My Big Fat Greek Marriage

Couples who poke fun together, stay together.

In other words, married people who can dish out and take good-natured teasing have the best chances of staying together. I heard this on one of my podcasts a while back and it stuck with me, maybe because it explains how my husband and I have managed to make it for over thirty years. We don’t really have a lot of interests in common, but we DO like the teasing.

Take for example these two recent phone conversations. Before reading them, there are a few things you should know: 1) my husband and I never use affectionate, diminutive nicknames, and 2) my husband likes to pee outdoors.

 

Conversation 1:

(my cell phone rings)

Me: Hello

Him: Good Morning, Schatzi!

(short silence)

Me: Who is this?

 

Conversation 2:

(I see that my husband tried to call me. I call him back. He picks up, but doesn’t speak.)

Me: Hello?

(short silence)

Him:  Wait . . . I’ve got my bimple out . . .

(short silence)

Me: Is that what you wanted to tell me?

 

I blogged a while back about how we sent our DNA in for testing, and that has turned out to be an excellent source of jokes. First off, after reading that post, my mom sent me the results of her brother’s test – which I assume would be the same as hers and half of mine. It confirmed what I had basically expected. Mom’s theory was debunked – no Roman blood anywhere. The German, English, Norwegian, Scottish and Irish parts were all confirmed, but – to my delight – the test also showed Swedish and Welsh ancestry. I walked around for a few days feeling very Scandinavian and relishing in my genetic upgrade. When the subject of my husband’s summer fishing trip came up, I exclaimed “Why do you have to go all the way to Sweden when you’ve got a Swedish chick right here at home?”

But then the (dubious) results of my test arrived.

 

Conversation 3:

Me: According to this, I am 0% German!

(short silence)

Him: Maybe it’s time for a talk with your mom.

 

I stared at the ridiculous results for a long time, trying to make any sense of them. The English and Scandinavian parts were in there, but no Irish or Scottish. That was bad enough, but then . . . no German!?!? There was also a whole lot of new stuff too: Finnish, Latvian, Estonian . . . and the coup de grace:  Apparently I am 15% Greek with a smattering of Italian (That Roman guy is back!!)

How can I be Greek? I spent my childhood eating Grandma’s German cooking and playing Sheepshead. I internalized Grandpa’s Germanic “Work hard and play hard” ethic. I raked leaves and babysat and waited tables and got good grades and studied . . . To think, all that time, I should have been taking 3 hour lunch breaks and going into debt and dreaming about my future big fat wedding . . .

Of course my husband started crooning about his Greek wife and doing Zorba dances. But then his test results arrived . . .

 

I can’t believe I married a Yugoslavian.

 

ANYWAY . . . I am currently working on the wording of my indignant email to the customer support people of this DNA testing company.

And before I forget –

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!!

We can talk about the Roman guy and this Greek stuff when I come in summer.

Cat Pit Ululation

 

The same scene plays out over and over again. I go to the desk where my laptop sits and begin . . . watching the news, doing work or a translation, blogging . . . whatever. At some point Devil Cat leaps up onto the desk, often spilling my coffee or knocking objects off. I pick him up, put him on the ground. He leaps again. I remove him again. He leaps again, and this time he quickly prances across the laptop keyboard. Menacing messages appear on the screen such as “Shutting down . . .” or “Delete file?” or “Restore computer to factory settings?”

Sometimes things heat up and I just shove Devil Cat off the side of the desk, trusting that he will land on his feet. Sometimes he digs his claws in and pulls the table cloth along with him. Sometimes, as he is leaping, I block his landing spot on the desk, sending him sprawling.

This battle went on for years. And then . . .

I gave up.

 

Addendum: Oddly, it seems history does sort of repeat itself. It was during my last sick leave with a similar ailment that an altercation made me think my cat might be possessed by the devil . . .