Category Archives: Wife

Answers, Part III (or: Put on Your Comfy Pants, This Might Take a While)

So I started to answer some questions.  And then I answered some more.  And then I contracted a world-class case of the ennui.  And then someone I know in real life told me to stop being such a lazy-ass. (Not her exact words.  But it was implied.  In her eyes.  Even though they were behind sunglasses.  I’m pretty intuitive, that way.)

So let’s see what we can get done today, shall we?

From Grumpy, who lives upside down, on the other side of the planet:

In ‘another life’ what job would you be doing/place would you be living in?”

Grumpy, you could have no way of knowing that I obsess DAILY over what my life would have been like if I’d done X instead of Y.  If I had turned right instead of left.  If I’d gone with the non-lead based paint….

So this is a good one.

If I could swing for the fences, have whatever I wanted, live where I wanted, do what I wanted, no consequences, no hurt feelings, I think I’d be living in Europe (in a country where there’s a healthy amount of English spoken, because man, I suck out loud at other languages), drinking possibly even more wine and eating even more cheese than I do now, but  somehow being miraculously thinner than I am.  I would have figured out that I wanted to be a writer, not pissed around with suppressing the urge and finding something practical, and just done it.  I’d be slutting it up, discreetly, and letting my hair grow long.

Yuri from Urbanvox, (after a considerable amount of preamble), asked:

what’s your favorite ice cream flavor????”

So I think, “easy one”, and start to answer, when the paranoia creeps in, as it so often does.  What does my favorite ice cream flavor say about me?  What if I innocently tell the truth, and it turns out Maple Walnut indicates I’m likely to have a foot  fetish?

So I checked it out.  Turns out Vanilla means you are NOT boring, Coffee ice cream lovers are dramatic, and Organic Mango & Freshly Squeezed Kumquat means you’re a pretentious wanker.  (The last one is purely a result of field studies, and has not been scientifically proven.  Yet.)  My favorite, Mint Chocolate Chip,

means I am ambitious and confident and skeptical.  (One out of three ain’t bad.)  (Well, actually, it is.  They don’t know me at ALL.)

Jaymie, who muses over here, asks:

Most challenging life moment so far?  How did you get through it?”

You know, when you put it that way, I’ve been pretty damn lucky.  Knock on a great big piece of wood, but I’ve never had anyone I loved get really sick, or even die.  And when you think of it that way, the rest is a bit of a cake walk, now isn’t it?

But you asked, so I’ll answer.  This whole damn parenting thing?  This is challenging.  You’re making decisions whose impact might not be seen for 10 or 20 years, sacrificing until it becomes rote, pouring every resource you can get your hands on into another person(s), and you’re doing the whole thing with a serious sleep deficit.  There have been moments, ugly, atrocious, cringing in my soul moments, when I’ve seen very clearly how babies get shaken.  And abandoned.  And wrecked.  How did I get past them?  I have no clue.  I just did.

Thank god.

Deborah from bedrest banshee, had a pretty involved question:

“Q1: Do you ever feel that maybe, just maybe – you ARE”hot”? As in milf not menopausal. If so, when?
Q2: If there was a, how you say, “Indecent Proposal” – for you, for your husband? Would you? Would you let him? Let’s say $75K tax free in small unmarked bills for you, let’s say an untraceable $25K for him.
Q3: who do you currently think – famous or local, of all the people you know or view, has the most confidence in their own appeal. Not arrogance, confidence.”

Ahem.  There was a one question limit, Deb.  (Good thing I like you.  I will persevere.)

Every now and again, for about 5 minutes at a time, I feel hot-ish.  And yes, it helps if I think I’m looking OK, but really?   It’s when I’m actively engaging with another person, talking, entertaining, really nailing a good conversation.  It’s the only way that being “hot” feels authentic to me.

As to the Indecent Proposal scenario,  um, well, I could really use some money.  I couldn’t sleep with someone in that situation.  Owen could.  I’d have no problem letting him.  The problem would come when he failed to show the appropriate amount of remorse and self-loathing, afterward.  (And can I just say how much I enjoy that you valued me 3X higher than him?  You’re brilliant.)

As to confidence, that’s a tricky bit of business.  Because what I’m starting to understand is that the people who seem the most confident to me are the hottest messes, just under the surface.  And that we’re all faking it until we make it.  If we ever do.

And finally, the question that made me spit diet Coke when I first read it, from Rassles:

“You would go gay for me, wouldn’t you?”

Yup.  Just a matter of time, toots.


The Murraying Kind

I don’t think this is my daughter’s first time around.

Although she’s only 3 in this life, I’m pretty sure she’s had a crack or two at this planet, previously.

If I had to guess when her last life here on Earth took place?  I’ d say somewhere in the 1950s.

Because she has the soul of the Perfect Housewife.

She’s been able to crack eggs, one-handed with no shell bits in the bowl, since she was one and a half.  Last year, she asked for her own vacuum cleaner. (I didn’t think she was serious.  She was.)  Her grandmother called me while The Girl was at her house, asking when we’d baked pies.   I laughed out loud.  (We don’t make pies, we buy them.)  She went on to explain that The Girl was using an old-fashioned, crank-handled apple peeler.

(Image from here.)

With no help.  And no instructions.

I had no explanation.

The Girl is never without a baby doll, who she is potty training and diapering and burping, and no she can’t just leave them and come have lunch because she is responsible for them, duh.

And when she’s not taking care of her babies, or cooking, or cleaning,

she’s playing Marrying.  (Which, in her own particular dialect, comes out sounding more like “Murraying”.)

I do not understand.

I have never, ever pitched marriage to her as a plan.  I’m not against marriage, per se.  I just don’t see it as a destination.  But I think she does.

She finds weddings fascinating.

She marries everything to everything else.

Barbie & Ken get married.

Her spoon and her fork get married.

When left with nothing else, she’ll even marry crayons.  (Can you imagine Blue talking about the wedding night to his blushing bride, Red? “Oh, I am gonna color you so hard.  You won’t be able to tell where the Blue starts and the Red ends.  When we get done there’s just gonna be a big puddle of purple left, you dig?  Aw, yeaaah!”  Anyway…)

We had a moment, tonight.  To be by ourselves and talk.

I asked her why she wanted to get married.

She just smiled.

I asked how old she thought she should be, when the deal goes down.

“How old were you?”

I told her I was 23, and that was too young.  She nodded, agreed.

“Are you going to marry a man or a woman?”

She laughs, looks at me like I’m slow.  She will marry a boy, she says, because she will want to have babies.  I start to explain that families with 2 moms can have babies, and families with 2 dads can have….but she senses this explanation is going to be bigger than she has patience for, so she tells me she will have 2 babies.  One will be named Tito, the other Apple.  (P.S., the boy is Apple.)  And she tells me that one day Tito and Apple will have babies, and that she will be their grandma, and….

I interrupt.  “You know, you don’t just get married.  You have to be married.  And when you get married, you promise you will stay married.   For your whole life.”

She tells me she knows that, stops just short of rolling her eyes at me.

And she tells me that’s why she is going to marry a nice boy, so she will like him for her whole life.

“What would a nice boy be like?”

According to The Girl, a nice boy will kiss you on the forehead and buy you fries and pick up the babies when they cry and open the car door for you.

(Image from here.)

She’s not entirely wrong, you know.  She’s kind of got a lot of the elements figured out, already, at the age of 3.

Nearly as figured out as I did at the age of 23.

Maybe a Girl’s Best Friend. Just Not This Girl.

I accept some things about this time of year.

Religious folk are going to get up in arms when you wish them a Happy Holiday, insisting on “Puttin’ the Christ back in Christmas.” (All the while, ignoring the fact that they totally co-opted Yule from the Pagans, but whatever.)

Small children will exhibit sickening greed and extremely touching acts of altruism.  All at the same time.

And the stores are going to play hardball.

I know that I’m going to be bombarded with advertising.  I know that stores are counting on this month to bring them anywhere close to being profitable, especially in a recession.  I get it.

But there was an ad on the radio the other night, one that literally made my jaw drop, and (although I didn’t see it, I’m pretty sure it happened) steam come out of my ears.

(Image from here.)

A diamond company here in town started their radio spot acknowledging that 2009 sucked the hind one.  Then, in a twist of logic that was waaaay past 360 degrees of twist, they proceeded to say that the horrible economy meant that as a man, you needed to spend more money on your woman than ever before.  And I quote:

“Be the hero she needs you to be.”

Oh nameless diamond store, I know you were aiming this ad at men.  Poor, delusional, led by their penises men.  You were trying to let them in on the “inside info”, let them know what us broads are really thinking.

Men, this is horseshit.

I’m a woman.  I know how some, maybe a lot, of women think.  So please listen.

Because do you know what my hero would do?

My hero would make sure the mortgage gets paid.  My hero would read “Goodnight Moon” for the thousandth time because it’s a little girl’s favorite.  My hero would step in, speak up if he saw someone being hurt.  My hero would check out strange noises in the night.  My hero would leave his ego out when making decisions that affect his family.  My hero would open doors for ladies, and teach his son to do the same.  My hero would be a decent, stand up guy, even when that’s the hard way.

You know what my hero wouldn’t do?

Piss away thousands of dollars on a damned piece of jewellery.

Don’t believe the hype, men.

Dear Santa: Let’s Make a Deal

Dear Santa:

I’m not going to mince words here. As I understand it, you’re pretty much omniscient. I can’t bullshit you like an innocent 5 year old, tell you I’ve been good all year, or even tried to be good all year.

You saw. You know.

But then, I have an inkling this goes both ways. You’re a man in complete and utter control of many, many little men (elves, if you will). I don’t know exactly what kind of kinky S&M relationship you have with them, if their plastered-on smiles belie a darker truth. I just can’t see these little dudes willingly indenturing themselves, without some unseemly shit going down off camera.

So let’s talk turkey.

I have enough slippers/coffee mugs/mittens/pen sets/seasons of The Gilmore Girls on DVD.

This year, I want something good. GOOD.

Last week, to quote the esteemed Lionel Richie, “I had a dream, an awesome dream.”

A dream from which I did not want to wake.

I dreamt I had a gay boyfriend.

I used to have one, in real life. That perfect specimen; cute, polite, hilarious, flirty, immaculate, flattering, and not one bit interested in my girly parts.

Heaven, in a pair of expensive jeans. He left me for law school. I’ve never found a suitable replacement.

The dream brought it all back. Realizing it had been a dream, not real? I was disappointed for the better part of a Saturday.

So that’s what I’m asking for, Santa. A gay boyfriend. (Don’t worry, my husband’s totally down with it. Gets him out of theatre productions and, you know, talking about feelings and junk.) I’ll expect him to be lounging under the tree on December 25.

Anticipating your cooperation in this matter,


P.S. Don’t try to pull a fast one. Because funny or not, if you bring me a Bruce Vilanch

the jig is up with your snowy little sweatshop.

We’re talking Neil Patrick Harris or better.

Or. Better.


Je Parle Sitcom (Or, Sprechen Sie 80’s Half-Hour Comedy?)

Scene:   Saturday Night, My Living Room


Me:  Wow, yet another troll comment.  And this one broke out the C-word.

Husband:  Hmm.

Me:  Um, hello, someone just called your wife a cunt, this doesn’t bother you at all?

Husband, Uh, I thought we were laughing them off, I mean, you’ve had like, a ton of positive comments, and just a few troll ones…

Me:  Yeah, well I’m still upset.  And I don’t know why you’re not.    And you never stand up for me, and…(lapses into nonsensical disgusted sounds)



Scene:  My Living Room, Sunday Morning


Me:  Sorry I was bitchy last night.  I guess I just thought maybe your inner cave-man, protective instincts might come out when someone says something bad about me.

Husband:  Yeah, but it was ONE guy!

Me:  Yeah but…

Husband:  Ginny, let me put it in a language I know you understand:  “You take the good.  You take the bad.  You take them both, and there, you have  – the Facts of Life.”



He had a point.

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

I don’t exactly get a running start in the morning.


I like to wake slowly, sip some coffee, check my e-mail.


Not get dressed.


I’m doing that, this morning, when I hear a gentle knock on the front door.


On the porch is a bald, bespectacled man, holding something in his left hand.


I need to answer the door.  I know that.


But I’m wearing this:


And I’ve got a bit of this going on:




He looks at me, but he’s trying not to look at me.


“Hi is this Owen’s house these parts didn’t fit in the mail slot ok bye then.”  He spits out what he has to say and runs back to his truck.




And that, dear readers, is how I came to meet one of my husband’s most important clients for the first time.




(Nightshirt picture from here.)

It’s Not You, It’s Me

I started to brush my teeth, this morning.


I was replaying a nasty phone call in my  mind, not really paying attention.  Applied toothpaste to the brush, brought it to my mouth.  For some unknown reason, I stopped and looked at it.


I’d pasted my husband’s brush instead of mine.


My husband and I have been married for 11 years, co-habitating for 15.


We’ve been through a lot together.


He’s taken care of me after surgery.  I’ve washed his shorts.  He watched me give birth.  We’ve had sex on non-showering camping trips.


And it’s not like I’m some raving germophobe.


Every time the scientists revise the “5-second Rule”?  Adding more and more seconds to the time I have to eat food that’s fallen on the floor?  I nearly weep with gratitude.




“Oh come ON!” I exhorted myself.  “There’s already paste on it.  It’s not like you found it in a dumpster, it’s your husband’s toothbrush!”


I stared at it for a few more seconds.


Then I rinsed the paste away, and put the brush back.




Sometimes, you don’t know where your boundaries are until you get there.