It’s interesting how some insecurities never change, no matter how long you’ve known someone. Once upon a time I might have wondered if my husband still found me attractive. There were some extreme years consisting of lesbian hair cuts and flourescent socks that only the truly infatuated could have overlooked. But these days I tend to think if he doesn’t feign a cartoon heart bounding out of his chest whenever he sees me then he’s a frikkin’ moron (coz I am awesomely, righteously schmokin’!) I used to twist myself in knots worrying that he thought I was an intellectual retard. Some might say I’m smart in a stupid way(or maybe that’s just a dumb persons way of rationalising the flukey-ness of getting something right now and then) Now I’m pretty sure when God was handing out brains I was off fantasising over Robert Pattinson and narrowly avoided the “Engineering Genius” gene that The Man Of The House clearly overdosed on.

  Now, don’t get me wrong…this is not a Nikki “pity party”, coz if it was I’d be drunk by now and picking a fight with one of you.  All I’m saying is I’ve accepted my human failings and I think the MOTH has too (much as I have accepted his nose blowing escapades in the shower!).  So, this leaves me with an interesting case of “Can’t put my finger on it” insecurity ( CPMFOII – or Compounded Parchment May Flip Over In Italics – which if I’m not mistaken – and I rarely am- is one of the clues from the Da Vinci Code) 

 This newest insecurity manifested when the MOTH ventured hundreds of kilometres north, eventually settling with family (namely his sister and father).  So here’s the thing.  We’ve been apart ALOT.  Not just a bit, not just every now and then…but frequently and often… ALOT ALOT  ALOT!  So this insecurity doesn’t stem from distance…more familiarity.  He’s gone (soon to return) but I feel like I’ve lost him. Like he’s not mine anymore.  He’s theirs!  I hear them laughing in the background of our phone conversations, adding little bits here and there.  I hear a comfort in his voice, like he’s home.  He is their centre.  With him around their disjointed parts feel whole again.  I don’t resent it.   I guess I can understand it.  They accept him and his crap.  Me, on the other hand, well I  have tried to mold that crap into a fairly decent and respectable human form.  A form I could love and bare to live with. 

A primal part of me – the skanky part that wants to pull someone’s hair- wants to scream “That’s my man!”  To grab him and tie him to me with one of those hideous kid leashes.  “Back off world.  You don’t get to reap the benefits of my awesome wifelyness”.

  Instead, the zen Martha Stewart part of me, sighs, understands, and keeps the sadness to herself.  He wouldnt understand, so my heart breaks a little more everyday that he’s away. 

 

 

 

Picture this.

 It’s 1987.

 A school bus packed with teenagers rumbles along a windy rainforest road. It is twilight and the kids are rowdy. Dressed in their best gear, they are headed out for a once a year experience.

 Movie night at the Malanda picture theatre. The theatre is huge, the seats canvas and baggy. Rows upon rows of couples sit, snuggling and smooching. One couple in particular catches your eye.

She seems a bit tough, and he’s kinda goofy.

Even now though…he loves her.

She rests her head on his shoulder as the house lights lower, and the movie begins. She feels the tears well as she watches. Her heart swells as she imagines a man that could love her like the main characters loved each other.

 In the seat beside her, the boy squeezes her hand.

 He feels the same.

 The movie ends and they make the long bus trip home, this time snuggled on the vinyl seats, whispering to each other in the dark.

Years would pass, and the girl (now a grown woman) would hear of the movie characters passing.

 Memories of that night would come flooding back.

 Memories of the boy that squeezed her hand, and the way he had held her just as tightly on their wedding day.

RIP Patrick Swayze, and know that your memory has walked with me these many married years.

 God Bless.

 Wanted:  One Mother\wife – like person to adopt a menagerie of men children and various forms of pooping\puking domestic wildlife.  Successful applicants will be required to fulfill and undertake the following criteria-

 

• Be an arduous task master when it comes to scraping dried cereal from the floor and kitchen table

 

• Be adept at  scrambling under beds and finding missing school ties and 35 over -due library books

 

•  Expertly utilise an entire weeks worth of towels to sop up bathtub overflows.  Sometimes blaming  it on the kids, but occasionally confessing to  a  few too many wines and a little distraction known as Facebook

 

•  Maintain a grown up, respectable telephone conversation with an “out sourced” Indian telephone operator, whilst silently separating fighting offspring with an expert arm yank

 

• Be able to keep a straight face during the most excruciating conversations with 5 year old boys about testicles and why it’s not a good idea to try and “pop” them!

 

• Convincingly appreciate (and keep forever!) the entire recycled waste of a small country (think Sweden) creatively fashioned  into various forms of art presented to you on Mothers Day morning 

 

• Successfully pretend to be going off to an office job as you go through the McDonald’s drive through for a coffee when in reality you merely going home to blog and Facebook

 

• Successfully  feign interest when the MOTH (Man Of The House)  is extolling the virtues of a square pie over a round pie

 

• Expertly hide yourself and the children in a darkened house as Mormons knock incessantly on the  front door

 

• Be a Maven  of emotional blackmail, frequently making statements like “everything I do for you kids, and I never get a thank you…………………..”

 

• Be  able to forage through knee deep refuse on Xmas afternoon, looking for instructions for toys that were accidentally thrown out, despite the garbage bin smelling like a cat’s died in there!

 

• Happily provide expert medical care to pseudo sick family members whilst bleeding out ones’ own ears. 

 

Clearly an exciting career opportunity for a highly motivated go getter.  Wages are non existent, however the successful applicant will have unlimited access to mountains of cold leftovers.

 

Interested parties, should not bother contacting me, I’ve already left!

 

It’s 9:15pm on a Wednesday night. The bath, full to the brim with suds and bubbles, hides a soaking Dahling. Eyes closed, glass of red in hand, the house is peaceful. Two of three children sleep, the youngest (by 19 minutes) can be heard flopping around in the hallway, complaining of phantom leg cramps, and occasionally calling out “April Fools!” despite it being April 23.

From two rooms away, a familiar theme streams out from the television.  Dahling sits up at the sound, head cocked.  There are mutterings, the sound fuzzy, then the words “My name is Earl.”  She gasps, leaping from the bath, a tidal wave of froth spilling onto the floor.  Her towel barely covers her pinkness, as she skirts the through the hallway maze, leaping over a prone child in the doorway.

 

“I’m gonna make it,” she thinks to herself. 

 

A triple loop half loop double toe combination sees her pass through the kitchen, grabbing the cordless phone as she goes.  Her fingers slip as she punches in the 10 digit number that will connect her with interstate MOTH.  She considers possible electrocution as she presses the phone to her ear.  It rings for an interminable time.  As she sits, pondering Jason Lees’ spectacular moustache, her heart is pounding.  Adrenaline sweat disguised as bath water puddles around her.  Eventually he answers, and she can hear their show in the background.  

  “Hello?”  

“EARL’S ON!” she screams wassup style. 

 In a smiling voice he shouts back

“IknowI’mwatchingitrightnow!”

“Cool, bye!”

“Ok, bye!” 

Dahling sighs and smiles……………………………… 

 

Is it a woman’s prerogative to be a bitch for no reason?

I don’t mean “PMS” Bitch or “do I look fat in these pants” Bitch.I mean the Bitch who “can’t be pleased”. ” Twist yourself inside out for, make copious cups of tea for, you can’t win” Bitch!

This Bitch is an intelligence nightmare.  She can plan a set-up five steps ahead, and can execute it with a ruthlessness and cunning, that would make the SAS proud.  One minute she’s asking if he can bring in the washing.  The next she’s tearing him a new “A”  for being a lazy, ungrateful slob.  Offer to help out with the groceries however, and he’s faced with accusations and recriminations.  “Do you think I’m a child?”  “DO I look like I can’t cope?”

Any good husband does his best to make his wife happy..right?  So, what would it take to make The Bitch happy just for today?

                                                               – a holiday? (” I’d have to pack”..and “have you seen my bikini line?”..and..”I’ve got nothing to wear!”)

                                                              -a party with friends? ( “I can’t have people around,the house is a mess”..my husband is a lazy slob!” )

                                                              - a spa treatment? (we’re back to the bikini line again! )

                                                             - a shopping spree? (sure..coz wandering a department store  full of stuff I can’t afford, whilst being stalked by the “riffraff” police is exactly what my self esteem needs!” )

Needless to say, The Bitch has many talents.  The most obvious being sarcasm, a trait most men can’t appreciate.  She can no more resist “bitchiness” than a bee resists the flower.  Genetically she is designed that way…it keeps the guys off balance!

My advice to any MOTH is this:  see her sarcasm as wit, get her drunk and ride it out!

 

I love being married.  It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.  ~Rita Rudner