Friday, March 27, 2009

How Things Go Terribly Wrong In Relationships

I have approximately three levels of dress-uppitude. I'm sure they used to be higher, and even more exciting, but I am old, and have two children and a couple decades of gravitational pull under my belt, so to speak, and that tends to bring them down.

Oh, wait, that's breasts I was just talking about there. Sorry. I'm easily sidetracked. Old, remember. There's actually no excuse at all for my declining standards regarding my appearance. So let's get back on topic here:

Level One, I like to refer to as "I
think I brushed my teeth today." Level Two we shall call, "I should at least dress as if they provide me with a paycheque." (I use that one a lot at work.) And Level Three is... "Mascara."

Oh, yes, my friends, when I put on mascara I am feeling right hot-damn saucy. Rrrowr.

Today was a
Mascara day. Say it with me now:


The scene: My place; kids either asleep or out playing in the back yard. With the doors locked. (It's not really that cold out today, they'll be fine for a while.) I slide a pan of cabbage rolls in the oven, remove my lime-green cat-print apron, and set my sights on my prey: DH, here I come!

- Enter Stage Left. Wait, no - Sashay Stage Left! Strikes a provocative pose in front of DH, who is slobbed out on the couch surfing the internet, yet even in his grubby sweats has exceptionally nice eyebrows, why waste them on a man, really?, but regardless has no idea what the mascara-ed temptress has in store for him. "Hi there, handsome."

DH -
Click, click. Click, click. "Ungh."

Frecklepelt -
Undeterred, snuggles up beside DH, wafting the warm, delicate scent of par-boiled cabbage, and bats her lush, Light Black, waterproof eyelashes. "Looks like we've got some time to ourselves, honey."

DH -
Not yet entirely clued in. "Oh, yeah? Hey, is it really hot in here?"

Frecklepelt -
In a slightly desperate, yet also gracefully-executed fashion, drapes herself sort of over the goddamn laptop. "I think it's just me."

DH -
Lightbulb! In deep, provocative tone: "Oh yeah?"

Frecklepelt - "Yeah."

DH - "Well, you're certainly not making it any cooler."

Alright, end scene. I'm
not making it any cooler? Not making it cooler? I'm in his lap and the best pick up line he can muster is an oblique pot-shot at my dorkiness? Well that's just swell. Never mind then.

But whatever, would have been tough to concentrate on being frisky with the kids pounding on the screen door trying to get in anyways.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Peer Pressure

Due to overwhelming public outcry at the announcement in my last post, I am returning to my blogging endeavour.

Well, OK. There was actually no outcry, sortof a mild grievance on the part of one person, but the really exciting news that I just couldn't resist sharing is that, through careful observation, I have unearthed a stunning insight into the male psyche. Ladies, take your Couple's Lexicon down from the fridge and procure yourself a writing implement, 'cause here it comes:

When he says, "I started the laundry yesterday," before he heads out the door to work in the morning, he means, "I am out of clean underwear, so have placed two (of the household's four) full laundry baskets in front of the washing machine where they are now waiting for you to simply sortwashdryfoldandputaway! One easy step! Now, kindly display your endless gratitude by way of Hero Cookies and/or sexual favours in return for all my efforts."

(Well, OK. That's actually not
that stunning an insight, but c'mon now, how complex can their psyches really be?)

Whew, it's good to be back, folks. To paraphrase Descartes,
kvetch ergo sum. I bitch, therefore I am.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

... You're Part of the Precipitate.

DH has voiced some concern that my blog is becoming nothing better than a public forum for thinly-veiled bitching ... about him.

Uh, duh.

But I've promised to behave, at least until my next bout of hormonally-induced rage. (So, like, see you next week.)

And with that, I bid you good day, because without bitching, really - what is there to life? If you answered high-fat dairy products, you are correct, and now I am going to go procure myself some ice cream in an attempt to drown my sorrows in this life without bitchy blogging.


Sunday, March 8, 2009

If You're Not Part of the Solution...

DH has what I like to call, in my more diplomatic moments, a compressed range of emotions. Actually, I guess it's not really the emotions themselves that are in question, but rather the expression of them - he could be feeling any number of things in there, but no one has any inkling of it because the range of expression utilized is so impossibly narrow. Everything, from lasagna to lovin', is valuated on a scale of "not bad" to "pretty good".

People who are not in a relationship with someone like this might refer to it as stoicism or unflappable-ness or some other such poetic nonsense, but seriously, speaking as someone whom you might refer to as loquacious, this particular trait gives me issues. Like, hives, and irrational bursts of anger.

I have heard tell of a couple, recently shacked up, who were facing a similar communication barrier, and felt the need to create their own couple's lexicon. Brilliant! You could just post it on the fridge! It could go something like this:

She says "in a while"; she means "15-20 minutes".
He says "in a while"; he means "one to thirty-six hours, give or take".

She says "nothing"; she means "you had better bloody guess what's wrong and fix it pronto or you are so cut off for the rest of eternity".
He says "nothing"; he means "Jenna Jameson, but I have a vague instinctual sense that that would really piss you off and so I'm not going to say it".

The challenge, then, would be in the painful extraction of the male terminology. I think it would either have to involve slipping him some personality-enhancing narcotics, or just be executed via a protracted process of trial and error - "in a while", for instance, could vary depending on whether he's going out for poker night with the boys or promising to take out the garbage, but you'd just have to watch closely and take notes. Forever. Maybe issue revised editions of your couple's lexicon every so often to keep up with observed trends in usage.

Alternately, you could do like my mother does, and just interpret what you wish from the unintelligible grunts received in response to attempts at dialogue:

He says "Ungh"; he means "Why don't you go buy yourself some more really expensive shoes, honey? You deserve it!"

He says "Mmng"; he means "Amazing! Tell me more about your endlessly fascinating days at work!"

He says "Uh-uh"; he means, "Why don't you go to that shoe sale that's on now at your favourite store, honey? Shopping at sales is like making money!"

He says "Uh-huh"; he means "Perhaps you should remind me progressively more forcefully in five-minute intervals until I actually get off my ass and do what you asked!"

Actually, screw the lexicon, this way is way more useful. And was I complaining? What I meant was, thank goodness for stoicism, I totally needed more shoes!

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Give Peas A Chance

I find myself amusing. There, I've said it. Now we can all move on with our lives. But really, no one cracks me up quite as much as me, and you know what? That's probably a good thing. I'll always have plenty of good company if I ever find myself on a deserted island, or even just at a dull conference or on a lousy date.

Not that I date any more. In fact, aside from the whole "wax moustache, chew with mouth closed" stuff I'm not sure I would even know how. Why, just a few days ago, the stars aligned in such a fashion that DH and I ended up at the supper table alone together. Alone.
Together. It was so peaceful, so conducive to conversation - or at least digestion - that we naturally didn't know what to do with ourselves. Perhaps there once was a time in the distant past where we would have taken the opportunity engage in wild, crazy and spontaneous ... dialogue ... right there in the kitchen, but as it were I smooshed peas on the wall just so I'd have something to clean up. All that tranquility, you know? I guess I just snapped.

The point is, I was thinking I had to be interacting with
someone else. If I had just gone to my Happy Place - that is, inside my head to hang out wit' my bad self - I would have been fine. No wall peas necessary.

This is referred to by some as
social ineptitude. But they just don't know how fun it is in here.

Thursday, March 5, 2009


As we all know, I have recently reentered the realm of the gainfully employed. And Oh! What a feeling! I got myself generally cleaned and prettied up each day (it's my first week, you know - but in time this too shall pass) and waltzed out the door for a lovely, munchkin-free commute. I schmoozed, I socialized, I spent entire days doing things with my brains! Gloriosity!

And then I did the best thing of all: I came home. I came home and said, "Whew! Tough day at work. What's for supper?" This I found so incredibly amusing that I then had to run to the bathroom and muffle my hysterical laughter with a hand towel.

Ah, the lives of the bitter and distorted.

In the midst of all this bacon-bring-homing, I had to change my computer password. I am proud to say the contents of my work computer are now more secure than your average Dublin banking establishment, but for the fact that I had to make my password so ridiculously complicated that I was forced to write it on a Post-It and stick it to my monitor so I could remember how to log in. They made me include numbers, letters (both capital and lower case) AND symbols.
Symbols! I can't even remember my postal code most days, and that only has... well, I don't even know what it has, because I can't bloody remember it.

L3t m3 tHe F%#@! in 2 my C0mPu+3r, d@mm1t!