A Gristly Metaphor

Marriage is a joint. Man and woman are the bones. Their affection for each other forms the articular cartilage. Copulation is the synovial fluid.

Why she wanted to keep her last name

My wife’s sister, Camille, is a self-absorbed, self-righteous, snowflaking feminist with embarrassing tattoos. There are sick stories I could tell about Camille, my friends. A vignette: my wife once overheard Camille and one of her slightly less unattractive (phys. and ment.) friends discussing how shocking it was that their other (attractive and pleasant) friend had “only slept with ten guys”. Imagine a 4 and a 5 expressing dismay and pity for an 8 because she had such a low dick-count. Ten is the new zero.

Katie recently recounted to me a conversation she had a few years ago with this sister. They were talking about the western custom of a woman taking her husband’s name when they marry. Both sisters did, in fact, take their husband’s names. This was never a question for Katie, and she offered some sort of defense for the practice. Camille did not respond with her typical feminist screechies, which is what I was expecting from the story (and which is why I hadn’t really been paying attention up until this point).

Instead, my wife recalled, Camille said, “If I could do it again, I would keep my last name. I really liked who I was when I was single. I had a lot of fun.”

I made Katie repeat that part so I could write it down. Camille’s reason for regretting that she took her husband’s name was that she remembered how much fun it was to be single. Warped, pathetic, and spectacularly revealing when you know what “fun” is code for in female-speak.

Visual Proof of How Game Restores Wives

This is a shameless piggyback off of a RoissyCitizen RenegadeHeartiste post in which the warpiggening of a feral female is graphically depicted.

When I started dating my wife, she was 18, 5′ 6″, and about 130 lbs. When we married, she was 21 and 140 lbs.

A few months after our second child, I have no idea how much she weighed, but she looked like this:

The other sufferers in the photo are members of her family.

A few weeks after our fourth child, shortly after I discovered Game and the manosphere (about one year ago), she weighed 200 lbs and looked like this:

Ten months later, she weighed 125 lbs, and looked like this:

She’s now below 115, and I have given her orders to gain a little.

There are two factors driving this transformation. One is my remasculinization. The other is between her and Odysseus. Game alone couldn’t have done this; and yet I believe it took the Game-driven changes in her husband to drive this broken woman to God.

Update: I’m fair game for photos, too. Here I am this summer, demolishing a deck:

Another update: The third factor that I forgot to mention should bring a smile to Keoni Galt: Nourishing Traditions dietary changes for the whole family.

A Physical Effect of the Fertility Cycle on Men

On this man, at least.

Though not a Roman Catholic, I resemble one on the topic of contraception. Because I’m not completely nuts, I do strive to keep the little swineherds arriving on a reasonable schedule. Using the standard array of Natural Family Planning (NFP) techniques, we have managed to delay conceptions as desired with a fair amount of success. Katie has a much deeper understanding of her cycle and its physiological effects than (she judges) most women do. And I generally know where she is in her cycle, because of my strong interest in jumping her bones as often as possible.

You can read elsewhere about the effects of ovulation on a woman’s libido, or on a man’s. I’m here to tell you about the effects of ovulation on one man’s olfactory sensitivity. When Katie’s cycle peaks, so does my sense of smell. I’m idiosyncratically sensitive to odors at all times, but for about five or six days each cycle, I can smell everything in the house. And most of it smells bad. Foods I like suddenly have distinctly foul undertones, which I can detect from across the house, the moment a package is opened. Katie made a strange sort of salad the other day, and I knew when I opened my office door that she had been cutting yellow squash and zucchini.

I use this time of month as an opportunity to goad Katie into maintaining a cleaner household. Get the diaper trash out of the house. Don’t leave dirty dishes around; I can smell them. The infant you’re holding has peed himself; change him already.

I’ve been wondering lately whether this is a design and/or adaptation benefit. Are all men better smellers than women? That would make sense if men are gathering food and women are cleaning babies. Did primitive women lose all sense of danger during ovulation, such that men had to run after them constantly, lunging to rip the poisonous mushrooms from their gaping maws?

The invitation to emasculation

Hawaiian Libertarian responded to the Superbowl commercial that relegates men to the garage. The one with the sad litany of masculine submission. Dave writes his own litany showing what “this commercial would be like if it were based on a Man who understands what HEAD OF THE HOUSEHOLD means”:

You need to start getting up and walking the dog at 6:30am…you’re starting to look a little hefty…you wouldn’t want to turn into one of those people of walmart cows?!

You will add some fruit to my breakfast that you are cooking…but DON’T overcook the eggs.

I will shave…I will clean the sink after I shave as well as that clump of your hair out of the bathroom drain…because as the MAN, I realize that the nasty, dirty jobs are MY job around here…and while I do all the things you simply cannot bear to do, like haul the garbage, kill the rodents and insects and yes, clean hair clogs out of drains, you should be cooking me some food or washing the dishes and not complaining about how you “Do Everything Around Here!” Because you don’t.

…

You can read the rest at his post. The HEAD OF HOUSEHOLD riff is a great idea, but between it and the execution falls the shadow. The shadow of a defensive, bitter beta. I can say that because his responses sound more like me (as I used to be), and less like Dave in Hawaii.

I once was a defensive, bitter beta, but I got better. I rewrote his litany in the style of HEAD OF HOUSEHOLD I’m trying to become. Originally posted in the comments to the article, my list is just amusing enough to repost here.

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30am.

You should walk the dog in the morning. You don’t want to end up on People of Wal-Mart.

I will eat fruit as a part of my breakfast.

Don’t forget to give me fruit in the morning. I’ve been a little constipated. Remember how I like my eggs, too.

I will shave…I will clean the sink after I shave.

Hey, don’t worry about those shower-kitties you’ve been leaving. I’m collecting them so you can make a doll for the girl.

I will be at work by 8 am…I will sit through 2 hour meetings.

Woman, I’ve got one of those two-hour meetings today. You know what that means. Yes, the sheer thingy. NO, you will not be wearing panties. Are you new here?

I will say yes when you want me to say yes.

“Yes” is for women. Let’s practice: Take off your pants.

I will be quiet when you don’t want to hear me say no.

If you don’t want to hear me say “no”, take off your clothes, or make me a sandwich. Or both. Yeah, both.

I will take your call

Why are you calling me during the day? How do you know I’m not with my mistress? Bet you never thought about that. Is anybody hurt? No? You owe me some naked. Bye.

I will listen to your opinion of my friends.

I will repeat your opinion of my friends to them, and we will share a good laugh.

I will listen to your friends opinions of my friends.

I will flirt with your friends.

I will be civil to your mother.

I will ignore your mother and make friends with your father.

I will put the seat down

I will put the seat down until you’re not expecting it.

I will separate the recycling.

Recycling is immoral. Seriously, it’s economically inefficient. You care about the poor, don’t you?

I will carry your lip balm.

Lip balm. Does it tingle? Yeah, put that on.

I will watch your vampire TV shows with you.

I’m cancelling the cable. Buy me a Blue-ray of LOST already.

I will take my socks off before getting into bed.

Wench, your cooking made me gassy. You’re going to have to clean the sheets.

I will put my underwear in the basket.

I will put my underwear in the basket from across the room, in a perfect arc, pumping my fist and slapping your ass in triumph.

And because I do this, I will drive the car, I want to drive.

When we’re driving in my Malibu, it’s easy to get right next to you.

She deserves a hard pounding

My wife served me this for dinner. Smothered pork, glazed carrots, and grilled asparagus. It was great.

Later, as I read to the children, she completely cleaned out the boys’ room. “Completely” as in: the only contents left are two beds and the clothes in their closet. Earlier today the ambulatory children built a rubble pile in the middle of that room from bookshelves, toys, mattresses, and various other objects. Katie discovered it when Fauntleroy started bawling, having scraped himself falling off the rubble pile.

Our children have far too many toys. Because I do not clean up after the children, this is Katie’s problem, not mine. For at least a couple of years I have observed, when she complains, that the only way she will find peace is to take away 90% of the toys. Tonight she exceeded my expectations.

Katie was putting Becky to bed when I saw the naked room. I opened the door and interrupted:

Eumaios: “What you did to the boys’ room [pause] It’s great. You deserve a hard pounding.”

Katie: “Thank you!”

It’s true. She does.

You Look Like an Angel

You look like an Angel,
Walk like an angel,
Talk like an angel,
But I got wise.
You’re the devil in disguise.
Oh, yes you are
The devil in disguise.
You fooled me with your kisses.
You cheated and you schemed.
Heaven knows how you lied to me.
You’re not the way you seemed.

I thought that I was in heaven,
But I was sure surprised.
Heaven help me, I didn’t see
The devil in your eyes.

I started using this as Katie’s ringtone a few weeks ago. Now all the kids love the song. Katie doesn’t find this as funny as I do.

Handling the female apology

I picked a fight this morning, because Katie was undercutting me with the oldest boy.

Katie was still in bed, nursing the youngest boy; Dev and I were in the master bathroom. He wants to know how to read and write, but he’s not so interested in actually doing the learning. He knows his letters and can sound out words when he applies himself, so I suggested getting a favorite book and copying out the words verbatim. Dev wasn’t really listening (a trait he gets from his mother), and so the expression of my idea became less of a sentence and more of a comic conversation.

Throughout all this, Katie kept interrupting. It bothered her whenever I stated or implied that Dev can’t read or write yet, so she struck sneaky blows in his defense by interjecting veiled corrections of what I was saying. You know how they do. I appreciate that she doesn’t want him to feel bad, and she is completely welcome to use her feminine sneak attacks on his behalf against other females. But not against me or any of my sons.

About the fourth time she corrected me, it made me angry enough to realize what was going on. She was still laying on her side, facing away from us, and I had just sat down against her legs. I brought my hand down hard on her hip, not a smack, but as if I were steadying something on a storm-tossed ship. Firmly holding her hip, I said, “Do. Not. Do. That. Stop criticizing and correcting what I say.”

“That’s not what–I only wanted–I was trying to add to the discussion.”

“What you did instead was subtract from it.” I paused a moment, then said, “Dev, think about a short book you like. Maybe one of the library books. What would it look like if you were copying the words from it?” Dev looked thoughtful, then scampered off to the living room.

Katie waited until he was gone, then said in a shaky voice, “I truly was not doing what you said. I was just trying to be part of the conversation and–”

I cut her off: “No. You are rewriting your personal history now.” Walked away.

Katie closed the bedroom door at some point after that, but I’m not really sure when, so I know she didn’t slam it. That was the first good sign. The ambulatory children and I had a few of our usual adventures and disputes over the next half hour, and then Katie came out quietly. I can’t see the bedroom from the kitchen, but I could hear her walking softly over. When I turned around, she looked at me seriously and made the Want a Kiss body language. I took a step closer, but made her go up on tiptoes to kiss me.

After the kiss, she met my eyes and in a soft, but determined voice said, “You were right, and I was wrong.”

I leaned back and studied her face for a moment. Then I gave her another kiss and said, “You’re pretty.”

Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (though not in that order)

Saturday, with Tony and his son, alone on a federal government firing range. Evil Black Rifle fired for the first time. Also 12 gauge birdshot, 20 gauge slug (my shoulder is bruised). 9mm pistols. Tony’s the range boss: no rapid fire rule. His .308, his Mini 14, a semi-auto .22 rifle. The boy comparing the security fences of different prisons his father has worked at. Burgers on me. Cleaning my guns alone in my workshop, clumsy and inexperienced.

Brother in law visiting, Padron 2000 and Dewars 12. Thankfulness, new house, large yard. Seeing our wives’ body language through the window. They in the light, standing across the kitchen, tense postures. We in the dark on the porch, my cigar burning unevenly. I talk too much, but for the first time, Clay matches me. He’s deeper, more thoughtful than I ever knew. Quantum physics and God. Tipler: Physics of Christianity. He gives me a first edition of Snow Crash, because I gave him a ratty paperback of Cryptonomicon.

Cold in short sleeves, but I don’t want to go in; sisters are still at odds. Bottle’s empty, what else to drink? Now we have to dive in. Slumming with cheap rye, but warm in fleece. What is the Kingdom? What makes a church? What is Man, that we don’t mind being him?

3 a.m., and the sisters have been down for some time. Mine’s in my bed with our new boy. He fell asleep while she nursed, and she must have, too. They’re both sleeping slack-mouthed.

Thank you, Lord, for the pleasures of this world. Prepare me for the work to be done in the next one.

My Marriage and My Discovery of Game

In response to my joyous news, G asked: “How was your marriage before you ‘discovered’ game ? Is this new child a possible outcome of the new you?”

The child was conceived in January. I discovered Game in the Cambrian Explosion of August 2009. I was looking for patches to my cosmology; what I found caused a chain reaction of cascading re-alignments. The cosmology didn’t have holes; I had blind spots and willful ignorance.

My marriage has been a mixed-up, messed-up union. My wife deeply despised and resented me for the first five years. She was raised in a conservative church, and she believes what she believes with less fickleness than most women. “Katie” was inoculated with dogma, if not with culture. She knows divorce is wrong, and so she did not divorce me when she wanted to leave. On the recommendation of our preacher, we visited a counselor who in private sessions let Katie know that she saw through Katie’s bullshit. Uneasy peace followed.

Five years in, Katie stopped refusing to consider having children. Moreover, she joined me in deciding that contraception was a positive wrong. Conception is the telos of coitus, to mix a few tongues. We had never stopped copulating, which I gather is contrary to the experiences of most beta husbands. Katie has a strong libido which she distrusts, and she resents the necessity of soothing it. She uses me to take care of her needs on a regular basis, but honestly is not aware that this is so. The capacity of a woman to deceive herself is astounding. She stopped taking that poison colloquially called The Pill, and our first son was born a year later. His brother followed after another year and a half, and then our daughter after a similar span.

During Katie’s third pregnancy, I realized how fruitless and self-destructive were my efforts to please her, how futile they had always been. Her contempt for me had waned somewhat, but her resentment and self-pity still ruled her. Unless she decides to give up all her precious grievances, they always will. I stopped trying to please her and started trying to build a self that could act independently without engaging in bitter resentment myself. Like the pagans that C.S. Lewis describes, I sought to find the right way to act and stumbled on fractured images, hints of truth.

One of the shards: of all the divorces I know of in my age-group, only one involved the cheating of the husband. The wife in this case almost certainly drove him to it. All the rest were initiated by the wives, because they were “unhappy.” You know what this means: they have found other men.

Another: Katie was happier while a heavily pregnant mother of two insane rapscallions than she had been ever before. She was still an angry, seething bitch to me half of the time, but she blossomed as a housewife.

A third was the realization that I had been overcompensating for her weakness. Though not trying to please her, I was still doing what little housework I consider necessary to a sanitary home when she couldn’t manage to get it done. My hard work enabled her to be weak. I stopped. I used to change diapers gladly: my children deserve to be clean. Now I change them only when my comfort or personal belongings are at risk, or when someone’s health is at stake. I clean only enough dishes to make the sink usable for my purposes.

The discovery of Game was a blinding light that struck the scales from my eyes, as opposed to putting them there. I practice what I can on Katie, some aloof asshole, but mostly stern authority. She is not ready for the brat-you’re-cute treatment. Her contempt for me is maturing into a more healthy hatred; snakes are better out in the open where you can see them. At the same time, her resentment seems to be disappearing. A couple of weeks ago, about the time the baby was due, the insane rapscallions started fighting about 6 in the morning, and their sister joined in. I decided to ignore it and stay in bed. Katie waited a bit, then lumbered up and dealt with it herself. She made coffee, which she has only recently started doing. Then she brought a cup to me in bed. That does not exist in this dojo. She surprised me even more by saying in a tremulous, uncertain, please-like-me voice, “I brought you some coffee. I thought you would like that.”

I maintained state, but only just. Fake sleepy voice (fake because I was so shocked): “Oh, nice. You can put it on the table there.” Then I waited until she left to drink it.

The worthy aspect of Game is often called Inner Game. I call it arete, or virtu, after Aristotle and Machiavelli respectively. It boils down to the manly virtues, facets of which we call confidence, authority, self-control. It can make a better man of me, but only Katie can decide to become a better woman. I strongly doubt that she will. Even so, she is inoculated by dogma, inoculated by motherhood, and she is a tolerable wife.