When you're single, you might be in a foul mood but it's your foul mood. When you're with someone, their foul mood becomes yours and somehow, it becomes incumbent upon you to find your way out of it. I used to feel responsible. Now, I just want it over.
I admit that I'm not the most linear person you'd ever want to meet when it comes to moods. I cry at the drop of a hat, I'm easily hurt, and I can't stand feeling as if there's something I could be doing when the husband-guy is in a mood. Naturally, I'm not talking about the mood caused by various marital sins like staying an hour later at work after calling to say you're on your way, or apparently missing the long soapy streak across the bathroom mirror after shaving, or remembering that I can decide for myself if I want to work in a hotdog costume for the fast food joint up the street, thank you very much. (I'd never want to do that, ever, but I retain the right to want to, you know?) And as I said, I can get into quite a snit as well.
No, I'm talking about those occasions when someone/something else has caused the foul mood. Work, the rain, transit workers, taxi drivers, work, local government, voice mail retrieval, work ... whatever gets his motor cranking and his voice ranting. This is a lovely, sane man most of the time. He doesn't swear, he doesn't hit, he's respectful to old people and wonderful with children. And then the minor inconveniences rear up like the robot warriors in War of the World and all hell breaks loose. Forget gentle conversation. Forget cuddling on the couch. Forget sex. (Well, duh). For as long as the inconvenience continues to cause ... well, inconvenience, there's a more convenient place for me to be.
I'm glad that minor inconveniences, by their very nature, last about three minutes or less. I'm also glad that both of us have one very important thing in common. We make each other laugh. Especially when we're in a mood. Makes being a couple bearable, I think.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
My Husband's Poor Eyesight
It bodes well for me that my husband is almost blind without his glasses or contacts. This means that not only will I look goo-oo-ood to him well into my eighties, but also that I look damn fine now - naked in bed or prancing up to him in my latest sexy getup. In case you think I'm placing too fine an emphasis on this, let me advise you that although I look fairly fabulous for well over 40 (okay, 50), the body ain't like it used ta be, ya know what I mean?
I was putting my bra on today, as I am wont to do most days - okay, all days. These girls are well past their perky prime - and I noticed that I had reached for a bra with four hooks. Four! I'm not sure how it got into my lingerie drawer, or even how it ended up in a bag on its way home with me. But four hooks?!!!! Four???? The last time I saw a bra with four hooks, my aging grandmother with the ta-tas down to her waist was slinging them into it as she bent over in her altogether. Yes, it's lacy. And a soft, kind of creamy color, and very pretty. But four hooks? And the sad part was that the girls liked it. They sat up nice and high, fit into all parts of the cup, there was little to no spillage out the sides. This was a damn fine bra. But four hooks?
I'm sad to say, I took it off. Maybe no-one will ever see it, including my ocularly challenged husband. But still. It's hard to pretend you're sexy when your girls need the technical equivalent of four hefty men to keep them in shape. As far as I'm concerned, a little droop is a good trade-off. And hell, the husband thinks I look like Cindy Crawford naked. I'm not telling him different.
I was putting my bra on today, as I am wont to do most days - okay, all days. These girls are well past their perky prime - and I noticed that I had reached for a bra with four hooks. Four! I'm not sure how it got into my lingerie drawer, or even how it ended up in a bag on its way home with me. But four hooks?!!!! Four???? The last time I saw a bra with four hooks, my aging grandmother with the ta-tas down to her waist was slinging them into it as she bent over in her altogether. Yes, it's lacy. And a soft, kind of creamy color, and very pretty. But four hooks? And the sad part was that the girls liked it. They sat up nice and high, fit into all parts of the cup, there was little to no spillage out the sides. This was a damn fine bra. But four hooks?
I'm sad to say, I took it off. Maybe no-one will ever see it, including my ocularly challenged husband. But still. It's hard to pretend you're sexy when your girls need the technical equivalent of four hefty men to keep them in shape. As far as I'm concerned, a little droop is a good trade-off. And hell, the husband thinks I look like Cindy Crawford naked. I'm not telling him different.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Why Men Should Never Retire
We recently moved from NYC to a fairly large city in the suburbs, you know the kind where the parking lots are stacked six deep when the Metro North chugs into the station. Taxis are shuffling to get their mass quantity of rides for the day and all the wives are running their cars non-stop because it's better to have a new version of "War, What is it good for?" on your radio than empty silence as you realize the train will be ten minutes late... again.
Anyway, I digress. I pick up my husband at least four nights out of five. Even though I try the odd different route home, the chances are that we'll take the same three streets home (it's a 3 minute ride). I'm a pretty smart cookie but at ten or 11 at night, the brain is looking for fast and easy. I can pick out scenic routes when my brain is running on more than the third cup of tea since dinner (trying to stave off chocolate cravings. It doesn't work since tea, according to Atkins, is a catalyst for cravings. He must be right. I need a cookie, a candy, something! when that cup enters my hand.)
So ... okay, the same route. Every day. It's not that big a city. People-wise, sure. Busy-wise, not so much. And at 11, no-one 'cept me and the taxis. Which leads me to this morning. We're heading home from the beach, and my husband is driving. We pass the station where I pick him up most nights. (Same route, every day). We turn the corner, still the same route. As we come up to the main corner for changing streets, he asks me to remind him where to turn. I refuse. He continues in the middle lane. I'm trying as hard as I can to remain silent. The light turns red. Mucho thanka God, because it's then that he realizes he has to get in the right lane. And I'm not telling him because it's ridiculous, isn't it? This is the way we go EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.
Which is why I think men should never retire. I mean, if they're like my husband, during the 12 to 14 hours they're at work, they're responsible for thousands of dollars, a hundred earth-shattering decisions (this from him), and his neck is on the block for everything. Just for the record, my husband's been there for years and his neck is very safe, as far as I'm concerned. Yet, when he steps off that train each night, he turns into this dependent being who can't find his way home without directions. Who won't get himself a snack in the fridge on his own (he waits for me to want one, and then he's gung-ho for whatever I'm having). Don't get me wrong. This is one of the kindest, sweetest, smartest, funniest men I know. But if he retires, so help me ...!
Anyway, I digress. I pick up my husband at least four nights out of five. Even though I try the odd different route home, the chances are that we'll take the same three streets home (it's a 3 minute ride). I'm a pretty smart cookie but at ten or 11 at night, the brain is looking for fast and easy. I can pick out scenic routes when my brain is running on more than the third cup of tea since dinner (trying to stave off chocolate cravings. It doesn't work since tea, according to Atkins, is a catalyst for cravings. He must be right. I need a cookie, a candy, something! when that cup enters my hand.)
So ... okay, the same route. Every day. It's not that big a city. People-wise, sure. Busy-wise, not so much. And at 11, no-one 'cept me and the taxis. Which leads me to this morning. We're heading home from the beach, and my husband is driving. We pass the station where I pick him up most nights. (Same route, every day). We turn the corner, still the same route. As we come up to the main corner for changing streets, he asks me to remind him where to turn. I refuse. He continues in the middle lane. I'm trying as hard as I can to remain silent. The light turns red. Mucho thanka God, because it's then that he realizes he has to get in the right lane. And I'm not telling him because it's ridiculous, isn't it? This is the way we go EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.
Which is why I think men should never retire. I mean, if they're like my husband, during the 12 to 14 hours they're at work, they're responsible for thousands of dollars, a hundred earth-shattering decisions (this from him), and his neck is on the block for everything. Just for the record, my husband's been there for years and his neck is very safe, as far as I'm concerned. Yet, when he steps off that train each night, he turns into this dependent being who can't find his way home without directions. Who won't get himself a snack in the fridge on his own (he waits for me to want one, and then he's gung-ho for whatever I'm having). Don't get me wrong. This is one of the kindest, sweetest, smartest, funniest men I know. But if he retires, so help me ...!
Friday, April 27, 2007
My First Entry 4/27/07
I've finally decided that there needs to be another voice out here in blogland - the voice of women over 40 who are beyond the challenges of raising children (although we still care about those we have created), well set in our careers or very tired of the one we have, married or single but with concerns that aren't mentioned in the latest magazines, with clothes that aren't sold in the majority of stores, and with men who still haven't figured it out at the ripe old age of way-past-20. For those women, this is for us.
If you are anything like me, you want:
To find a book that has the humor of chick-lit but isn't about the dating habits of my roommates, the way your boss hates you (in your first job), your terrible boss who can't understand morning-after hangovers, or the way your mother still wants you to find the perfect man. We're older women with interesting lives. Why aren't there more books for us?
To discover why designers are fixated on poufy sleeves, low-riding crotches and skirts up your keister (my dad used to say that, and I still love it!). We want wider sleeves, lower armholes, straight legs, longer tops that still manage to be cool, underwear that covers all the bits and - hell, why aren't these people watching Stacey and Clinton? I mean, get a clue, people! We have expendable incomes and the time to spend it. Give us what we want and we're there. Promise.
A reinvention of customer service. No, we simply want customer service. Maybe when you're twenty, it's cool for the sales guy to tell you to come back in an hour when he's finished lunch. Hey, he's cute and really, you didn't have much else to do,right? No, no, no, no, no! We want you to put off your damn lunch for five minutes and find us that damn battery that will make our phone start berating us again for being out of the office for more than ten minutes. Really.
This list could be endless, and it will be. Every day, I hope to write about the little things that hit my hot spots, and the wonderful moments that remind me that I love living. Hope you'll join me!
If you are anything like me, you want:
To find a book that has the humor of chick-lit but isn't about the dating habits of my roommates, the way your boss hates you (in your first job), your terrible boss who can't understand morning-after hangovers, or the way your mother still wants you to find the perfect man. We're older women with interesting lives. Why aren't there more books for us?
To discover why designers are fixated on poufy sleeves, low-riding crotches and skirts up your keister (my dad used to say that, and I still love it!). We want wider sleeves, lower armholes, straight legs, longer tops that still manage to be cool, underwear that covers all the bits and - hell, why aren't these people watching Stacey and Clinton? I mean, get a clue, people! We have expendable incomes and the time to spend it. Give us what we want and we're there. Promise.
A reinvention of customer service. No, we simply want customer service. Maybe when you're twenty, it's cool for the sales guy to tell you to come back in an hour when he's finished lunch. Hey, he's cute and really, you didn't have much else to do,right? No, no, no, no, no! We want you to put off your damn lunch for five minutes and find us that damn battery that will make our phone start berating us again for being out of the office for more than ten minutes. Really.
This list could be endless, and it will be. Every day, I hope to write about the little things that hit my hot spots, and the wonderful moments that remind me that I love living. Hope you'll join me!
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