Love, Honor, and Yadda Yadda
The smile on my face isn't always real
But the way you make me feel
Is all that's really real
John Frusciante - "Your Pussy's Glued to a Building on Fire" - Niandra LaDes and Usually Just a T-Shirt - 1994
The worst wife any any person I've known has been manacled to a once-dear friend I called Shec. Briefly, she neglected her basic household responsibilities, stopped engaging in all sexual activity, gained a great deal of weight, does not operate automobiles, and, as the crowning glory, didn't file their federal income taxes for many years without telling him.
It's bad enough be left starving for carnal interaction while still plenty young, but the risk of federal prison is a different animal. A scary animal.
The ripple effect of all that dysfunction has hammered all 4 members of that poor household in a multitude ways none of them can fully grasp and by no means should all (or even almost all) of the blame be pinned on Mrs, Shec. It's a quite complex and interesting matter far beyond the scope of this work.
And, except for the weight gain and taxes things, that sad story matches Mom's doings (or, really, non-doings) as a wife. Well, in part, at least.
Simply the Best. Better Than All the Rest.
When going through Dad's personal effects after he was killed, I came upon a card from him to Mom from their 40th anniversary in 2005. It read, in part:
To the best wife a man could ever have.
Reading that blew my mind as I sat there on their long-passionless bed.
Long ago, watching some dipshit game show, I was roundly pleased by an unusually honest contestant. During the obligatory introductions segment, the guy said he was married and had three kids, one exceptional, one adequate, and one distinctly substandard.
What a blimp full of fresh air after hearing "the greatest ______ in the world" again and again and again.
Both I and those with whom I keep company are sticklers for being earnest and accurate and avoiding the abuse of superlatives and the starkly absolute, as explained in detail here.
It's Uncouth to Wildly Exaggerate
Mom would often not only lean on such abuses, but also would fraudulently impose such abuses upon the words of others in creating an imaginary parallel reality. Once, I told her she was one of the most uncouth people I know. Not even an hour later, she recounted it as "the most uncouth person in the world."
Sigh.
Behold the math in that claim. "One of the most...I know" is a number greater than one out of dozens. Let's say 5 and 60 > 5/60 (or 1/12).
"The most...in the world" is one out of, at the time, about SEVEN BILLION - 1/7,000,000,000.
Imagine if you had a coupon for a twelve dollar pizza, but were charged seven billion dollars after eating it. Some would find that unreasonable.
As is so often the case with such antics, that deflected the argument in a new direction, leaving behind the original meaningful issue of her uncouthness in favor of wrangling over which version was actually said.
This tends not to be mere aimless sloppiness; it has distinct purposes. It shields the offender from accountability and recasts them as an outrageously abused victim. And, it recasts one with a valid complaint as a daft beast making ridiculous, impossible, vicious claims.
It is a hideously crooked and harmful way to deal with interpersonal conflict.
Obviously, it's better to engage such linguistic abuses in laudatory form then derogatory, but it's still light years from best practice. Our superb language offers countless ways to express undying love not requiring a stoop to jaw-dropping folly.
I'll never forget Neila referring to Ryan as "the best son in the world" to Dad's family during a 2015 dinner. I still wonder, to what degree was she aware of that resounding folly? Did she really think that or was it yet another calculated brick in the wall shielding outsiders from seeing the dismal wreck that is Camp Flozberk?
It's a shame that poor Dad got swept up into such a way of thinking. For the most part, he was a grounded and reasonable gentleman.
Yes, the issue is addressed at length in many places on this site, but let's review.
Mom:
Whoa! This is Gonna Be UGLY!
...did not offer Dad physical intimacy for several decades, and that includes even things like a massage or back scratching.
...never went in his garage workshop, where he ran a side gig to help our family get ahead, to even keep him company, much less lend a hand.
...did not so much as make and serve him one sandwich for at least 30 years. He served her. I once joked that if the TV remote was in the bread box, perhaps Dad would have gotten a sandwich out of her. That made her furious.
...did not once, that I saw, bring him, a DIY master who worked very hard, a cold drink as he toiled outside and in that hot garage.
...often put him down in front of his son, sometimes even in front of the assembled family, and at least once it happened on Father's Day!
...did not allow him to have friends and when he sidestepped that madness, she would sabotage it.
...did not approve of him seeing his rock-solid family, be it he visiting them or their visiting us. When he sidestepped that madness, she made him pay.
...usually busted his balls something awful if he dared to spend money on himself while her staggeringly irresponsible side of the family bummed and conned us out of a literal fortune made possible by Dad's oceans of sweat and ironclad work ethic.
...threw his only son to the dogs while catering to the needs and wants of her ex-husband's children.
...declined to spend even an hour sitting with him and watching anything she didn't fancy. Mom held total control over the den TV and was loath to yield even an inch.
...routinely kept things he should have known about secret from him, much like Neila later did.
...was callously dismissive toward him when he'd express his opinion, much like Neila repeatedly showed on video in the Neila's Silly Ass incident.
...did not once suggest that we, as a family, take a weekend away so that Dad could recharge and watch the sun set while enjoying an adult beverage or coffee somewhere fresh and new.
...ruthlessly raked him over the coals for laughably trivial transgressions many years in the past.
...forbade him from catching a decent buzz. Two drinks max on almost all occasions. If anyone needed to get buzzed on occasion, it was Dad.
...allowed herself to rot by refusing to quit smoking until it was far too late and declining to exercise altogether, causing Dad great deprivation and burden.
...allowed her lunatic kinfolk to run roughshod over us and putting them in position to continue to do so even after her death despite years of ample clear indications that they were resoundingly unfit to be trusted with important things.
I Thank My Lucky Stars
In sharp contrast, my life with Lisa, is, literally point-by-point, the polar opposite of the nightmare outlined above. Based on what I've seen and been told, as already written here, Mutchie, Mom, Neila, and Tiffany combined are not fit to suck the sweat out of Lisa's bra strap.
And, just like with Dad, never have I seen Lisa do a single unkind thing to anyone. She is, overall, the finest person I've ever had the pleasure and honor of knowing. No wonder Dad loved her so much and held her in much higher regard than the shabby, unhinged likes of Neila and Tiffany.
Poor Dad.