The OTHER Woman
You hear about other people having affairs, but my husband is the kind of guy who keeps his word, so I never worried. I shouldn’t have taken him for granted. The reason he is still here today rather than buried in the backyard, is because 1. the affair wasn’t real and 2. I’m more than willing to make his dreams a reality. All I lack is the accent, and I can work on that.
His lady of choice was Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Boo-quet, dear). She was a sixtyish housewife character from the British sitcom, ‘Keeping up Appearances;’ a snob whose family and neighbors all lived in fear of being trapped in conversation, or worse, invited to a musical soiree. Not Dave’s type at all. Then I found out she was giving social advice online. I thought this could be fun, “Hey Dave!” I yelled, “Look! We can write to Hyacinth!”
We both wrote. I sent her a question about refreshments and got this useful reply:
Dearest Anneli,
…No dear, one does not keep Cheez-Whiz ‘handy’ for any purpose whatsoever…No, you must set an example for your friends…However, I should think that any sort of crackers from The Ritz must be all right.
With very best wishes,
Hyacinth Bucket
Then Dave asked her about Wimbledon.
Dear David,
It’s nice that you’re such a fan of tennis…I’m sure it must be thrilling for you, dear, to sit enrapt for hours on end a fortnight out of every year, watching two persons batting a tennis ball back and forth up and over (one hopes!) a net stretched across a cordoned-off bit of field. It’s great exercise for the neck…
Cordially,
Hyacinth Bucket
And so it went until it went a step too far.
Dear Hyacinth,
I am in love with you. Your cultured style - I love it. Your musical soirees - I love them. I long to be with you at a candlelight supper. Would you ever consider leaving Richard? I would be more than happy to come to England and join you. My dear Mother just died and left me a bundle. I will buy you your own Mercedes. Please let me know soon. I think I will die if you say no. Please consider marrying me.
Love,
David
Naturally, Hyacinth did not respond, instead instructing her editors to file this with other letters from the lovelorn, and the affair ended. Or so he thought.
I saw right away what a good thing this could be for me, I mean for both of us. If he wants Hyacinth, I can BE Hyacinth. But we’re going to need a great deal more money in order to live in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed. To achieve this, I like Hyacinth, will be pushing him to ever greater executive heights. There’s going to be no more loafing around as a mere professor for Dave. I will insist he become chair, then dean, then president of the university. Then president of a bigger university! Meanwhile, I will quit my job and spend my time making dainty little scones and driving my new Mercedes to all the right country clubs. It will be a sacrifice for me of course as I adapt to the loneliness of having a workaholic husband with four jobs, but I’m sure my private masseuse can work out all the stress.
I like to share this delightful vision with Dave, especially when he’s annoyed with me. Then he remembers that he loves me exactly as I am. “Couldn’t be happier! Oh my gosh! Please don’t change! I love how you never put things in the same place twice! I love how you eat crackers in bed! And those pants don’t make you look fat!”
Really, a happy marriage is quite simple after all.
His lady of choice was Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Boo-quet, dear). She was a sixtyish housewife character from the British sitcom, ‘Keeping up Appearances;’ a snob whose family and neighbors all lived in fear of being trapped in conversation, or worse, invited to a musical soiree. Not Dave’s type at all. Then I found out she was giving social advice online. I thought this could be fun, “Hey Dave!” I yelled, “Look! We can write to Hyacinth!”
We both wrote. I sent her a question about refreshments and got this useful reply:
Dearest Anneli,
…No dear, one does not keep Cheez-Whiz ‘handy’ for any purpose whatsoever…No, you must set an example for your friends…However, I should think that any sort of crackers from The Ritz must be all right.
With very best wishes,
Hyacinth Bucket
Then Dave asked her about Wimbledon.
Dear David,
It’s nice that you’re such a fan of tennis…I’m sure it must be thrilling for you, dear, to sit enrapt for hours on end a fortnight out of every year, watching two persons batting a tennis ball back and forth up and over (one hopes!) a net stretched across a cordoned-off bit of field. It’s great exercise for the neck…
Cordially,
Hyacinth Bucket
And so it went until it went a step too far.
Dear Hyacinth,
I am in love with you. Your cultured style - I love it. Your musical soirees - I love them. I long to be with you at a candlelight supper. Would you ever consider leaving Richard? I would be more than happy to come to England and join you. My dear Mother just died and left me a bundle. I will buy you your own Mercedes. Please let me know soon. I think I will die if you say no. Please consider marrying me.
Love,
David
Naturally, Hyacinth did not respond, instead instructing her editors to file this with other letters from the lovelorn, and the affair ended. Or so he thought.
I saw right away what a good thing this could be for me, I mean for both of us. If he wants Hyacinth, I can BE Hyacinth. But we’re going to need a great deal more money in order to live in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed. To achieve this, I like Hyacinth, will be pushing him to ever greater executive heights. There’s going to be no more loafing around as a mere professor for Dave. I will insist he become chair, then dean, then president of the university. Then president of a bigger university! Meanwhile, I will quit my job and spend my time making dainty little scones and driving my new Mercedes to all the right country clubs. It will be a sacrifice for me of course as I adapt to the loneliness of having a workaholic husband with four jobs, but I’m sure my private masseuse can work out all the stress.
I like to share this delightful vision with Dave, especially when he’s annoyed with me. Then he remembers that he loves me exactly as I am. “Couldn’t be happier! Oh my gosh! Please don’t change! I love how you never put things in the same place twice! I love how you eat crackers in bed! And those pants don’t make you look fat!”
Really, a happy marriage is quite simple after all.
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