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. 

 

 

 

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……………………………… 

 

Have you ever heard something, on the television for example, that came as such a shock that you coughed, chocked and made red wine come out your nose?  Well I have, and I consider myself pretty unshockable.  It was nothing outrageous, more an indicator of cultural differences. 

Here’s the tale.

  I’m perched on a stool in my kitchen.  I call this “guarding my post.”  Technically I am sitting down, but to the children, I am in the kitchen, so I could be very busy, and so they don’t feel obliged to get me to do stuff for them.  So, I’m sipping my wine, appearing quite vigilant, whilst indulging in a little Bold and the Beautiful.  The kids think this is my show (so does my husband for that matter) which is ridiculous, but keeps them at bay for 30 minutes each day.

  Anyway, I’m sipping, when out of the blue, Ridge (chiseled faced philanderer who’s had it off with several wives and some step children!)  announces to another character (Valley or Crest or frikin’ Fjord!) that she’s not too old for a smack on the fanny! 

Cue the coughing and the nasal discharge Shiraz style. 

 Now alot of readers here right now, are from America, and this saying is used colloquially in the States.  Ya fanny is ya butt! 

 However…….(long pause)……(and this is where it gets interesting) in Australia, a smack on the fanny seems like just about the cruelest thing you could do.  And believe me, brings a tear to the eye of any woman who’s ever heard this saying!  

  Ya fanny is ya  va jay jay!  Yep, put into the context of giving it a smack seems like an extreme punishment, and kinda personal! 

“No thanks Dad!  Think I’ll skip the vagina smack for now if that’s ok with you!” 

Maybe our country is still in the midst of puberty (I mean we are still a very young country,  Hell we’re no Egypt!) because alot of the American slang makes us snicker.

  Another fine example is the term “We’re rooting for ya.”  Again I see this and I’m snorting to myself.  We know what it means.  “Go team Go!” 

In the land of Oz however a “root” is a sexual term, and most Australian women could attest to being “hit up” for  a “root” by their partners as teenagers. ”Wanna root?”   Hell my husband used the term not 2 weeks ago! 

So when the Yanks use the term “we’re rooting for ya!”, all I can imagine is a husband giving his wife a good solid shag, with every thrust “Go Redsox”! 

 It’s even worse if someone says they’re rooting for YOU!  Yikes.  Don’t do it for me!

On a less immature note, a flip flop is what a fish does.  In Australia, it’s called a thong.  And yet if we showed our American friends a thong and asked them to put it on, they’d be some funny walking and alot of chafing!

I don’t really mind though, coz in the privacy of my own home I can get all Beavis and Butthead about it!  I do though, resent being reminded in person when an American uses these terms in front of me. I’m obligated, as is my civic duty, to correct the poor soul, saving them further ridicule as they travel this incredibly mature and cultured country. 

Their response is not one of gratitude, it’s more like….”Are you retarded?” 

And I think to myself….”Yes.  Yes we are!”

Today I narrowly avoided a melt down.  Not just my meltdown, but MOTH’s meltdown at me as well.  All day I had pushed and pushed.  He tried to lighten the moments with his usual purile sense of humour, but I refused to be won over.  When he did finally ask me what was wrong, I snapped a stare so hard and fast, the glass in a nearby window cracked.  “So?’  You ask..”usual day at my place.”   And usually I would agree, but today proved to be the exeption.

Because today, after my attempting a fairly accurate version of Attilla the Hun…my computer crashed!  Worse than that, I had killed it!  Apparently I had given it a cold or the flu or some hideous disease, and now  MOTH (who by now hates me ) was placed in the enviable position of  “rubbing my bitchy little nose in it!”

See, he’s the fix it guy.  That’s why I married him.  Saves on car mechanic bills, antenna repair men, etc….Sadly, he’s not a gracious Mr Fix-it.

So..what did I do?  Well, I don’t particularly like the taste of humble pie, so…..I hid.  And like most blustery storms, it all blew over.

I am somewhat humbler now.  And a bit wiser.  And a bit smug!   “How grown up was I avoiding a big fight?!”  Yay me!

However I post this warning!  This could have easily have been you instead of me!

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