Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Mistaken Identity

Well, I figured it was time to let hubby off the hook. He is no longer a big, dumb jerk, but he is still a man, so he could have a relapse at any given moment (hey, my PMS is only 2 weeks away).

As for what he did (I had several inquiries), let's just say it was basically a case of him getting a little too big for his britches and forgetting who he married. It took a couple of days of me altering his britches, but I think they are fitting him again just fine now.

Which brings me to my subject for today's post--strong women.

Now, I'm not talking about women who can bench press a horse. I'm talking about women who have strong spirits and are strong willed. Women who know who they are and know they deserve respect. They are women who are smart, proud and confident, and rarely take crap from anyone.

You want to know how to tell if you are a strong woman? Just count how many times you've been called a bitch or at least been told you were acting like a bitch or being difficult and that will give you a clue.

It just so happens that I am one of those strong women and I must say, I am damn proud of it. One thing I am not, however, is a bitch. A bitch is a woman who is overall unhappy and unloving and goes out of her way to make everyone as miserable as herself. That is not me.

That does not mean that I am never unhappy or unloving. I am on occasion. Who the hell isn't? But I am never miserable. Overall, I love my life and I love who I am. During the times when I am unhappy or being unloving, it is usually for one of two reasons--someone has overstepped my boundaries or my crazy hormones are out of whack and I am PMSing.

What I find interesting, however, is just how quickly the man of a strong woman can categorize her as a bitch. Isn't it usually that strong side of her personality that attracted him in the first place? In the beginning, he sees her as sassy and feisty and he just has to have her, no other woman will do. But somewhere along the line, things change and he starts to see her in a very different light.

But the truth of the matter is that she is really no different than she was when he met her. The only thing that changed was the way he thinks about her. Perhaps he needs to be reminded that he chose his strong woman for a reason. Something inside him wanted her and needed her. He should not expect her to be anything but strong...even when he gets out of line.

Yes, when a strong woman fights, she fights strong. When she hurts, she hurts strong. But the most important thing a man of a strong woman needs to remember is that she also loves, and when does, she loves strong.

So here's to all you strong women out there. Be proud, be strong, and don't ever let your man mistake you for anything else.


Tuesday, October 20, 2009

My Husband is a Big Dumb Jerk

That's basically it. My husband is a big dumb jerk. And no, it's not because I'm PMSing. That all passed yesterday.

He's just a big dumb jerk today.


Monday, October 19, 2009

Beware of the Font Monster

It's that time of the month again. You know. When my husband turns into an idiot and my kids belong to someone else. Yes, it's PMS time and, boy, has this time around been a doozie.

Of course, when my PMS starts, I don't realize that PMS is actually what the problem is. Instead, I blame every little annoyance on the person annoying me. But as things start to build, there will inevitably come a moment when I am beyond annoyed and just outright seathing mad. It is usually then that I lose all sense of reasoning and rationale and I realize that the problem is not every one else. It is me and my PMS. Of course, there is always a victim, and this time around, it was my poor little son.

He had a book report due on Friday, so naturally, he waited until Thursday afternoon to finish the damn thing. He had written about two paragraphs when he was at his father's house earlier in the week, but he still had a lot more to do.

He began on the report at 4:00 p.m. after he had finished all of his other homework. There he sat, pecking away at his keyboard, working diligently. After about an hour, I asked him how he was doing, and he said he had two more paragraphs to go. Pleased with his response, I'm thinking he'll be done in no time.

But at around 6:00 p.m., two hours from when he started on his report, he was still sitting at the computer. This is when my annoyance started to set in. So I asked, "Are you done yet?"

"No, I have one more paragraph to type," he answered.

"You mean to tell me it took you an hour to type one paragraph?"

"No, I typed other stuff too."

"But you said you only had two paragraphs left to type the last time I asked you, and that was over an hour ago."

"I know, but I had some stuff I had to fix. I'm almost done."

So I left it at that and went downstairs to begin dinner. Meanwhile, my stepson is going in and out of the house, letting the door slam behind him each and every time, adding to my annoyance.

At around 6:45, I yell up the stairs to my son, "Are you done yet?" And my stepson, more than happy to tattle on his stepbrother, proudly announces, "No, he's not done yet." I look over at him and ask, "Was I talking to you?" He turns his eyes to the floor and answers, "No."

So I yell back at my son, "Evan, are you done yet?"

"Almost, Mom."

It is at that point that my annoyance starts to bubble over into madness. So I yell back to him, "Alright, that's it! You've got ten minutes and then you are done whether you're finished or not!"

I go back to the stove and work on dinner some more, this time keeping track of every minute that passes. After five minutes I yell up to my son, "You've got five minutes left!" I go back to stirring this and turning that, checking the clock like a crazy person.

As soon as the ten minute mark hits, I yell to my son, "Time's up!" He says something that I can't make out. But as my husband comes down the stairs, he tells me that he said he just needed two more minutes.

I stormed over to the stove and began slamming things around. After two minutes, I marched up the stairs to find my son waiting at the top of them. Very close to shoving him back into my uterus, I ask him, "Are you done?!"

"Yes, but I need your help emailing it to you so that you can print it for me."

"Jesus Christ! I just showed you how to do that yesterday! What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell.

So I go over to his computer and explain each step of the process of attaching a document to an email in a manner that did not mince any words.

I trudged over to my computer to retrieve his report and print it. As I sat there waiting for the document to open, my son quietly crept down the stairs, probably greatly relieved that he was done with his report and even more relieved that he was done with me.

But little did he know he was not done with me. In less than a minute after opening the file of his book report, I yelled, "EVAN, YOU GET YOUR ASS UP HERE RIGHT NOW!"

As quiet as a mouse, he crept back up the stairs, as if walking quietly would somehow calm the monster he was about to face. I could see that he had no idea what he had done wrong now. He stood there before me, his face full of unknowing fault and fear.

It was then that I enlightened him on the error of his ways when I asked,
"Why in the HELL did you use this stupid font?!"

Before he could answer, I started into my lecture. "This is ridiculous! I can barely read the damn thing! And if I can't read it, I know your teacher won't be able to read it! She's older than me! So I know it's going to be harder on her eyes than it is on mine! Old people like us can't read shit like this! Look at it! It's impossible to read! You mine as well have typed it in Japanese! And why is everything capitalized?! Your report is NINE frickin' pages long! That's ridiculous! You have like only five or six words on each line because of the stupid font you used! And why did you put a hard return after each damn sentence?! That makes it impossible for me to fix the stupid thing! When I try to fix it by changing the font, there are still only five or six frickin' words on each stupid line! I don't know how you can be an "A" student with crap like this! What were you thinking?!"

And on and on I went, ranting and raving about the font my son used in his book report.

Of course, my son offered to fix it, but I was not going to have any of that. My patience with him had run out and I did not think he would survive the night if it took him longer than a minute to remove all the hard returns. I just printed it off the way it was and he quietly crept away with his book report in hand and whatever lesson he learned.

By the time dinner was done, everyone in the house was annoying me, even if all they were doing was breathing. So off I went to my bedroom to watch some TV. As I sat there decompressing, it was then that I realized that I was PMSing. I mean, how more obvious could it be? I got angry at my son over a font!

Lucky for me, my son is a very sweet and forgiving young man. While I laid in bed watching TV, he came into my room and curled up in bed next to me. It was then that I told him I was sorry for yelling at him and being so grumpy. "It's okay, Mom," he answered. I hugged him tight, and as he hugged me back, I told him, "Thanks, sweetie. Just make sure you don't use that stupid font again."


Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Bloggy Little Secrets

So, there I was, out with a group of friends at a local winery, sipping my sample of wine, when my friend’s brother says, “Hey, I read your blog. It’s really funny!” It was then that I feel my husband looking at me through his black sunglasses and hear his unspoken questions, “What? Blog? What is this guy talking about?”

GULP! GULP! GULP! goes down the wine.

Yes, when I started my blog, I inadvertently forgot...okay, FAILED to tell my husband. Why you ask? Well, there was really no specific reason. Just my own stupid fears about what he might think. I meant to tell him...eventually. There just seemed to never be a good time. Every time I found myself with an opportunity, I would run the dialogue through my head and it always sounded...well, STUPID. So I said nothing and my secret continued on month after month, until that day at the winery, when my friend’s BROTHER (I won’t mention his name, although it starts with a “K” and rhymes with “Kyle”) spilled the beans!

Well, to say the least, my hubbie was not happy. He didn’t even want to talk about it. He even told me he was NEVER going to read my blog because I did not tell him about it. (Of course, I'm thinking, "Okay...how old are we?")

This went on for a couple of months, until recently, while driving in the car, my husband and I somehow got on the conversation of my blog. My hubbie then asks, “So can I read your blog?” Of course, this is right after I posted the PMS anniversary story, which was the first time I had posted anything that had to do with him. So my response was, “Um...well...I guess, as long as you don’t take things too seriously. I mean...." and on and on I went, looking for a defense or a reason why maybe he shouldn’t read my blog. My husband said nothing more about it...until....

About a week or so ago, my good friend Happy Hour Somewhere came over to hang out with us for the evening. I’m sitting there sipping my glass of wine when I say to Happy Hour, right in front of my husband, “He hasn’t read my blog yet. Do you think he could handle reading it?” At that moment, my hubbie announces, “Oh, I read your blog already...just yesterday.”

GULP! GULP! GULP! goes down the wine.

The remark my husband and Happy Hour heard me say out loud was, “I thought you said you weren’t going to read it.” But the silent remark I made to myself was “OH SHIT!”

Before I could ask him what he thought, he looks me in the eye and says, “So, you think I’m a dork, huh?!”

Of course, Happy Hour starts laughing her ass off, and all I could do was backtrack.

“No, honey...I just said that "other" people might think you are a dork. I live with you though, and I’ve gotten used to that side of you. I’ve learned to love that part of you.”

(Hmmmm...looking back, I’m thinking that came out wrong.)

Well, to make a long story short, by the end of our half-joking, half-serious banter, everything turned out fine. When my hubbie and I went to bed that night, he snuggled up close to me, looked me in the eye and said, “I actually liked your blog, honey, and I think you are a very talented writer.”

Now, this doesn't mean I won't still drag him from the back of my menstrual cycle from time to time, or that he won't start a blog of his own called "I'm Married to the Bitch of Tampons & Chocolate." But I can honestly say that thanks to my wonderful husband, all my bloggy fears drifted away, and the two of us grew a giant leap closer.


Saturday, October 3, 2009

Kitty Style

Have you ever shaved the kitty? Now, I’m not talking about the one that meows and scratches up the furniture (if it does, then you need to see your doctor...soon!). No, I'm talking about the other “kitty.” Yes, that one!

Okay, now that we are on the same page.

Over the years, hairstyles have managed to work their way “south” and shaving or waxing the kitty completely bald became one of them. Well, let’s just say that somewhere in my distant past, curiosity got the best of my kitty, and I thought I’d give the bald look a try. So I took out my razor, assumed the position, and shaved away. When I was done, I walked over to the mirror and took a look. Staring back at me in the mirror was pretty much the same thing you see in that picture up there. Wrinkles and all! IT WAS HORRIFYING!

Okay, so the bald look is not for me. But like a lot of you women out there, I do have a certain style that I like to maintain. But before I reveal mine, let's take a look at some common styles, shall we?

WILD AND FREE – This style is all about being carefree and letting things grow as nature intended. It is surely a look that requires a bathing suit bottom with a skirt. If you go without one and you are a backyard sunbather, this could explain why your doorstep is littered with business cards from the neighborhood gardeners. For some of you the look works. It requires no maintenance, just wash, rinse and dry and you’re done. However, I would not recommend this look for any of you single gals who are looking for love, as most men nowadays would respond with the same look as the one on that monkey’s face the first time he sees you naked.

NEAT AND TIDY - Here, we have an example of those ladies who like to keep things nice and neat. There’s nothing fancy about it, just a simple trim here and there that shows you have an interest in your appearance. But unlike our gal in this picture, if you are going to do a dye job, I would recommend making sure the carpet matches the drapes.

SALT AND PEPPER - For those of you who are older, you may have more of a salt and pepper look going on. Some of you keep it neat and tidy, while others let things go wild and free. Either way, it’s a low maintenance style and saves the cost of expensive dyes. This is very important, because it’s usually around this time of our life when our aging kitty has to pay a visit to the doctor more often, so that extra money comes in handy.

THE HYBRID - Now, this is more like my look nowadays. Shaved in certain areas and neatly trimmed in others. It does take a little skill to get things just right, but definitely worth the effort, as this style is very bathing suit friendly and it does a great job at keeping the gardeners away.

BAD TO THE BONE - For some of you, your kitty looks a bit like this. Now, maybe the hair is not quite as long and spiky, but it's got a bit of an edge to it in more ways than one. Not everyone can pull off a look like this one, but then again, not everyone wants to. It is certainly best left for our female rebels of the world.

POTPOURRI - Last but not least, there are those who have it all going on down there. Trim, buzz, and dye, with a touch of personal flair mixed in. Sometimes I wonder if this might be how a clown looks naked. For some of you, this look is on purpose, for others it’s the result of an experiment gone wrong. Regardless, you can be rest assured that this look is no stranger than me wondering what naked clowns look like.

So there you have it. All of the various kitty styles walking around out there. Of course, if I missed something, I would love to hear about it. But no pictures, please. I was frightened enough by the sight of my own kitty when I decided to go bald. I don’t need to fry anymore scary images into my already warped brain.