is also the easiest, as most of the answers are obvious. However to honestly evaluate ones’ aptitude for this oldest of institutions, one must select the answer which most closely resembles one’s own reaction to the situation in question. I sometimes prefer to lie.

For the benefit of wives and potential wives everywhere, I have compiled a marriage I.Q. test. Please select the answer (a, b, or c) which most closely resembles your reaction in these critical marriage situations. (For an honest evaluation of your wifely worth, it is best not to lie.)

  1. If your husband sniffs at the aroma of your new “Passion Powder” perfume, and remarks “That stuff smells like fly dope.” would you a) Hit him b) Kick him c) Thank him, and suggest that the Avon lady may have mixed up her orders and the stuff probably is fly dope.
  2. If he forgets your birthday would you a) Scream loudly (with tears) “You don’t love me anymore !” b) Put poison in his coffee c) Put on a sexy negligee, bake him a cake, and tell him how wonderful he is anyway.
  3. If he complains that your cooking just “isn’t as good as mother’s used to be” would you a) Tell him (sarcastically) “So go eat at your mother’s then!” b) Dump the whole mess on his head c) Get a job and pay his mother to cook for him.
  4. If he gripes that his socks don’t match, and some of them have holes in them would you a) Suggest he give you money to buy him new socks (along with the fur coat you always wanted) b) Cut holes in all his socks, so at least the holes will match, c) Stay up all night, knitting new socks and darning old ones.
  5. If he “blows his top” over the dent you put in his brand new car would you a) Blame his “neurotic worrying” over “that stupid car” for making you nervous and causing the accident to happen, b) Drive the car to the nearest cliff. Get out and place it in gear, allowing it to roll over the cliff. Go home and tell Hubby, “Now the insurance company will buy you another car, with no dents in it at all!” c) Take a course in car body repair and fix the dent yourself.
  6. If he insists that you “don’t do a thing all day” while he has to slave to bring home the bacon you, a) Not do a thing the next day, to show him how awful the place would look if you “didn’t do a thing all day” b) Say (sarcastically) “What bacon? You don’t make enough money at your crummy job to afford eggs, let alone bacon!” c) Kiss him and the kids goodnight and apply for a job on the midnight shift.

If you answered mostly a) on the above test; you are a normal wife, not great, but normal anyway. Mostly b): You are a trifle unstable to be a good wife. Your marriage may not end up in a divorce court, but it could end up in a murder trial (either yours or your husband’s) Mostly c): You passed the test with flying colours! You could have made someone a wonderful wife. It is too bad you never married.

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