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Posts Tagged ‘my so-called husband’

All the world’s a bumper sticker. At least that’s how it feels at the moment.

Recently, my husband and I were driving and we came to one of those intersections where all three lanes of traffic had no choice but to turn left. I put on my indicator and couldn’t help but notice the other cars who weren’t indicating.

“I hate it when cars don’t indicate,” I said. “It’s like they assume I know that they are just going to follow the road rules and turn left. For all I know, they could be intending to go straight – illegally, mind you… Where’s their sense of community? Their pride of being part of a left-turning group, all indicating their left-turningness together?”

“Does it make you angry?” my husband asked.

“No, it saddens me,” I said. “It makes me feel… alone.

“That’s very interesting,” he remarked. “I have often wondered what other people thought of my failure to indicate at intersections such as these.”

(By ‘often’, I think we can all assume my husband meant ‘I’m actually only thinking about this at this very moment since you happen to have raised it as a topic of conversation’. Still, I appreciated the fact he was feigning an interest.)

“Well, now you know,” I replied. “You make people like me sad.”

“And I expect you find it a bit of a turn off,” he observed.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I mused although I should now stress that I wouldn’t necessarily be hot for someone simply because they DID indicate.

We then discussed a bumper sticker awareness program I could start. Some initial ideas included:

TURN ON (YOUR INDICATOR) AND TURN ON (ME).

TURN OFF YOUR TURN OFF AND TURN ON YOUR INDICATOR.

YOU TURN ME OFF WHEN YOU FAIL TO TURN ON: INDICATE.

or even

INDICATE, ARSE-CLOWN.

Interestingly enough, the other day when my youngest son took an unscheduled toilet break behind the park bench my husband and I were sitting on, my husband came up with his own bumper sticker awareness program for his MEP (Minimum Effort Parenting) style. The bumper sticker will apparently read:

IF YOU CAN’T SEE THEM, YOU’RE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THEM.

I argued that it probably should read “IF YOU CAN’T SEE THEM, YOU’RE PROBABLY NOT BEING RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH FOR THEM” but he thought that was too wordy.

Bumper sticker awareness programs? Yep, that’s what my life has come to. Somewhere along the way, somebody – quite possibly me – has obviously failed to indicate. Arse clown.

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Here’s my secret: I’ve gone all Zumba.

Yes, according to all the marketing, I’ve “ditched the workout and joined the party!!!” with my dear friend KT. We’re both investing in our cardiovascular health by shimmying and rotating our hips, like, A LOT and listening to a peppy instructor in a Zumba-branded headband shout “AWESOME!!!!” at us, like, A LOT a lot.

I kind of like it.

Last week, we even ensnared our friend Mistress M into our web of zumba-ness and after the class, the three of us congratulated ourselves on being so aerobically-virtuous.

“It’s also good because it means we have an alcohol-free night!” KT exclaimed.

Mistress M looked crushed.

“Oh, that kind of ruins my next suggestion…” she said.

I almost didn’t hear her because our instructor’s “AWESOME!!!!” was still ringing in my ears, but I was quick to step in.

“I think it’s in everyone’s interest that we hear Mistress M’s suggestion,” I said, boldly.

CUT TO: us counter-balancing our Good Cardiovascular Works by inflicting serious damage on our kidneys.

Yes, it was what I call a KABO (a Key Alcoholic Beverage Opportunity). And somewhat surprisingly, it wasn’t the only KABO I’ve encountered in recent days.

You see, KT got an invitation to the premiere of a film one of her friends was in and she invited me to go with her.  The day before the premiere, we made the mistake of watching the trailer on YouTube. It was less than three minutes long and just watching the first thirty seconds almost brought on a KABO then and there. I mean, there is awful and then there is AWFUL (please note capitalisation).

Having already RSVPed and told her friend we were going, KT and I were left no option but to talk strategy for the evening. We would A) be seen mingling outside the cinema; B) take seats with a clear path to the exit; and C) escape at the earliest opportunity, the ‘elbow nudge’ being our signal that we’d had enough.

Which is what we did. AND THEN KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS SAT NEXT TO US. It was the equivalent of the school principal sitting next to you at a three-hour school concert where your kid’s act was up first and you were planning to spend the rest of the three hours at the pub down the road. Before the opening credits had even finished, I was already nudging KT so hard that I’d worn a whole in her sleeve and yet we both knew we couldn’t leave because KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS WAS SITTING NEXT TO US.

After half an hour of X-TREME AWFULness (again: note capitalisation), we turned to look at each other. Instinctively we knew what we had to do. We had no choice. No choice at all. I did my best “get down low and go, go, go!” and just got the hell out of there, with KT close behind. And we didn’t stop running until we got to the nearest bar, where we promptly KABOed ourselves back to mental health…

Now, speaking of mental health, you may be interested to know that, thanks to outsourcing the plastering, my kitchen now looks like this:

However, our flat packed kitchen (the choosing of which was, for me, akin to root canal treatment) still looks like this:

Now, that in itself doesn’t bring on the KABO. Oh, no. Not at all.

It’s this: my husband, thrilled by the beautiful job the plasterers had done, came up with the brilliant idea of moving our kitchen table into that nook and moving the oven and fridge over to the other wall.

“After all, it’s not too late to return the flat-packed kitchen to Ikea and start again,” he said.

It was like a neon sign lit up above his head that said KABO! However, since it was well before midday, I opted to give him the death stare instead. He has subsequently turned to stone and now I have nobody to unflat-pack my kitchen… and I feel a Category Seven KABO coming on.

Anyone care to join me? What’s that? You will??

AWESOME!!!!

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Tomorrow marks my seventh week without a functioning oven. Yes, seven weeks. Let’s count ‘em, shall we? One… two… three… oh, god, that noise you just heard was my spirit stabbing itself with a serving fork.  Either that, or my spirit stabbing my husband with a serving fork.

Here’s what happened.

My oven broke. To get really technical about it, that thingy that you have to pull out to light the thing got pulled out for good. And since the oven door was the detachable sort (not in a good way) and the knobs fell off when you looked at them sharpishly, we decided to replace the whole thing.

Unfortunately we then had to wait two weeks for some money to come in so we could afford to replace it.

But come that happy day, we marched into our local white goods store to order Our Brand New Oven. But somewhere somehow, in the middle of the ordering process, my husband changed his mind and decided we needed to consider renovating the whole kitchen before committing to one model or another.

For the record, my ability to talk renovations doesn’t extend much past the three minute mark, after which I start to glaze over and think about the bottle of wine in the fridge. If the conversation, say, wanders onto the topic of splashbacks and cupboard door handles, I start to think about the vodka bottle in the freezer. And if you tried, for example, to get me into some kind of FLOOR EMPORIUM to look at and discuss lino and carpet samples, then please be prepared to see me there swigging from the wine bottle and drinking straight from that vodka bottle with a straw at the same time. Just sayin’.

ANYWAY so I didn’t actually have to discuss renovations with him, I agreed to let my husband invite our friend C, who designs kitchens for a living, to come over and talk about them with him instead.

Within ten minutes of C arriving, I realised this was what’s officially known as a Bad Idea.  C and my husband began running about excitedly together, talking about knocking down walls and digging a three foot deep trench down the side of the house. And in one of those horror movie moments, C’s wife – who was helping me out with that bottle of wine in the fridge –  turned to me and revealed she hadn’t had running water in her kitchen or bathroom for over two years due to her husband’s own renovation project. I mean, she may as well have told me she no longer had a soul and wanted to eat my offal on toast for breakfast, such was my terror.

After C and his family left, my husband found me sobbing into my wine glass about “just wanting a fucking oven that worked”.

Luckily, my husband is a sensitive man. He saw my pain and realised it was all too much for me. He reassured me we’d just buy a replacement oven. The renovations could wait a few more years…

And then he changed his mind. Again.

Oh, he bought a new oven, all right. A good one, too. One that I am happy with – or rather, would be happy with except that it has been sitting, all warm and cozy and wrapped in plastic, cardboard and polystyrene in our garage for over a week now… while my husband has taken to one of our kitchen walls with a crowbar.

This is my kitchen now.

Extra points for spotting the almost empty bottle of vodka

And no, I didn’t see that coming, either.

The fact of the matter is I’m writing this blog post in the lounge room with the fridge next to me. The contents of my entire spice rack are currently alongside my bed just waiting for someone to make a joke about ‘spicing things up’ in the bedroom. For the record: don’t make that joke. DO NOT MAKE THAT JOKE.

But I think Tiddles McGee, all of four years old, put it best. When my husband first started pulling out the cupboards, he reportedly said  “I’m telling mummy you’re destroying the kitchen! She will think you’ve turned evil!”

Now where was that second bottle of vodka…

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Every now and then I write something which I think is so funny that I have to pause my typing because I’m laughing so hard.

Generally speaking, however, I am the only person on the planet to find those things funny.

The other day, my husband (who, as some of you may remember, never laughs at my jokes) was spending some quality time tuning his Other Woman (also known as his motorbike) when I approached, chuckling heartily to myself.

Our subsequent conversation went something like this:

ME: I just wrote something really funny on facebook!

HIM: Really? That’s nice.

ME: Yeah it really was really really funny. No, really. You see, I wrote something about the humid weather in one of my status updates and [The Mild-Mannered Lawyer] made some reference to that Nelly song about  how it’s “getting hot in herre” and I was all, like, “so take off all your clothes”.

HIM: Yeah, that’s really funny.

ME: No, no, no, no. That’s not the funny bit! I haven’t got to it yet! Anyway, so then somebody else said something about how someone must have brought the weather from Sydney and, you see, that’s EXACTLY what Mr Justice accused me of that morning. Of taking the weather with me from Sydney. You know, because I just came back from Sydney.

HIM: Yep.

ME: And then The Mild-Mannered Lawyer – obviously in her capacity as my legal counsel – advised me that Mr Justice was plagiarising Crowded House lyrics…

HIM: (eyes glazing over) Uh huh.

ME: So I said – and this is the funny part right here – I said that Neil Finn should either sue or get together with Nelly and write a song called ‘Everywhere you go, you always take off all your clothes’ !!!!!

HIM: And?

ME: That’s the funny thing I wrote. ‘Everywhere you go, you always take off all your clothes!’.

HIM: (gives blank look)

ME: You know, because of that Crowded House song that goes ‘Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you’. And because Nelly tells everyone to take off all their clothes – although, technically, nobody actually does take off all their clothes in the film clip, just a few superfluous top layers. Although I expect ‘take off a few superfluous top layers’ didn’t scan quite as well. Not that ‘take off all your clothes’ scans that well anyway because, let’s face it, it doesn’t even rhyme and it should be something like ‘So take off all your gear’ or ‘Let’s drink our body weight in beer’. Although you’d have to spell ‘gear’ and ‘beer’ with a double RR, you know, to be consistent with his creative spelling of ‘herre’, which I’ve always thought could also be an alternative spelling of ‘hair’ and, for reasons I can’t quite explain right now, makes me think of a bunch of heavily bearded guys in leathers dancing around in a nightclub where the roof is on fire. And no, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, either.

[Long silence]

HIM:  Oh. Okay. I’m glad you had a nice time on your Facebook. [Turns back to his motorbike].

Look, if my husband just bothered to accept my facebook friendship request – or, indeed, even joined Facebook – he’d see just how funny I was, like, ALL THE TIME and he’d be writing “Good one! LOLZZZZ!!! :-D” all over my damn wall.  Don’t I know it.

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The first rule of Walking Club is that there’s supposed to be a President, apparently.

You see, when I recently agreed to go for an hour long power walk with my friend Mistress M, my husband got pretty excited.

“Why, you’ve got yourself a Walking Club!” he enthused. “Who’s President?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat bewildered. “How can there be a club and how can that club have a President? There’s only two of us.”

“Well, I formed a wine club with [MGK] at that barbeque the other day and I’m President,” he said, somewhat cockily.

“MGK let you be President??” I was a bit incredulous. After all, that didn’t sound like our friend MGK at all.

“No, not really,” he replied. “I voted myself in as President while she was getting more salad.”

“Have you actually told her that you’re the President??” I asked.

“Uh, no…” he said.

“Are you planning on telling her?”

“Probably not,” he said, wandering off to no doubt attend to some Important Wine Club Business, such as open another bottle of wine.

So much for the democratic process.

Anyhoo, the inaugural meeting of our Walking Club was some weeks ago and, to be quite frank, not a lot of walking has taken place since.

“How is your Walking Club going?” my husband asked me the other day.

“Good. Very good,” I replied. “In fact, the other day we walked into the backyard with a bottle of wine and then we walked back into the kitchen to get ourselves another bottle.”

[Mistress M and I had been celebrating the start of FebFast. Without actually talking about, we had both independently decided that the ‘fast’ part of ‘FebFast’ just meant that we had to drink our wine more quickly.]

“Anyway,” I continued  – and, let’s face it, ‘anyway’ is a good word to continue with. “KT has asked me to go for a walk tonight!”

“Ah! A rival Walking Club!” my husband exclaimed.

“How can it be a rival Walking Club when I’m a member of both? That kinda means I’m my own enemy…” I trailed off because I realised I really was my own worst enemy. Just recently, I’d decided that I was going to take up potato printing as a hobby and, indeed, carve out the shape of a potato into a potato half so that I ended up making potato prints OF potatoes. Now, if that’s not a cry for help, I don’t know what is.

“So, who’s President?” my husband asked. We were back to that old presidential chestnut.

For the record,  KT was more than happy for me to be President, while she took on the all-important role of Treasurer. Which was just as well, really, as I probably would just spend the club funds on wine and not whatever Walking Clubs are supposed to spend money on and then I’d just be playing straight into the hands of my so-called-husband and his so-called Wine Club. Shuh!

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I’ll be frank with you. Turning up at a live music gig with my friend The Fabulous Miss Jones to see my very first Childhood Crush play felt a little bit like going to my school reunion with a supermodel.

Before the gig, I left a message on my Childhood Crush’s facebook wall saying:

“If I don’t get to talk to you tonight, can you pretend that the tall leggy blonde you saw in the audience was me? Thanks.”

When I told my husband about my misgivings, I thoroughly expected he would give me a little pep talk about how I’d impress the Childhood Crush with my sparkling wit and personality. Instead, he said “You should wear a dress that shows off your breasts.”

So I did. I mean, there’s something about revisiting the flames of your past that makes you want to look your Absolute Best – even if it’s just your breasts looking their Absolute Best.

Sadly, I once saw a Former Love in a food court in the city. I instantly knew it was him – after all, the bastard had broken my heart. He, in turn, looked over at me with some uncertainty. You see, it was shortly after the birth of The Pixie and I was the bloated shadow of my former self. So I kept my head down and thanked the Lord that I had used my ‘Starbucks Name’ when ordering my Boost juice.

[An aside: for those of you who are unaware of the Starbucks Name concept, it’s an easy-to-grasp pseudonym adopted by those poor souls endowed with Eastern European names with complex spelling who don’t want to be shouting “NO, NO! THAT’S ‘M’ FOR MOTHER!” over the din of a food court. ]

So when my Starbucks Name was called and it clearly wasn’t my name, the Former Love obviously decided it wasn’t me and went back to his conversation with his colleague. And I was able to waddle home to my suburban lair, Boost juice in hand.

Of course, ever since I became sohotrightnow, I have not seen him. Not once. The universe must hate me.

Anyway, back at the live gig, my Childhood Crush was very handsome and charming and gave The Fabulous Miss Jones, me and my breasts equal attention and I went home with that reassuring feeling that I’d had excellent taste in men at the age of 13. Result.

But here’s the thing… I also went home perilously late and extremely very drunk (another good reason not to go places with The Fabulous Miss Jones: neither of us have ‘Moderate’ as our middle name) and woke early in the morning fully dressed on the couch.

Except, I wasn’t fully dressed.

As I tried to drift back to sleep, I became suddenly – and terrifyingly – aware of the fact I wasn’t wearing any underpants. And, not being one to go commando for no good reason, I knew for certain I had started the evening wearing underpants…

When I got up later, I started looking for them. I looked everywhere: the laundry baskets, the bin, the fridge (yes, the fridge), under the couch, in the toilet. But they were nowhere to be seen. I even rang The Fabulously Hungover Miss Jones to ask her if she knew where they were. She denied all knowledge.

When my husband got home from work, we casually chatted about our days for a while before I tentatively raised the question of my underpants.

“Oh, yes. I found them with your handbag on the back table,” he said. “I put them in the washing machine because I didn’t think your father [our current house guest] needed to see them.”

Which at least explained their whereabouts… but not why they had been taken off or, indeed, when they had been taken off…

Listen, whatever happened, I’d like it to be stated for the record that it wasn’t me. It was someone who looked a helluva lot like me but had my Starbucks Name. Yeah, that’s it.

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I ask you… what kind of person wants to come and do house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning? And indeed, what kind of person makes arrangements for someone to come and do a house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning?

Our bank and my so-called husband is who.

Problem was that the morning in question I’d been woken early by the kids and the puppy and had found myself in a restless mood. It was the kind of mood that, in the past, would have inspired me to turn a bruise into the face of Jesus Christ with a magic marker .

So when the valuation guy turned up and turned out to be quite cute, I started flirting with him, even though I was wearing tracksuit pants and hadn’t brushed my hair, let alone looked in a mirror for about five days. It’s the school holidays, people. Get over it.

“I took a bullet for the team,” I informed my husband later. “My reckoning was that if I flirted enough, the valuer would realise that any house that had me in it would be worth substantially more.”

I’m not sure $50 counts as being ‘substantially more’,” my husband replied, somewhat grumpily.

I knew I’d hit a sore point. He knows how hard I work at making everyone I meet like me and – ten years after the fact – still tells everyone about the time I temped in an office for three weeks and how they bought me a card and a cake on my birthday. Although, the last time he brought up this anecdote, I realised that due to the time of year I’d been in that office, it couldn’t possibly have been my birthday.

“It wasn’t a birthday cake, actually!” I told him. “It was only a card and cake because I was leaving…”

“… after only three weeks,” he replied dolefully. “Yeah, that makes me feel much better.”

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the evaluation came in on Friday and was $20,000 less than my husband had predicted.

“It must have been the tracksuit pants,” I said, somewhat disappointed in myself. “I should have frocked up… at eight o’clock in the frickin’ morning. Shit, you should have scheduled it for eight o’clock in the evening, and then I could have been wearing a cocktail dress, full make up and heels.”

“You don’t even wear full make up and heels for me!” he cried.

“Only because you seem to think I’m only worth $50!” I sulked.

Honestly, there’ll have to be more than $50 on the table for me to put on full make-up. I mean, the last time I let KT put mascara on me, it was a deeply confusing experience for me.

“Has it clumped?” I had asked, trying to sound like I understood the perils of mascara application.

“No,” she’d replied. “Why?”

“There’s this black thing I can see above my eye.”

“Uh, that’s your eyelashes, darling,” KT had gently told me.

Who wants to walk around any more aware of their eyelashes than they absolutely need to be? Shuh!

Of course, like many women who don’t wear makeup, I like to think it’s because I don’t need it. Yeah, right. Look, I’m only listening to what my husband once told me.

“You’re naturally beautiful,” he had said – not because it’s at all true but because it’s in his contract to do so. Of course he’d then added: “Imagine how beautiful you’d be if you wore makeup!”

He’s now no doubt imagining how much our house would be worth, too…

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