Bill is no Ricky Ricardo. For one thing, he doesn’t have wavy black hair or speak with a Cuban accent, and almost never sings Babalu. He does, however, say, “Luuucy, I’m home,” when he walks in the door. But so do I. Baby Boomers understand why.
The fact of the matter is that Bill is a highly-intelligent, kind-hearted, hard-working, and funny man who has put up with me and my family for almost 23 years. Actually, more than 25 years if you count the three years we were engaged before he finally told me, “Kris, call the church and schedule our wedding. It’s time that we get married.”
Which I did.
In fact, my mother always said Bill was a genius. And he probably is, in fact. I don’t know what his IQ is, nor mine, but I’m certain if we compared scores, it would be like comparing the bowling scores of a 30-year-old professional bowler competing against a grandmother hitting the lanes for the first time after she had three or four Tequila Sunrises and smoked a pack of Marlboros. And I’m the grandmother.
Bill spends a lot of his time around the women in my family. And there are a LOT of women in our family. The X chromosome is alive and well in the Gloor clan.
Bill calls my sisters and I his sister wives. I assure you that this isn’t true. He does, however, spend a great deal of time around us, and is ever so patient and rarely loses his sense of humor. He goes with the flow when, for example, we all gather for dinner and the conversation turns to analysis of Dancing With the Stars or the latest book we are reading. He listens patiently until his head is ready to explode at which time he quietly says goodbye and moves to the bedroom to watch NASCAR (or secretly watch Dancing With the Stars).
In 2000, Bill and I traveled to Italy with Jen and her daughter Maggie. The three of us spent 10 days or so traveling around that beautiful country, seeing the sights of Rome, enjoying the Mediterranean as we visited the Cinque Terre, and relishing the countryside of much of Tuscany. Bill never once complained about traveling with three women.
That is, until we returned home. We went to Mass in Denver the day after we arrived back. The pastor of the church we attended was a friend of the family, having counseled us during the days that Mom was dying.
“How was your trip?” he asked us after Mass.
Maggie, Jen and I all proclaimed the joys of Italy.
But finally, Bill pitched in.
“Father,” he said, “I will tell you the truth. Traveling for two weeks with three women, sharing bathrooms, sleeping under the same roof, has been my very own Purgatory. All of my sins are atoned.”
Bill, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!