The Betty White Debacle
The Betty White Debacle
I cheated on my wife. It just happened, and I can offer no excuse but my own human fallibility. It was with a woman I met while jogging. She looked at me, I looked at her, and we fell behind some bushes in the park and ravaged each other. The connection I felt to this woman was instantaneous, and I have decided to leave my wife and my kids. Love does indeed conquer all, apparently even the things you already love. Who knew this cliché held water?
I imagine some of you are wondering about the gory details. I can’t really go into them, not for legal reasons or even for reasons of decorum (besides, if you’ve been reading me for any amount of time, you know I’m not much for propriety). The real reason I can’t go into the details is because these titillating particulars reside in my wife’s mind.
You read that correctly. The above scenario played out in one of my wife’s dreams. It should be mentioned that this is not the first time I’ve broken the bonds of marriage during one of her salacious REM cycles. I have bagged everyone from the Dixie Chicks to Dame Edna.
The most recent object of my infidelity—played on the stage of my wife’s subconscious—was Betty White. Picture it: me and the Golden Girl—lying sweaty in bed, sharing a post-coital cigarette, she insisting I refer to her as Madame Sriracha while regaling me with stories of The Mary Tyler Moore Show and confiding that Ted Knight’s funny laugh was really a cover for when he was farting on set. This pillow talk leads to feelings of eternal devotion, and hours later—seconds in the dream world—I confront my wife and reveal to her that Betty White has stolen my heart, appropriated my penis, and convinced me to move in with her—wife and kids be damned!
The dreams usually get this far, and then my wife wakes up. The funny thing is, she’s not a jealous woman, and I’ve never given her reason to be. In my family, far too many men have made sport of women, and I never want to count myself amongst their ranks. It’s like some of these turds never watched Fatal Attraction or read Anna Karenina. They think an affair will solve their problems. Spoiler alert: boiled bunny rabbits and shattered souls throwing themselves in front of a train rarely lead to happily-ever-afters or life upgrades.
Still, despite my monogamy, I believe my wife’s dream is a ubiquitous one, common for anyone who has a family to lose, the method of loss playing out in a way that drips with all the logic of the dream world. I mean, come on, if I was really going to jump between the sheets with one of the Golden Girls—oh, my stars—it would be Rue McClanahan.
All that said, I’m not particularly interested in analyzing my wife’s dreams. What I am interested in analyzing is her behavior after the dreams. She holds a grudge. Because the dream version of me unleashed the tiger with the dream version of Betty White and then decided to leave the dream version of my dream wife and our dream kids, she takes it out on me for two, three, sometimes four hours.
Me: You want any coffee?
Wife: Oh, are you tired from all your sexual acrobatics?
Me: I was sexually acrobatic?
Wife: Yes! And quite frankly, it was disturbing how flexible your hips were.
Me: Disturbing? Do you mean arousing?
Wife: Stop talking about it! Take out the trash. And when I say trash, I’m not referring to that Betty White trollop.
Me: Watch your tongue. She’s an American treasure.
Wife: Yeah, and she was after your treasure.
Me: Well, she is a golden girl, so that tracks.
This from a woman who points out passing butts like she’s guiding me on a fine art tour—yet here I am, on trial for dream crimes I didn’t commit, in a world where Betty White is a femme fatale. I know everyone has his or her own brand of crazy, and I was ready to concede that this was my wife’s particular brand, but then I learned from a friend that his wife, too, often holds him accountable for the affairs he has in her dreams. His wife, like mine, is smart, sweet, elegant—and occasionally crazier than a Thanksgiving uncle after his third Rusty Nail.
Since I discovered this pattern amongst wives, I began asking around. It seems that not only is the dream ubiquitous, so is the unreasonable animosity. Women everywhere are cursing their men as bastards because they’ve had affairs with droves of intangible women.
I admit, the vividness of dreams can be off-putting. I’ve had dreams that have made me feel like I’m walking through Jell-O for the better part of a waking day. I don’t hold my wife’s fleeting resentment against her. Instead, I’m jealous. I rarely have sex dreams. When one of my dreams starts to head toward Bridgerton, either I wake up frustrated or the object of my dream affection morphs into a circus clown.
Apparently, my wife’s having all of my sex dreams for me. And that just sucks, right? How many chances does a guy really ever get to bag Betty White? I’m guessing those opportunities are few and far between. Particularly now that she’s dead. But if I’m going to spend my life in anyone’s dreams—literal or otherwise—I’m glad it’s my wife’s dreams. For all the subconscious indiscretions I’m accused of, I wouldn’t trade her for anyone. Not even a Golden Girl.
If you enjoyed this week’s installment of All Kinds of Funny, hit that heart button for me and show that algorithm who’s boss. And if you’re willing to go one step further…
A questions for the real ones: Dream accusations? Have you been a victim? Spill the tea.
No one can be blamed for fantasizing about Betty White. That's just nature taking its inevitable course.
I don’t know how jealous your wife could be, she had you knocking boots with Betty White. She could’ve at least hooked you up with someone whose hip you wouldn’t break.
I had a dream the other night I was sitting at a table with Billy Idol. He was reading the paper. I was basically ignoring him. Apparently we were married.