My Husband Is A Better Encourager Than Your Husband

June 22, 2016 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Greg is an encourager, which isn’t at all what I was going to write today. I was writing, instead, an apology for my Christian faith, but I’ve only gotten to the part where I used to buy books on demon possession and stuff them in my heathen friends’ couches so they’d discover them later and be coerced by abject terror to follow Jesus. “Planting seeds,” I called it, and I ROCKED it, man.

But that story’s not finished, and I can’t write something called An Apology for My Christian Faith, or a Declaration of a Faith That’s Wild and Free, or GODAMMIT; I’M GONNA FOLLOW JESUS unless I get the words right in my own head and heart first, so that’s going to have to wait a bit.

So I’m going to tell you about what an encouragement Greg is to me, but first I have to tell you I have a new bike.

A new bike!

Which isn’t new ’cause I don’t really do new, but is new to me, so, like “Beth Woolsey New” which is as good it gets around here.

My new bike looks like this if we paint it in watercolor, which we’re totally doing because I’ve been playing with my Waterlogue app to avoid writing my apology:

Preset Style = Travelogue Format = 10" (Giant) Format Margin = None Format Border = Straight Drawing = #2 Pencil Drawing Weight = Heavy Drawing Detail = Medium Paint = Natural Paint Lightness = Auto Paint Intensity = More Water = Orange Juice Water Edges = Medium Water Bleed = Average Brush = Fine Detail Brush Focus = Everything Brush Spacing = Medium Paper = Buff Paper Texture = Medium Paper Shading = Medium Options Faces = Enhance Faces

 

Also, it looks like this:

Painted in Waterlogue

And like this:

Painted in Waterlogue

And like this:

Painted in Waterlogue

(Psst… this isn’t a Waterlogue sponsored post, ’cause I don’t do sponsored posts, FYI.)

Back to Greg being an encourager!

I bought a bike! And I love it! It has an electrical assist I can engage when I ride up the giant hill to my house and also whenever I want to pretend I’m 87 and too old to peddle. And it’s enormous and bulky enough to haul a kid AND groceries on the back both of which I now do regularly because COOL BIKE.

In fact, I love my new bike so much I’ve decided to take it on our annual central Oregon vacation this week. And, while some husbands might discourage their wives from packing a huge, unwieldy, motorized bike on vacation — what with the 5 children and the service dog and the piles of luggage and mountains of groceries that attend our holidays with us — Greg said, and I quote, “There’s no way — NO WAY — that enormous thing is going to fit in our car.”

Isn’t that cute??

“No worries,” I said. “We can get a bike rack!”

“Too huge for a bike rack, Beth,” he replied. “There’s no way.”

Aw. He’s the adorablest! I heart him to the moon, friends!

“Car top carrier, it is!” said I.

“Read. My. Lips,” said he. “NO. Way. On God’s green earth, there is NO WAY are we taking that thing.”

I was beginning to sense some reluctance, however small, so I called my dad, and HE WAS SUPPORTIVE, TOO! “Greg’s right, Beth; that’s ridiculous. There’s no way to bring that thing on a 4-hour road trip.”

The men in my life, friends! They get me! I say I want something and then they get all tense and RIDICULE MY ABILITY TO MAKE IT HAPPEN… which lets me know they must WANT me to bring my bike VERY MUCH since expressing contempt and derision for my ideas is the fastest, most efficient way to get me to do anything. They’re SUPER SUPPORTIVE, in other words, and ensuring all my dreams come true.

The internet is all about telling other people how much better our lives are than theirs, so I figure it’s OK that I put down my Christian faith essay tonight to write, instead, about how much more encouraging my husband is than yours.

In conclusion, #FinallyDoingTheInternetRight!

With lots of love,

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Today in Evil: I Convinced My Husband We Bought A Horse

June 1, 2015 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

I don’t know what made me do it, but I’m a Christian, so I’m going to go with the Devil.

The Devil made me do it; that’s always a good excuse.

It’s just THE TEMPTATION, you guys. THE TEMPTATION OVERWHELMED ME.

I’ve heard it said God never gives us more than we can handle, but a) that’s a crap theological statement any way you slice it, and, b) more importantly, I’ll bet God wouldn’t say stuff like that if God’s husband went away for a week, took most of the children, and left her with way, WAY too much time on her hands. Time to think about buying a miniature horse, for example. And, yes, obviously time to reject buying a miniature horse because DUH. But also time to think about convincing her husband she’d bought a miniature horse anyway, because bwahahahaha; SATAN.

Idle hands are the devil’s tools. <– In the Bible, man. TRUE TRUTH.

MORE TEMPTATION THAN I COULD HANDLE, I tell you. More temptation than any woman should try to endure.

It all started innocently enough.

I just mentioned, via text, to my husband who was far, far away, that we might be able to finagle a way to buy Aden, our middle kid who adores equines, a miniature horse.

 

HorseText1

 

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Now, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean I really wanted to buy a horse, but Greg ignored me, which left me no choice at all but to keep texting him.

 

HorseText3

 

Still NOTHING from Greg, so I started pinging him with the “AREN’T YOU LISTENING?” texts and the “HELLO! HellLLLOOOOOO!” texts, and then he was a poophead…

 

HorseText4

…which made me realize I had to up my game.

I set to work.

I did my research.

I tattled on Greg to our teenager, Abby, who was home with me, and I led her astray.

“Abby,” I said, “Dad’s ignoring me. It’s like he really, truly believes I wouldn’t buy a horse without consulting him.”

“That’s probably because you wouldn’t buy a horse without consulting him,” she said, because she’s a jerk like her father.

“THAT IS NO EXCUSE,” I said. “It is now our job to convince him that I WOULD, TOO, impulsively buy a horse.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” said Abby.

And I said, “Is, too.”

And she said, “Is not.”

And I said, “THE BIBLE SAYS TO HONOR YOUR MOTHER, SO YOU HAVE TO DO WHAT I SAY OR JESUS WON’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE.”

And she said, “I’m pretty sure the Bible doesn’t say that.”

And I said, “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

And she said, “It’ll take less time if I just do what you want, won’t it?”

And I said, “Yep.”

And she said, “Fine,” which is the same as Honoring Your Mother, I think, because HOORAY! I WIN!

Thus began Abby’s text campaign to her father, which went like this:

 

AbbyText1

 

AbbyText2AbbyText3

 

AbbyText4

 

You know, there are times while you’re raising kids and you wonder if they’ll ever accept your way of life and your values and then they do stuff like this and you realize it’s all going to be OK. It’s all going to work out. Raise them up in the way they should go, and when they are old they will not depart from it.

Abby’s part concluded, I continued my quest.

 

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As you can see, Greg remained unconvinced after this barrage of texts.

Which is why it’s a good thing I have friends in my corner.

Friends who have friends.

Friends who have friends who have miniature horses.

Friends who have friends who have miniature horses they will bring to my home and pretend to sell to me.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

And it was.

Oregon Dream Ponies, whom I love and with whom I’m well pleased, showed up at our house and pretended to sell me a horse. In front of Greg. As a special “surprise” to him.

 

In conclusion, being married to me is THE BEST.

With love,

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RubySurpriseP.S. Greg didn’t get to keep the pony, but he did get a rad Oregon Dream Ponies t-shirt.

P.P.S. No children or ponies were harmed in the making of this practical joke. The kids were all in on in and thought it was HILARIOUS. Actually, I’m not sure the pony was in on the joke, so her feelings were probably hurt when she didn’t get to stay with us. AMENDMENT: No children or ponies were physically harmed in the making of this practical joke. Also, new motto for this site = Raising children and ponies to be self-sufficient enough to someday pay for their own counseling.

P.P.P.S. This post isn’t sponsored by Oregon Dream Ponies, and blah blah blah. I don’t do sponsored posts here. Kim at ODP is just really cool people willing to haul a tiny pony to a crazy woman’s house to help her torture her husband. Now, if that’s not True Community, I don’t know what is.

P.P.P.P.S. I’m thinking “In conclusion, being married to me is THE BEST” should be a new, regular series around here. The other time that was my conclusion was the day I pooped my closet. That Greg’s a lucky guy.

RubySurprise4

…..

Video credit Nate Macy: I think we can all agree he has the very best taste in background music.

My Husband Keeps Trying to Have Sex With Me

May 19, 2015 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

My husband keeps trying to have sex with me.

For example, he cleaned off six shelves in our living room last night. Like, sorting stuff and organizing it and getting rid of crap we don’t need.

I know, you guys. I know.

That’s pretty extreme all by itself, but desperate people sometimes take desperate measures.

But wait! There’s MORE.

Our 2nd grader, Cael, keeps having anxiety attacks about his bear. Although Cael didn’t want to be separated from Beary, he also didn’t want to take Beary to school in his backpack because the school might burn down and he might not be able to get Beary out in time. I’d be concerned about his level of anxiety, irrational worry and general paranoia, except I don’t let my kids put their beds in front of the windows because, if I do, then I’ll be responsible when they to bleed to death after either a) the Big Quake hits or b) the burglar breaks in, shattering the window in a gazillion pieces, one of which will inevitably hit an artery. Protecting Beary from the inevitable school fire? That just makes sense. So, instead of taking Beary to school or leaving Beary home to get mauled by our dogs, my kid entrusted Beary to his dad.

Now, Greg could’ve done any number of things with Beary.

Shoved him in a briefcase.

Threw him in the trunk.

Forgotten him at home.

But no.

My husband is a wise, wise man after 20 years of marriage, so he took that bear to work with him and started sending me pictures.

Pictures ostensibly for our son.

Pictures like this:

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And this:

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And this:

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Which are ADORABLE. And heartwarming. And endearing. And, well, are more likely to result in what we shall call Positive Reinforcement than, say, pinching my butt on the way up the stairs or groping my boob.

In conclusion, Well played, Greg. Well played.

P.S.

IMG_4006.PNG

 

An Essay on Being Supportive (and on Boobs)

March 10, 2015 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

You know how people post things on the World Wide Webs that are TOTALLY Too Much Information, and you’re all, “Oh MY GOSH. STOP,” and “GEEZ,” and “What ever happened to people having a SENSE OF DECORUM and NOT SHARING All the Things with strangers??” Yeah, well; if you’re nodding your head in understanding right now, you should probably stop reading. Because I care about you, and it’s OK that we’re different from each other, and, also, I’m about to talk about boobs. 

As for the rest of you who are still reading, you have only yourselves to blame; if you treated me like a stranger instead of a friend, maybe I’d get the message already, but you keep hanging out here in my living room, and so I tell you the things I tell my girlfriends in secret. This is on YOU, friend. On you.

Here’s the sitch:

My boobs have been falling out of my bras lately. 

When I twist, when I raise my hands above my head, when I bend over, whoop, there they go, just… falling on out the bottom like they have places to go and people to see. 

Like they’ve packed their bags and are waving good-bye. 

Like they’re late for the airport, and yelling at the cab driver to step on it, man, and looking at each other saying, if we RUN through security, we can BARELY MAKE OUR FLIGHT; go, Go, GO!

Now, I know what the problem is. Beyond gravity and aging, I mean. The problem is I’m cheap, and I hate shopping, and bra shopping is almost as bad as jeans shopping (psst… go to MakeYourOwnJeans.com <– not an ad; I just love them), so when I bought the wrong bra size initially — a little too big around the rib cage — I didn’t exchange my purchases or buy new ones, because UGH. Just ugh. And also, ugh. 

I decided I’d make them work. With a few surreptitious adjustments here and there, and trips to the bathroom to give the serial runaways another lift home, the bras have been fine. Not great, but fine, and, I’ll be honest; “fine” is a step above my otherwise low undergarments standards, so it was kind of a win. 

I recently dropped a few pounds, though. Very few, but some, and between the wrong size to begin with and the reduction of  back fat holding the harness in place, my breasts have become something of a social hazard. 

It was time to replace the bras.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of giving my darling husband all the background info on why I was headed to the store to make new purchases.

He offered an alternative.

“HEY!” Greg said, “Instead of you buying new bras, how about I follow you around watching for escapees? I can catch them and put them back! Quick as lightening! Like a Dog Catcher except for boobs! A Ninja Boob Catcher! Or… OR, BETTER YET, I’ll just follow you around the house and hold them in place for you. Because I care, Beth. Because I will literally always support you.” 

Greg is such a good helper.

Also, I bought new bras.

Also-also, there’s no greater point to this story. That was it. The whole thing. THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE INTERNETS, friends. And so, so right. 

Also-also-also, we have a new shirt in the 5 Kids Store online.

It looks like this:

Hands

I call it the “Let’s Support Each Other” shirt because that’s what this site is all about. BEING SUPPORTIVE.

Interestingly, my brother, who’s in charge of the 5 Kids Store because I promised him if he was really, really diligent he’d someday earn an entire packet of gum, created that shirt even though I did NOT tell him about my boob situation. (Hey! Score one for me being socially appropriate!)

No; he was creating THIS shirt…

WavingShirt

… about Waving in the Dark, because that’s what we do here together. We talk about the ridiculous. We talk about the important. We sit together in the dark, waiting for dawn to come, and we send each other love through it all.  

Yes, he was creating THAT shirt which is lovely and sweet and a poignant reminder, when he accidentally made THIS one, too…

Hands

“Oops.” 

Yeah.

Mm hm.

In conclusion, my boobs fell out of my bra, my husband and brother are super mature, and you can buy socially inappropriate, glow-in-the-dark t-shirts here

I’d apologize for all of that except I’ve decided to stop apologizing for who we are. 

Love to you and yours, no matter how immature they be,

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The Day I Pooped My Closet

January 30, 2015 in BEGIN READING WITH THESE FAVORITES, Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

 

Dear the Internets,

This is a true story.

This is my true story.

I lay down my dignity for you, because I love you very much.

Sincerely,
Beth

 

Once upon a time, I pooped my closet. 

I was pregnant.

With twins.

Approximately 100 years pregnant with twins, judging by my size, but really only 7 months or so, which made me roughly larger than a semi-truck and smaller than the Empire State building. Big, in other words, especially since I started the pregnancy “fluffy” according to a nurse who was kind and wonderful and didn’t call me chubby to my face for which I will always love her something fierce.

Fluffy to begin, I was, and then I got, well, fluffier. Growing two babies does a number on the body, and mine popped out in all sorts of delightful places not limited to my belly. No; I’m pretty sure my hind end, my thighs and my breasts were growing sympathetically in proportion to my middle, good girlfriends that they were, not wanting my belly to feel alone in all the fluff. 

Now I didn’t spend much time feeling badly about my weight because I’d lost 3 babies to miscarriage years ago, and now my body was making two of them, so HOT DAMN, Fluffy Body; you ROCK, you know?

Still, every time my mama walked into my house, she’d catch sight of my largess and her eyes would pop and her face would pale and she’d say, “Honey, you’re as big as a barn” and “You know you’re going to have those babies early, right? Because YOU CANNOT GET ANY BIGGER, Child; THERE’S NO WHERE ELSE FOR THOSE BABIES TO GO except OUT OF YOU” which I think was her prayer or an exorcism of sorts: IN JESUS’ PRECIOUS NAME, I COMMAND YOU TO GET OUT, Babies! 

So I was big, is what I’m saying. Or Enormous if one wants the technical, scientific description. And that meant it was hard to move, particularly if I was sitting or laying down or anything other than already in motion per Newton’s First Law of Motion which I’m sure he discovered whilst watching someone pregnant.

And I was tired all the time because a) growing two babies is hard work, man, and b) lugging the three of us around was tantamount to getting a cruise liner in and out of port; slow, tedious, a real nail-biter in close quarters.

On the day of the incident, I laid myself down in bed and took a nap. A nap! Which, in case you don’t have kids, I’ll tell you is a miracle both in scope and in frequency because naps are precious and rare, friends. If I ever get to nominate anything for sainthood — anything to sit at the right hand of God the Father in Glorious Heaven — it will be naps. People will be like, What about Mother Teresa who selflessly cared for the destitute and dying? And I will be all, MOVE OVER, TERESA because NAPS. 

So I was taking a nap in my nightie sans panties because I could no longer figure out how to lasso those things around my ankles much less wrestle them all the way up my legs, but I was awakened by an urge to go potty. I ignored it, of course, because NAP and exhaustion and the impractical nature of moving the ship out of port, and I fell back asleep, only to be awakened again and again.

Le sigh.

The age old decision of Go Potty vs. Stay in Bed compounded by Pregnancy. It’s a doozy, I tell you, but I finally decided to wrestle myself from the bed and make the trek through our master closet to the en suite bathroom and relieve myself.

Only, on the way, I farted.

Except it wasn’t just an air poopy like I thought.

It was a poopy poopy.

Followed by another poopy poopy.

Followed by another poopy poopy.

Poopies in rapid succession making good their escape and rushing to freedom. 

And, as I was sans panties, each soft poopy slid to the closet floor with little puh-looping sounds and sat there like brownie batter, soaking into the carpet. 

I, of course, was no longer in the proper physical condition to get my carcass down on the floor to clean it up, but I was also full of abject humiliation and paralyzed at the thought of a) telling my husband I’d just pooped our closet, and b) asking him to clean it. 

So I did what anyone in my situation would do: I stood in a sea of poopies and cried.

And cried.

And cried.

Which is where Greg found me. In my nightie. Standing in a field of daisies minus the daisies and plus my feces. Sobbing.

He tried to bundle me off to bed so he could scrub the carpet, but I wasn’t then and am not now a woman who appreciates being bundled, so, through my hiccuppy sobs, I asked the man to lower me to the closet floor, bring me a scrub brush and carpet cleaner and let me clean up my own mess in privacy. Complete privacy please, I begged, “You go AWAY, Greg. Go FAR, FAR AWAY and try to FORGET THIS EVER HAPPENED. I know we vowed for better or worse, in sickness and health, but THAT WAS A CROCK, MAN. I meant for better or worse FINANCIALLY, and in sickness and health WITH NURSES TO CLEAN OUR BOTTOMS. I did not agree to THIS. To Poop Fest 2006. So I need you to go AWAY and breathe peppermint and imagine me back when I wasn’t a closet pooper. PLEASE, man; I BEG YOU. GO AWAY.” 

And so he did. He brought me supplies. He lowered me to the floor. He went away. 

But I should’ve agreed to the bundling, because I spent the next half hour sitting crisscross in the closet trying to reach past my babies to scrub the carpet, and you guys… you guys… every time I shifted, I touched poop. To the left, my knee hit poop. To the right, my thigh nudged poop. Like St. Patrick’s prayer, except instead of Christ behind me, before me, beneath me, above me, to my left and to my right, where I sit and where I lie, it was POOP. I mean, Jesus was there, too, but mostly POOP.

Due to belly size, I didn’t have the leverage to clean. So instead of cleaning, I smeared. And when I freaked out that I was smearing — I am smearing poop in my closet. OH MY WORD. I AM SMEARING POOP IN MY CLOSET. — I smeared some more. OCD poop cleaning, except without any actual ability to clean. Obsessive compulsive poop smearing. I’m pretty sure that’s a diagnosable psychiatric condition. 

Well, eventually, I quit. Wisdom is the better part of valor, after all, and although I admittedly like to exhaust valor before I let wisdom through the door, I could admit I’d tried and was defeated and needed Greg to finish.

I went to get him. 

I mean, I tried to go get him, but that’s when I discovered my legs were asleep after being trapped under the belly all that time. 

I pulled on the dead weight of my legs to get them out from under me, sticking them straight out from my belly — and into the wasteland — to revive them, but no feeling came back. Minutes and minutes of leaving my legs in poop and just no feeling at all because they were still beneath my belly, even sticking out, and the belly was still good at cutting off blood. 

So I laid down.

In the closet.

In smeared poop. 

And Greg came back a half hour later to find me there, with poop on my hands and poop on my legs, lying in the poop I’d smushed into the carpet. 

In conclusion, I once pooped the closet.

And also, being married to me is THE BEST. 

So listen, friend. You might be having a down day. You might be going through a rough patch. You might wonder if you’re the only one sitting in a giant, figurative pile of poo. But I am here to tell you, if you are not sitting in a giant, literal pile of poo, you’re doing better than you know. Better than you know, friends, and better than me that day. 

Sending love to you,

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I Went to the Wilderness, I Squat-Pottied in Idyllic Locations, I Didn’t Check the Internets for a Week, and Whovians Hijacked This Blog

October 7, 2014 in Beth by Beth Woolsey

IMG_0641APPARENTLY — *ahem* — there was a teeny, tiny, little hijacking of this blog whilst I was away, kayaking down the idyllic Green River for days and days, taking in stunning vistas, squat-pottying in a delightful, shared metal poop box called a groover which is not unlike a desert-powered slow cooker for collected feces, and blissfully not monitoring the nefarious blog coup underway. 

I hold Greg responsible. 

And you Whovians for encouraging him.

Yes. Greg and you myriad Whovians are clearly at fault for the blog coup.

I could not stop laughing this morning from my hotel room in Salt Lake City as I read through your dismay and disgust at my lack of Whovian follow-through.

Also, you’re all very awesome and I love you very much, even though you willfully aired my dirty Whovian laundry and, in my absence, signed me up for remedial Whovian indoctrination. Remedial InDoctorination, as the case may be. 

I admit, I’m a Doctor Who tease, leading Greg on by watching a couple of episodes and then ditching him to read much more urgent, but definitely quality vampire / werewolf literature in the evenings, ensconced in bed, head on pillow, comforter pulled to my chin, actively shunning his desperate and occasionally pathetic Whovian pleading.

As for Greg’s comparison between Outlander and Doctor Who, while admittedly brilliant, I have just one thing to say:

JAMIE.

It’s just… Outlander has Jamie, and Doctor Who doesn’t, and if you’ve read more than 30% of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, I know you know what I know. YOU KNOW WHAT I KNOW, you know? I mean, I haven’t watched Outlander episodes 7 or 8 yet… the episodes for which I’ve been waiting with breathless anticipation… but I remain confident I have placed my faith in the correct, hot, fictional character.  

Unfortunately, what I hear you saying about the Doctor is that you know what I don’t know, and that I should know what you know, and that, if I wasn’t quite so stubborn, I’d already know what you know, and that, for the sake of my marriage and all that is right and good in the universe, I ought to trust what you know ’til I know it, too.

In conclusion, I hate to admit when I’ve lost, but I’ve lost.

I’ll give the Doctor another try.

Wish Greg luck.

………

P.S. Greg was right to talk to you. He knows I will do things for you that I won’t do for him. Although I will also do certain things for Greg that I won’t do for you, so I feel like that’s fair. 

P.P.S. I’ll tell you more about the Green River in the future, but if you’re curious in the meantime about the details of what we did, you can follow my friend and trip leader John’s blog, Just Finding Our Way. So far, he’s posted about Packing and Day Zero. He’ll post Days 1-12 soon. My dad and I join the trip on Day 6 at Mineral Bottom.

P.P.P.S. My tent last week was Tardis blue.

My Wife Won’t Watch Doctor Who: PLEASE HELP

September 30, 2014 in Beth, Funny by Greg

Greg here, while Beth is away this week.  I don’t think I’ll make the same mistake a made a few years ago.

I hadn’t planned to hijack Beth’s blog, no matter what she said at the end of her previous post, but, thanks to your comments, I’ve realized I need your help.

Beth writes about our family, openly, honestly, and transparently, and she writes about the importance of community and finding the Elusive Village. Now it’s my turn to tell the truth about what happens in our house and to ask for help from you, Beth’s Village. I think you can see that hijacking Beth’s blog is the only conscionable course of action.

Beth almost shared one of the darker secrets of our marriage in her last post when she alluded to her lack of interest in The Doctor. She didn’t come right out and say it, though, so I will.

Beth doesn’t watch Doctor Who.

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This from the woman I love, who eagerly binge watched Battlestar Glactica with me and loves anything Joss Whedon touches. But when she tried two episodes of the most recent series with me, it just didn’t resonate. Even starting with Mat Smith as the Doctor meeting Amelia Pond! She didn’t connect. They had me at fish custard, but not her.

I’m at a loss to convey to her the depth of the pathos, triumph, and tragedy in each new story arc. The whole of space and time, with love lost, found, and lost again, across four dimensions. Death, rebirth, the end of everything, and the rediscovery of hope.

I mean really.  We’re 6 episodes in to the first season of Outlander.

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I’ve helped with the DVR, alerted her to new episodes, and held her hand through the drama, without once suggesting we switch over to football (of any variety, round or oblong).

Perhaps it would help to relate it to something closer to her experience.

Story Element Outlander Doctor Who
time travel X X
political intrigue X X
dangerous secrets X X
imminent death X X
lost love X X
new love tinged with guilt/grief over lost love X X
moral dilemas over changing history X X
mysterious use of futuristic science X X
Scottish accents X 12th Doctor
swordplay X X
nightmares in the shadows   X
terrifying statues of angels   X
bigger on the inside (no, cheesy references to Jamie’s heart don’t count) X

 

I think Beth needs to give the Doctor another chance. We could have something really special together.

PLEASE HELP me compile a list of reasons for Beth’s return.
Why should Beth learn to love Doctor Who?