The Queen of Sheba, the Queen of England, Queen Latifah – the list of powerful and well-known Queens from past and present can go on. But the most important one on the list of Queens would be the one who rules the Burgos household, Queen Lizabeth.
Who's that grrrrrl?
|Lizbeth and Dale Burgos|
There has been many a time when I’ve eavesdropped on my wife’s conversations with her friends and I’ve heard the question, “How do you put up with him?” or “Which one is your husband?” Ouch, that last one hurt, mostly because I’m the one on the ground writhing in pain. Yup, the poor sap with the sore back and weak knees. This after wrestling with my five boys. I’m also the one crying because of the broken Purple Rain cassette tape in the back pocket of my Jordache acid wash jeans. That should give you an indication of what generation I am.
More often than not, I’ve referenced my crazy and unfortunate antics in the Pilipino Express and many a times, she looks at me and shakes her head. Yet, she still decides to keep me. How lucky am I, really? Let me count the ways:
1. I have mastered the look and nod, but still can’t get the whole “listening” part when she talks to me. I could swear she told me to change the sparkplugs on the van, when in fact she told me to go to Superstore and buy bubble bath for the kids. Do you see how I could have interpreted it wrong? If you are of the male persuasion, then you probably understand. The thing of it is, the van needed a sparkplug change anyways, so big deal, right? Wrong.
2. I like to dance. Anytime, anywhere. Who says you can’t dance at church? Right? Wrong. And the list goes on.
If you are a regular follower of the Pilipino Express and my columns, you probably have noticed that I like to write about my family and the many adventures we like to get mixed into. This year, we’ve taken to refurbishing and beautifying our cottage. And here is where my inspiration for this article hath come from.
My wife is all but 5’3”. She is a tiny thing, until she puts heels on, and that is pretty much the only time we see eye-to- eye (figuratively speaking, we never argue). She likes to wear heels, has manicures and pretty much changes her hair style on a weekly basis. But I have to tell ya, and I will use the saying from television’s popular reality series Survivor, that she can outwit, outplay, outlast me any day of the week.
I would have to attribute her survival skills to her upbringing in rural Manitoba and the many camping trips she has taken with her family while growing up. And I’m not talking about camping trips over at Rushing River just outside of Kenora or using site 22 over at Bird’s Hill Park, which is two steps away from the biffy. I’m talking about camping trips in the woods, where you don’t have toilet paper and survive only by consuming the limbs of those hikers who just couldn’t hack it.
Time to reel myself back to reality and get back on topic – the cottage. Every year, the tradition is to sit around the camp fire, tell stories, eat marshmallows or smoke hotdogs.
What is the main ingredient for campfires? No, not Tito Boy and his acoustic guitar. I’m talking about firewood. And my wife is obsessed with the stuff. Last year she started with kindling, little branches that have fallen off and dried up, perfect to start the fire. But now she’s moved onto bigger game: bigger branches, logs, pieces of dilapidated structures. You name it, she’ll pick it up and burn it.
So imagine if you will, my wife, in the woods with huge pieces of trees that have fallen off, all being held with one arm while the other arm, it seems, pulls small unknowing trees from its roots. Along the same lines, she’s taken rock collecting as a hobby. She’s decided she wanted rocks to border the cottage and fence. Imagine once again, digging around the local quarry and finding pieces that would weigh in at 20 to 50 pounds. Who is carrying them? Not me, I have delicate hands that I need to protect so that I can write about our conquests.
Needless to say, she is an outdoors person. I, on the other hand, still need running water and a fridge. And until I can give birth to a baby the size of a watermelon, I will never underestimate the power of my Queen.
Dale manages the communications department for a Winnipeg school division and after a weekend of sun and tanned skin, officially can say he is a brown-noser. Love you honey! And should also mention, he too was carrying big stones, we have the chiropractor bill to prove it.