Cardella: I Married a Leftist

I swear that I’ve been duped. After 55 years of married life, I’ve discovered that all that time, my wife Fran has been manipulating me as if I were the Manchurian candidate. I’ve been under her subversive ideological spell. Even Uncle Nunzi was fooled by her charm. That kidney she gave me? Just a ploy to get control of my mind. And with that control, she has poisoned my mind against President Donald J. Trump.

I discovered Fran’s duplicity one day while she was working.  I was lying on the sofa finishing off a pint of BEN AND JERRY’S New York Super Chunk. Note — Fran’s purchase of BEN AND JERRY’S should’ve alerted me to her left-wing politics. We all know what a liberal s-hole New York City is. Before I continued my Netflix binge-watching marathon, I decided to see what was happening on Fran’s Facebook  page.

I expected the usual mix of recipes and photos of grandkids on Fran’s page. First thing I saw was a posting by one of her longtime girlfriends of a video of someone making a superb lasagna. As soon as I scrolled through the video — right after the third layer of mozzarella and meat was laid on the casserole — I was stunned to find a series of posts by my wife. Reading them was life-altering.

Fran was embroiled in political battles with Trump supporters from as far away as Mississippi on subjects such as gun control, abortion and immigration. The posts were an exchange of angry diatribes. My wife quoting MSNBC’s Chris Mathews. Her FB foes verbally taunting her with cries of “Go back home!” Fran responding with “Medicare for All.” And someone named Ron labeling her a “lost leftist.” I was married to a “lost leftist!”

I became worried. What was a “lost leftist?” The internet definition was murky at best. Was a lost leftist someone with a poor sense of direction? No, Fran’s sense of direction was fine. She’d never gotten lost as far as I could remember. I was the one who constantly got lost. There was the time I got lost on the way to my neighborhood tailor while carrying a bunch of clothes. I was looking for GINO’S Tailoring. Suddenly, I couldn’t find SYDENHAM Street so I followed someone who seemed to know his way around. I wound up at GINO’S alright…GINO’S Burgers. But those things never happened to Fran. Fran may be a leftist. But I’m the one who is lost. My adored wife has been brainwashing me over the years into becoming more liberal.

How had she done it? I’m not sure. She may have simply whispered in my ear after I fell asleep, words such as “pro-choice.” In retrospect, I realized she tended to use the phrase “me too” quite often. The more I pondered my wife’s treachery, the more obvious it became. I had come from a solid Republican family that voted for Nixon over Kennedy. My father had served on the police force with Frank Rizzo. For all I knew, Fran was a distant relative of either Sacco or Vanzetti. If I looked hard enough in her handbag, I was sure I’d find an ACLU membership card.

My God! Even now, she might be planning to make sure that in the fall, I vote for Jim Kenney instead of Billy Ciancaglini for mayor. On second thought, I won’t need Fran’s influence to make that decision. Things were becoming clearer. There was that afternoon in Center City when we saw my granddaughter marching past Macy’s in support of social justice. Without warning, Fran had grabbed my arm and led me running into the street to join the march. She’d claimed we had joined the protest in support of my granddaughter. Oh, perfidious woman! Before I knew what was happening, I was shouting, “Hands up! Don’t shoot!”

All these years, I thought that as a white male, I was dominant in my family. But it was Fran whispering in my ear like she was Iago and I was the clueless Othello. Words like “kale” and “Crosby, Stills and Nash.” I was a puppet, and she was pulling the strings. I should’ve known when I discovered the peace sign hidden in the design of her pizzelles. Where the hell did she get such a devilish pizzelle iron? I know now it didn’t come from FANTE’S.

You, dear reader, are the first to know about these shocking revelations concerning my wife. I had to write this column to clear things up. You’ve asked so often why I seem to dislike our president. Well, now you know. The Kool-Aid you thought I was drinking was actually Fran’s blend of half-decaf, half-regular Arabica blend.

What should I do going forward? I asked Uncle Nunzi. Uncle told me divorce is out of the question. “You can’t even find your socks in the morning without her,” he reminded me. And she DID donate her kidney to me. Was her kidney filtering out my love for my president?

I’ve decided to forgive my “lost leftist” as her FB foe Ron so smartly described her. I’ve demanded that she, in return for my forgiveness, give up her socialistic rants on Facebook.

I fear Fran is ignoring me. She’s back tapping out a message on her Facebook page to “Ron.” OMG! She’s defending Hillary. ••

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