Tag Archives: husbands

What is it Like to be a Woman?

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice
And everything nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.

What is it like to be a woman? I wish I knew. Even grown women are rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Am I still a girl? I do know I’m sick to death of being “cute.” It’s a good thing too, I’m past my prime in the cute department. Whenever I am writhing my way through some kind of metamorphosis Mr. Husband claims the short end of the stick. He hasn’t learned after 8 years to leave me alone when I need it. Even when I spell it out in excruciating clarity and say “leave me the hell alone.” He also tends to follow me around breathing down my neck when I’m not in a talkative mood.

“Are you OK? You sure are being quiet.” He’ll ask when I’m reading a book. Wander what would happen if I let out intermittent screams and cackles while reading. Would this satisfy the noise criteria? Then the drive by questions start,  “whatcha doing?” Well dear, I’m walking from point A to point B, and there is every likelihood that at some point I may walk back from point B to point A, but don’t hold your breath.” I try to see it from his point of view, but usually fail. I grew up in a large noisy house full of people. If everyone asked someone else what they were doing on a walk by, that’s all we’d ever talk about. And probably end up in frustration induced smack downs that rival reality TV.

Now I’m starting to chafe under this weird obligation or burden to be “cheerful” and “cute” all the time. Smile, make small talk, chatter about the weather, blah, blah, rutabaga, rutabaga. Men aren’t expected to do this. Woman are advised to give their guy some space. Let him go off to his man cave, think his deep manly thoughts in solitude and privacy. Uninterrupted by silly questions. “What are doing” Why aren’t you smiling? Is there something wrong? Are you mad at me? Are you taking your pills? Are you plotting my demise? Where is the cat?”

In my family of origin we coped with the need for head space in more of an oriental kind of way. Never gave it much thought until now. It was an unspoken rule that when someone curled up in a corner with their nose in a book or leaned on the windowsill looking at the clouds, this person was in a private place and wanted solitude. I would never dream of walking up to anyone engrossed in a book and ask “what are you doing?” It is a question that begs a sarcastic answer at the very least. “If you must know, I’m judging the heft of this novel against the chances of its cracking your skull?” Be careful when asking silly questions, you might not like the answer.

Is it the interruption factor? Women through ages tell their children, “don’t bother Daddy dear, he’s relaxing after a hard day at the office, the salt mine, the Roman forum.” Mother may still have scramble eggs lodged in her eyebrows from the breakfast battle with junior, but that’s not important in the grand scale of things. Women are raised to believe that everything they do is subject to interruption, idle curiosity or  interference by the needs or whims of others. “I’ll just get back to my petty little essay on the meaning of life, the universe and everything it contains, after I scratch your left shoulder-blade.” And we do it with a smile on our face. Or do we? Is it really a baring of teeth? “Yes dear, right away dear, your command is my wish dear.” Truth unspoken – At this moment dear, I wish you would fall of the edge of the earth, today if possible.

Now to Mr. Husband’s credit, this seems to be a recurring theme in my relationships with men. For all the reasons I’ve listed above. Can men help if it they are raised up to believe that women are on this earth for the sole purpose of amusing them? Is it encoded in the DNA or a learned behavior? Who knows. I know I’m not a typical woman. I don’t need nonstop, 24/7, constant interaction, petting and assurances of love. I either feel it or I don’t on a given day. What I need and want is the privacy to think my own thoughts. Uninterrupted, interrogated. If my door is shut, leave-me-the-hell-alone! I don’t even care if the house is on fire.

Life is What Happens While You Are Busy Making Other Plans

“Life is What Happens While You’re Busy Making Other Plans”  John Lennon.

We must have a plan. You must have a plan. Failing to plan is planning to fail. My official opinion on this is: HOGWASH. Plan is a 4 letter word. OK, Winston Churchill said “he who fails to plan is planning to fail.” Well yeah, If you’re planning a war. He said that in the midst of WWII. Taking up arms is not on my agenda at the moment.

Where is written that you must have a plan? Why can’t I just live my life one day at a time, or one hour at a time? Better yet, why does the day have to be measured into symmetrical chunks? Make a list check it twice, scramble around all day to get things done and feel guilty about what didn’t get done. No thank you!

Maybe it’s a question of semantics. What some people call a plan is my mental wish list. Things I’d like to do at some point during my stay on the planet. The ordinary, in your face, stuff has to get done and gets done. I don’t need to plan it out. It just happens, whether I want it to or not.

Mr. Husband got his head snapped off this morning by yours truly. When he gets stressed he goes into planning mode. “Lets see here, how many things can I cram onto a to-do list today before I lay me down at night.” So this morning I’m sitting there, minding my own business, either before coffee or before coffee has reached my brain pan yet, peacefully writing nebulous thoughts. Hub-man sits down and starts the morning 20 question slow roast. “What are you going to do today?” Uh, dunno.

Again “what are you going to do today?” Well at some point I’m going to brush my teeth, maybe eat something, haven’t decided yet. “Well, do you have any plans?” Huh? If you insist on an answer, I plan to hit you over the head with a frying pan in a few minutes, after that my schedule is open. A few minutes later “Well, have you decided what color you are going to paint your office.” My thought was, blood-red, my response was “stop asking me questions!!!” His response was a wounded look and hurt tone of voice , “well fine!”

It occurred to me later that maybe he wanted me to do something. Well Bubba, if you have something in mind that you would like me to do, spit it the f@@k out. Don’t make me try to read your mind. I can’t even read my own mind half the time. It’s dark and complicated in there with many twists and turns, unexpected roadblocks, steep drop offs. It also takes flight at the drop of a hat, without a seat belt and tray table warning.

Is there a lesson in here? If you want something ask for it? Be specific. No inane, vague, beat around the bush, OMG I can’t believe you asked me this again, type of questions. Especially in the morning. There is no such thing as polite conversation before I’m fully awake. It’s the adult version of “are we there yet? are we there yet? are we there yet?” It really is just that simple.

The Horror Begins

It’s 8:17 am, and I’m hiding in my office. The construction team is out in the hall taping a giant zipper to the outside of the door while I write. For the next 3 months our house will be a disaster area. First on the agenda is a demolition of the master bath. It’s old and I won’t miss it, but oh the racket. The cat’s in a crate. The dog is locked in Mr. Husbands office, barking her head off. Hopefully they will get used to it.

The result will be 2 beautiful new bathrooms. Our house was built in the 60’s and the baths are the original design complete with avocado green tile in 1 and Truck Stop beige tile in the other. Yuck!

Our bed is now in the middle of the dining room. We will live in there for the next 3 months or until we move to separate hotels, depending on how well husband and I cope with the upheaval. We have managed fairly well so far until last night. Hub-man worked himself  into a snit because “he packed way more boxes than me” . Ex-cuuuuuuse me! Is this the 800 plus videos that drive me so crazy that I actually blog about it to the entire universe, or the 5 people who read this? Or maybe the 10,00 books stacked all over everywhere that are dusty, yellow and you haven’t touched in 20 years?

Husbands

Husbands

Listen here, Bubba. Did you actually think I was obligated to HELP YOU PACK UP THIS S@@T????? You may as well send me to the liquor store to buy booze for an alcoholic. In what reality is this? It sure isn’t the one I live in. To quote one of Mr. Husband’s favorite phases, “NOT gonna happen.” OK, by this time I was yelling. All decorum was gone and my last shred of loving wifely patience flew out the window on the dark wings of rage. The very nerve! I literally had to bite my tongue to stop from going into a full-fledged tirade. It’s still a little sore this morning.

That “never go to the bed angry” thing sounds good on paper. But sometimes when 2 angry emotional people are on their last nerve, the best thing to do is just go to bed and get some much-needed sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Everything is peachy this morning. A bright new day, good hot coffee, life it good. By tonight we may be beating each other over the head with construction materials, but we’ll just deal with it then.

The Remodel Challenge

http://www.kathysremodelingblog.com/

For My Husband on Valentines Day

Song of Solomon

Love - Disney's Fantasia

The voice of my beloved! Behold, he comes,
leaping upon the mountains, bounding over the hills.
My beloved speaks and says to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away;
O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the cliff,
let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is comely.

My beloved is mine and I am his.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a most vehement flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,neither can floods drown it.
(Song of Solomon 2: 8-10,14,16a. 8:6-7a)

A Squirrel Ate My Car

Warsaw Squirrel

My car is haunted. No really, I swear! Nothing serious, just annoying  little glitches. First the satellite radio wonked out and decided to play nothing but the Catholic channel and weather from Wisconsin. I live in Texas so not much help there. I briefly wondered if it was some kind of sign from the cosmos, but decided “nah.” Next thing to go was the rear passenger window. It would randomly slide up and down. Slowly, not that wham bang sound that makes you jump out of your skin when the window glass collapses down inside the car door. The dome light took on a life of it’s own.

I’m one of those go with the flow kinda people so I didn’t pay much attention. However, when the windshield wiper fluid stopped squirting, it started bugging me. Then the turn signals began blinking so fast it was giving me a headache. Enough already. When the husband announced that my headlight was out, I had to bite the bullet and take the girl to the dealership.

I thought it was going to be a quick in and out. Noooooo. The next day the service manager called me to announce that there “was something alive” in my engine. “Say what?” “Well, Mrs. X, a small animal has taken up residence in your engine and is chewing up the wires like they were corn on the cob.”  We’re talking major damage here. The insurance adjuster went to the dealership, took pictures, and agreed that it was indeed pitiful. My car needed a new wiring harness,  a new seal for the windshield, and various hoses. The fun continued when they did something to the transmission and had to replace a valve. The grand total – $2,500.

Mr. Assistant Service Manager assures me that the critter is no longer in there. Now, how does he really know that? Seems when it gets really cold around here the squirrels decide to have a party in your cozy warm engine block. It’s not done being cold around here.

He tried to comfort me by sharing that the previous person to come in the shop discovered his own personal squirrel in the passenger compartment. Yeee Haaa. Can you imagine toodling down the highway and some furry creature starts bouncing off the interior of your car?  I would probably shoot across 4 lanes of traffic, screaming like my hair is on fire, and end up in ditch with a lot of explaining to do.

I asked the service manager if he had any ideas about how I might prevent this from happening again.

“Fox Urine” he chirps.
Um, Gross. “Anything else?”
“Well some people have had success with mothballs…”
“Mothballs? Won’t you smell that when you turn the engine on?”
“Well yes, but most people don’t mind.”

Dodge Charger

Well, I’m not most people and there will be a snowballs in hell before I drive around with fox urine or Ode de Mothballs stinking up my car. Guess I’ll just have to take my chances with the squirrels. The up side to this adventure was that I got to cruise around town for a week in a rented cherry red Dodge Charger.

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