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Note: This is a true story.
I heard this from a dear old friend some time ago about some great great great relatives of theirs who lived in 19th century Ireland. It always makes me laugh but it also reminds me that true love is real. She came in from a day of shopping in the town market carrying a few baskets of produce and other house hold essentials along with a packet of wrapped laundry that had been sent out a few days before. Among the laundry were a few of her husbands shirts neatly folded and starched a crisp white, a few scarfs, and random undergarments. Setting the load on the kitchen table she turns to the laundry cutting the twine and removing the soft white cloth it was wrapped in. She lifted each garment inspecting the work insuring the each stain and blemish was removed and up to her standards. A line of red catches her eye when she lifts one of her husbands shirts. It look rusted and slightly smudged and vaguely in the shape of a kiss. Being a true irish woman her temper flaired, her red hair flamed and those usualy calm sea green eyes shone a deep emerald. If looks could kill her "darling husband" would have been dead on the spot. She turned and passed through the narrow servants hallway leading to the back parlor where HE usualy sat in the mid afternoon reading his paper and smoking one of his many pipes. She neared the sliding entry door the familiar smell of his tabacco caught her sences and her usualy refined features turned dark. Shirt in hand she slid the door open composing herself before stepping through. There he sat peacefully engrosed in the daily news a slight smile on his face skiming over the local nonsence. He smiles is usual bright eyed smile when he notices her presence in the room. That smile faids quickly when one of the many nicknacks cuts the air aimed rather well at his head. He rises and takes over behind one of the over stuffed chairs. She stands shirt in one hand more ammo in the other plates break tea cups shatter and priceless vaces come to peices against the wall. Her voice is no longer her own the anger has taken over. She lifts the shirt showing the rust colored stain shaking her fist at the hiding husband. The assult is over and being a smart man he checks her hands before comming out of the make shift bunker. He eyes the shirt and begins to laugh. "Darling that is a blood stain. Do you remember when I cut my cheek shaving last week?" He turns his head showing the scabed over wound in his defence. Her eyes soften alittle in recognition of her mistake. But again being and irish woman her pride is at stake now, and she is not about to appologize out right. She advances a few more feet in his direction her hand raised pointing at him growling these words: "If I ever, ever hear of you cheating... I will burn Ireland down around you." Being the kind of man that he is he cannot let this go with out a witty reply. He steps within a yard of her holding out his arms that bright eyed smile restored to his face the healthy redness returned after the on slaught of the moments before and replies in a loud boisterous tone. "Darling, YOU DO LOVE ME!!" She walks into his arms, the usual charm and grace of a victorian lady firmly back in place, her laughter ringing throught the house. She whispers in his ear, "Yes darling and you are alive today because of it." Dear WPW members, Always remember the anger of a woman is usually for your own good. :-) Happy Posting :-) Czar
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I dragoste tu Miankiya , S`agapo moro mou "Comfort the Disturbed, and Disturb the Comfortable" |
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