OK, so I haven't been here for a while. Well, the reason was I was writing a novel: "The Minister's Secret" if you must know. It will soon be published as an ebook by Untreed Reads.

Now for the subject at hand: my having married a French woman.

Why is that a problem? It is not! It is just that every day I find myself mystified by the goings on in that woman's mind. I sometime sit and wonder: "How could anyone reach such a confused and utterly unfounded decision?"

I wonder if the French brain is not wired backwards because they seem to find first order logic incomprehensible.

Here is an example. I call it "The Six Hour Visit".

Ok, so me and my wife are sitting at home, watching the 13:00 news (notice I use 24 hour clocks like all Europeans). The doorbell rings. It is an old chum of hers. I will call her Ivonne.

Ivonne used to be beautiful, even sexy. But, now she is a fat, nervous, man-hating, tub of white flesh that on a given day, and some beers in my belly I might still find "doable".

But, that is not the problem. The problem with Ivonne is that every time she comes over she goes into a diatribe of six hours, drinks a gallon or two of tea and stays for half a day, during which she recounts the latest episodes of her life, her loves, her dreams, and her ailments, especially thrilling was a very detailed description of her massage therapy which bordered on illicit sex.

I have to scurry away to my studio, put on earplugs, and try to concentrate on my writing, but to no avail because through it all, through windows, concrete, and thick wooden doors comes the voice of Ivonne, droning, incessant, unrelenting, crying, scolding, nagging, cursing, condemning, wishing the world would end so she could be put out of her misery.

After she finally leaves, I come back into the house, feeling as if I am walking into one of those bombed-out buildings where a suicide bomber has blown himself up.

"My God," I say, "I thought she would never leave."

"Me, too," says my wife, but she sounds as if she really doesn't mean it.

"How can you stand it?" I say. "It must be a nightmare for you."

"Yes, it is."

"So, why don't you do something about it? Cut her off some way."

"It is terrible."

"Can you not just tell her you have something to do? You know, say you have an appointment with the doctor or something?"

"Oh, it was terrible. I suffer."

"Yes, that is what I mean. Don't you get angry, you know, and wish she would leave. Just be honest and tell her so."

"Ah, it was insufferable."

"Yes, we have established that. I am talking about doing something about it."

"I could not stand it one more minute."

At this point, I get the idea that my wife is agreeing with me in order to disagree with me. She agrees the thing was terrible. But, that's it!

"Listen, stop agreeing with me! I want you to do something about it.!

"So, you would like me to disagree with you? If I do so then I won't do anything about it."

Now I am really confused. She is not being clever. This is how her French mind works. It is turned around.

"Stop agreeing with me but agree with me that you have to do something about it."

"Yes, it is terrible," she repeats.

"Stop saying that!!" I scream.

"What? You don't think it is terrible? You should have to listen to her for six hours."

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Just say that you will do something about it!"

"Why are you shouting? You are getting to be like her."

"Augh" , I scream and pull a tuft of hair from my head.

"Hmph!" she says and walks away.

The next day she is dressing up, putting on her best dress, and jewelry.

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to Ivonne's house for tea."

"But, but, but..."

"Well, you can't expect her to come here after all the shouting you did and the way you talked about her..."

At that point I scurry away to my studio and drink that last half of the bottle of 10 year old Scotch I had been saving for a rainy day.