Recently both of my kids were gone for the evening at a sleepover birthday party, so that left the husband and me all alone. The house was so quiet, nobody was screaming, nothing was being broken, nobody was needed to plunge a toilet. It was so tranquil. Anyway, my husband and I were sitting all alone in our quiet house and he looked over at me and said in a husky voice, “The kids are gone and I shaved my back, wanna go out?” So we dressed for dinner and selected a restaurant that did not offer crayons, a drive thru, or nuggets of any kind and prepared ourselves for a romantic night on the town.
Since it was a spur of the moment decision, and we didn’t have a reservation, we weren’t sure that we would be able to get in at a nice restaurant. But, as luck would have it, the hostess found a table for us right away. It was the teeny-tiny one located right in the middle of the dining room that nobody ever wants. You know, the one right in the middle of the high traffic area and about the size of a TV tray, only more wobbly? Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, and middle-aged couples with one night of freedom will pretty much take anything.
As we sat at our table and looked over the menu we began to wonder if the wait-staff had forgotten about us. My husband tapped the tines on his fork as I felt my crows feet deepen. We looked around trying to make eye contact with anyone carrying a serving tray. Eventually our waiter could not take our death stare any longer and came over and took our drink order and promised to “be right back.” I have found that most waiters are liars, and this one was no exception. To me, “right back” means he will return in 3-5 minutes, however, in the waiter’s handbook it is defined this way: “We are going to serve everyone else in the place, let them eat and pay, and then, if we have nothing else to do, we might come back and take your order, but that is a big maybe.”
In time, a long time, our waiter did return. It might have had something to do with me sticking out my foot and tripping him as he went by, but I can’t say for sure. Anyway, he did bring us our cocktails and let us order our appetizer and meal, but I was doubtful we would ever see either.
“Do you think they are getting any bites?” My husband asked.
“What?”
“Well, you did order the Salmon and that means they have to go fish for it.”
“Don’t blame me. You are the one who just had to order the pasta and sausage. First they have to grind the flour, find some sheep gut for casing and kill a pig. Seriously, whose meal do you think will take longer to make?”
The table next to us was eating a delicious looking meal and it was hard to keep from staring. My husband said, “I am so hungry.”
I said, “Me too, all I had was a single grape and some macaroni that one of the kids didn’t finish at lunch.”
Then my husband leaned in close, looked at me with love in his eyes and said, “Ok, here is the plan. I will create a diversion; you steal both plates and the bread basket. Oh, and if you can, grab the giant pepper grinder, I love those things.”
I think the couple whose food we were thinking of stealing heard us because the gentleman at the table fashioned his cloth napkin into a noose and dangled it above his plate. Thank goodness the waiter came by with our cheese platter or things might have gotten a bit dicey.
Now, about the cheese platter, my husband isn’t a big fan of cheese. He is mostly afraid of cheese that isn’t bright orange and doesn’t come wrapped in cellophane or squirting out of a pressurized can, but it was date night, so he let me order the appetizer. I helped out by refusing to tell him what any of the cheeses were--I didn’t think gagging and choking sounds would be appropriate at a fancy restaurant. He was a real sport, and was actually enjoying himself until he took a big bit of what he thought was cream cheese, and with his mouth full of bread and dairy said, “I think I taste goat.”
I said, “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I know what cow tastes like and this isn’t it.”
“Could you please just swallow it and stop talking with your mouth full?”
“Fine. But I want to know what kind of cheese that is?”
After he swallowed I said, “goat.”
Before my husband could accuse me of trying to poison him, our salads arrived. Nothing happened during the salad portion of the meal except that the table next to us got new residents, one of them was a cackler. The cackler was a woman who laughed so loud it was like a car accident, all screeching and broken glass. My husband leaned over again, “Ok, new plan. I create a diversion and you smack her in the face with your salad plate. Be sure to hit her really hard, you don’t want to just stun her; you need to knock her unconscious. And don’t forget the pepper grinder this time.”
I was about to question why he always gets the easy part of his plans when our entrées were delivered. We even got our own bread basket full of day old croutons.
“Hey you wanna break bread with me?”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“No really, it is hard as a rock. I think the roof of my mouth is bleeding.”
Finally, it was time to hunt for our waiter so that we could pay. We were going to order dessert but the kids were only going to be gone for one night and we didn’t bring our toothbrushes. After we had settled the bill and were on our way to the car I asked my husband what time it was.
“Only nine o’clock. Wow, it only took three hours.”
“I know. It felt like it took much longer.”
“You’re telling me. It feels like midnight.”
My husband belched sausage.
“Are you thinking what I am thinking?”
“That you need some antacid?”
“Yes, and . . . ?”
“That the night is young?”
“Yep, and if we hurry home we can be in bed and asleep before nine-thirty!”
“Well, let’s get a move on then, there is a pillow at home with my name on it!”
“Race you to the car!”
“You are so romantic!”
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Beauty and the Beast
The other morning I woke up to my husband's eyebrows attacking me. I know that I don’t usually tackle these hard-hitting subjects, but there is a time to joke and a time to be serious, and seriously his eyebrows were scaring me.
I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”
He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”
“Have you tried plucking them?”
“With what?”
“A tweezer.”
“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”
And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.
Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”
“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”
“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”
“Sounds like a wuss to me.”
“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”
“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”
“But don’t you care about how you look?”
“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”
“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”
“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”
“So you are a humanitarian?”
“Basically.”
I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.
I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”
“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”
“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”
“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”
“ . . . Ewww . . .”
Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”
“What?”
“You really came through.”
“What dog? What toe?”
“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”
“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”
“No problem.”
Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”
“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”
“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”
“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”
I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”
He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”
“Have you tried plucking them?”
“With what?”
“A tweezer.”
“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”
And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.
Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”
“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”
“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”
“Sounds like a wuss to me.”
“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”
“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”
“But don’t you care about how you look?”
“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”
“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”
“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”
“So you are a humanitarian?”
“Basically.”
I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.
I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”
“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”
“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”
“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”
“ . . . Ewww . . .”
Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”
“What?”
“You really came through.”
“What dog? What toe?”
“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”
“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”
“No problem.”
Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”
“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”
“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”
“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
My husband and I have always wanted to buy an industrial building and turn it into living space. That is just the kind of people we are—stupid people. We almost bought a hospital once and at a different time a school, but passed on both for various reasons--so the search continues. Recently my husband saw an ad for a railroad tunnel for sale. Part of the ad read: For sale: one gently used railroad tunnel, natural air conditioning, excellent storage possibilities. My husband was all over it.
“Let’s buy it!”
“Why?”
“We could turn it into a house.”
“Why?”
“It would be fun; it could be our grand adventure.”
“I am too young to die.”
It turns out the tunnel is a half mile long, twenty-one feet high and runs through the center of a mountain. It comes with fifty-four acres of commercial property and even on hot summer days stays an even fifty-one degrees temperature.
“Well I need light if I am going to live in a cave.”
“It isn’t a cave, it is a tunnel and we can get some lamps.”
“No, I mean sunlight, I am not a mole.”
“Each of the tunnel ends can be made into big glass windows.”
“Yeah but what about the center, it would be like, dark. Couldn’t we put in some windows on the side?”
“It is in the center of a mountain, how do you propose I carve windows out of the mountainside?”
“Dynamite.”
A Coeur d'Alene real estate company is marketing the property for a man named Don Parker, owner of the tunnel. Mr. Parker points out its potential for enterprises that thrive in cool, dark places, like commercial mushroom production or wine storage. Parker said he's confident that the tunnel could again be part of a viable commercial venture.
“Well if you didn’t want to live there we could turn it into a business.”
“You don’t know how to drive a train.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean something unique.”
“Like what?”
“I know, how about . . . a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?”
“Yeah, and we could get a spotlight and a train whistle, then when everyone is eating we could turn on the spot light and blow on the whistle and pretend a train is coming.”
“We would be the only restaurant around that has to have a doctor on-call for when our customers go into cardiac arrest.”
“Ok, well how about the world’s largest dark room?”
“Most people use digital cameras now.”
“We could harvest bat guano. I have heard of people doing that.”
“You have not heard of people doing that. Nobody does that! What would we do ‘that’ for? I do not want to harvest bat guano. One bat in the tunnel is a deal-breaker for me.”
“Ok fine. I know--how about the world’s biggest smoker? We just herd the cows in and light it up. Voila, 2 tons of beef jerky.”
“Oh yeah? Who is going in afterward and scooping up ½ a mile of meat?”
“I don’t know. Why do I have to think of everything?”
The newspaper article continued with: "I believe that it's the most unusual property that we've dealt with," said Thomas Tagen, the listing agent with Tomlinson North Idaho Sotheby's International Realty. No kidding.
“How about this idea--we could raise veal.”
“I thought you didn’t like sheep?”
“Veal is baby cows, not sheep.”
“Oh.”
“The calves are born and then are put in a box so they don’t move around much. They get fed all the time and kept in the dark for a few weeks, all the while getting juicy and tender, and then they go to slaughter.”
“Oh my gosh! That is terrible. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The poor little cows; I don’t think I could be a veal farmer.”
“Ok, how about we open a daycare.”
“A daycare?!! I just said I don’t want to torture cows, but you think torturing kids would be ok?”
“A daycare would not be torture, it would be a big open space for them to run.”
“Yeah, like run away.”
“When the parents drop them off we could just lock ‘em in. They would be glad to see their mom’s and dad’s at the end of the day. The tricky part would be getting them to come back . . . .”
“I think it would be cruel to keep them in the dark all day and send them home for dinner and then off to bed . . . in the dark.”
The article went on to quote the Real Estate agent Tagen, who said, “The tunnel itself has deep psychological meaning, that's why you see so many films with tunnels." Tagen then said. "There's an element of mystery and intrigue." That’s us, mysterious and intriguing; all our friends say so, only they call it weird and scary.
“Ok, how about this for a business idea--a beauty parlor? You wouldn’t even have to be good at it. It isn’t like they could see themselves in the mirror.”
“I am still sad about the veal.”
“Alright, no more talk about the veal. Think happy thoughts. How about we make the tunnel into a bar?”
“A bar?!”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“I thought if you heard it repeated back to you, it might give you some idea of what it sounds like to a normal person.”
“Anyway, about the bar . . . We serve drinks in the center of the tunnel. That way, by the time everyone walks back to their car they are sober. It would cut down on drunk driving. We would be doing a community service.”
“This conversation is making me want to drink.”
“Well, how about this idea—a church!”
“I am just gonna come right out and say it: you have lost your mind.”
“Hear me out. We could re-use the spotlight and train whistle idea—that would be sure to get people down on their knees. Plus, if we close off each end of the tunnel the congregants are stuck there for the whole sermon!”
“Well, I certainly know who I will be praying for.”
“Ok this is the last idea I have, how about the world’s largest strip mall? We hand out flash-lights at the door with low-batteries and put a Radio Shack in the center—with batteries always on sale! I am telling you, I smell money!”
“I smell smoke that is for certain. Listen, if you really want this tunnel thing, we can get it. I’m not really “on board” with any of your business ideas, but maybe it could be a summer home that only you visit, or maybe the world’s largest man cave. If we do buy it though, can we get one of those vintage handcar thingies like they have in cartoons? I always wanted to try one.”
Hurry and act now, this train tunnel won’t last long. This is a limited time offer and it can be yours for the low, low price of $650,000!--unless of course, we get it first.
“Let’s buy it!”
“Why?”
“We could turn it into a house.”
“Why?”
“It would be fun; it could be our grand adventure.”
“I am too young to die.”
It turns out the tunnel is a half mile long, twenty-one feet high and runs through the center of a mountain. It comes with fifty-four acres of commercial property and even on hot summer days stays an even fifty-one degrees temperature.
“Well I need light if I am going to live in a cave.”
“It isn’t a cave, it is a tunnel and we can get some lamps.”
“No, I mean sunlight, I am not a mole.”
“Each of the tunnel ends can be made into big glass windows.”
“Yeah but what about the center, it would be like, dark. Couldn’t we put in some windows on the side?”
“It is in the center of a mountain, how do you propose I carve windows out of the mountainside?”
“Dynamite.”
A Coeur d'Alene real estate company is marketing the property for a man named Don Parker, owner of the tunnel. Mr. Parker points out its potential for enterprises that thrive in cool, dark places, like commercial mushroom production or wine storage. Parker said he's confident that the tunnel could again be part of a viable commercial venture.
“Well if you didn’t want to live there we could turn it into a business.”
“You don’t know how to drive a train.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean something unique.”
“Like what?”
“I know, how about . . . a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?”
“Yeah, and we could get a spotlight and a train whistle, then when everyone is eating we could turn on the spot light and blow on the whistle and pretend a train is coming.”
“We would be the only restaurant around that has to have a doctor on-call for when our customers go into cardiac arrest.”
“Ok, well how about the world’s largest dark room?”
“Most people use digital cameras now.”
“We could harvest bat guano. I have heard of people doing that.”
“You have not heard of people doing that. Nobody does that! What would we do ‘that’ for? I do not want to harvest bat guano. One bat in the tunnel is a deal-breaker for me.”
“Ok fine. I know--how about the world’s biggest smoker? We just herd the cows in and light it up. Voila, 2 tons of beef jerky.”
“Oh yeah? Who is going in afterward and scooping up ½ a mile of meat?”
“I don’t know. Why do I have to think of everything?”
The newspaper article continued with: "I believe that it's the most unusual property that we've dealt with," said Thomas Tagen, the listing agent with Tomlinson North Idaho Sotheby's International Realty. No kidding.
“How about this idea--we could raise veal.”
“I thought you didn’t like sheep?”
“Veal is baby cows, not sheep.”
“Oh.”
“The calves are born and then are put in a box so they don’t move around much. They get fed all the time and kept in the dark for a few weeks, all the while getting juicy and tender, and then they go to slaughter.”
“Oh my gosh! That is terrible. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The poor little cows; I don’t think I could be a veal farmer.”
“Ok, how about we open a daycare.”
“A daycare?!! I just said I don’t want to torture cows, but you think torturing kids would be ok?”
“A daycare would not be torture, it would be a big open space for them to run.”
“Yeah, like run away.”
“When the parents drop them off we could just lock ‘em in. They would be glad to see their mom’s and dad’s at the end of the day. The tricky part would be getting them to come back . . . .”
“I think it would be cruel to keep them in the dark all day and send them home for dinner and then off to bed . . . in the dark.”
The article went on to quote the Real Estate agent Tagen, who said, “The tunnel itself has deep psychological meaning, that's why you see so many films with tunnels." Tagen then said. "There's an element of mystery and intrigue." That’s us, mysterious and intriguing; all our friends say so, only they call it weird and scary.
“Ok, how about this for a business idea--a beauty parlor? You wouldn’t even have to be good at it. It isn’t like they could see themselves in the mirror.”
“I am still sad about the veal.”
“Alright, no more talk about the veal. Think happy thoughts. How about we make the tunnel into a bar?”
“A bar?!”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“I thought if you heard it repeated back to you, it might give you some idea of what it sounds like to a normal person.”
“Anyway, about the bar . . . We serve drinks in the center of the tunnel. That way, by the time everyone walks back to their car they are sober. It would cut down on drunk driving. We would be doing a community service.”
“This conversation is making me want to drink.”
“Well, how about this idea—a church!”
“I am just gonna come right out and say it: you have lost your mind.”
“Hear me out. We could re-use the spotlight and train whistle idea—that would be sure to get people down on their knees. Plus, if we close off each end of the tunnel the congregants are stuck there for the whole sermon!”
“Well, I certainly know who I will be praying for.”
“Ok this is the last idea I have, how about the world’s largest strip mall? We hand out flash-lights at the door with low-batteries and put a Radio Shack in the center—with batteries always on sale! I am telling you, I smell money!”
“I smell smoke that is for certain. Listen, if you really want this tunnel thing, we can get it. I’m not really “on board” with any of your business ideas, but maybe it could be a summer home that only you visit, or maybe the world’s largest man cave. If we do buy it though, can we get one of those vintage handcar thingies like they have in cartoons? I always wanted to try one.”
Hurry and act now, this train tunnel won’t last long. This is a limited time offer and it can be yours for the low, low price of $650,000!--unless of course, we get it first.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Til Death Do Us Part
My sister was talking to me on the phone, telling me the reasons why she couldn’t get any sleep the night before. Evidently, her husband had been keeping her awake by being noisy, getting in and out of bed, and generally being a nuisance. Then, when he was finally ready to settle down and go to sleep, he rolled over and said, “Honey, are you awake? I have gas.” I supported her in the way that only a sister can. I said, “Do you ever look over at your husband and think, if only I had held the pillow down over his face just a few seconds longer, we would not be having this conversation?”
Marriage is an interesting institution. I have had many people ask me what makes a good marriage, and by many, I mean no one. Of course, not being an expert has never stopped me from giving advice before and it won’t stop me now. Who needs expertise when you have drive, ambition and a general lack of good sense? So let us take a moment to explore this establishment we call marriage.
I really do wish I knew what the secret to a good marriage is. Is it, communication, intimacy, romance, quality time, freedom to be oneself? Who knows? Each book, movie, and video says something different. One book I read said the secret to a good marital relationship is knowing how to fight together. The book purports that if you can’t fight fairly with your spouse then your marriage won't last. I was talking to a recently divorced friend about that theory and she said her ex didn’t care enough to fight in their marriage. It would be safe to say my husband and I don’t have that problem.
Him: “Where did you put my sweatshirt?”
Me: “What sweatshirt?”
Him: “The black one.”
Me: “I didn’t take it.”
Him: “Then where is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Where did you put it?”
Him: “I didn’t put it anywhere. I had it yesterday and now it is gone.”
Me: “Well the hamper is empty and there are no clothes in the dryer or in the laundry basket, if it isn’t in the closet then I have no idea where it is.”
Him: “Why are you hiding it from me?!”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Just tell me where it is!”
Me: “I don’t know where it is!”
Him: “Yes, you do!”
Me: “No! I! Don’t!”
10 minutes later.
Me: “I was vacuuming and found your sweatshirt shoved in between the bed and nightstand. It must have fallen off the bed.”
Him: “I knew you had it.”
Of course we all know that cheating is usually a marriage killer, there has been a lot of talk in the news recently about how infidelity is affecting the marriages of movie stars. This person is having an affair, this person is having multiple affairs, this one has cheated on his wife so many times he has a hard time remembering what she looks like, etc. It makes one wonder if anyone’s marriage is safe from unfaithfulness.
Me: “Honey, have you ever had an affair?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “You know, have you ever cheated on me? You can tell me. I just need to know, for my own peace of mind.”
Him: “Listen, I can’t make one woman happy. What in the heck would I want with two?!”
I went to a ladies-only bible study where the instructor encouraged us to stop bossing our husbands around. One thing she insisted on is that we stop telling our husbands to ask for directions when they are driving somewhere (even if he is lost) because doing so would make him feel “adored.” I decided to ask my husband his feelings on the subject.
Me: “If I didn’t tell you to ask for directions would you feel adored?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “How about if I stopped telling you how to drive?”
Him: “That isn’t the word I would use. I might feel more relaxed; but adored, no.”
Me: “What if I stopped suddenly gasping every time we passed someone on the freeway? Adored?”
Him: “Um, still no. More relaxed still, but I would wonder what is wrong with you.”
Me: “So if I can’t tell you how to drive why do you get to tell me how to drive?”
Him: “I tell you how to drive so that you won’t hit things.”
Me: “You think I am a bad driver?”
Him: “No, I didn’t say that. But . . . .”
Me: “What???”
Him: “You did hit a parked car pulling out of the driveway.”
Me: “It could have happened to anyone.”
Him: “You ran into the drive thru box at Subway.”
Me: “It was in an awkward location.”
Him: “You go the same speed on the highway as you do in town. If you can call 35 mph 'speed.'”
Me: “No one needs to go 70 mph.”
Him: “You hit a pedestrian!”
Me: “I hit one pedestrian and no one ever lets me forget it!”
Him: “Most drivers don’t run over people.”
Me: “He wasn’t even in a crosswalk.”
Him: “How many bodies do you need to leave in your wake before enough is enough?!”
Me: “I see your point. So I shouldn’t give you driving instructions?”
Him: “Affirmative.”
I was reading the news and came across a headline that read “Woman Stabs Husband Over Honey-Do List” and all I could think was, man, haven’t we all been there before? Every time I go to a wedding I think of when my husband and I took our vows. “Richer, poorer, sickness, health, blah, blah, blah, ‘til death do you part.” That end part, that is my favorite. "Til death," which loosely translated means someone ain’t gettin' out of this thing alive. When Ruth Graham, wife of famed evangelist Billy Graham, asked if she ever considered divorce she said, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” I like the way she thinks.
The other night I rolled over in the bed and my husband flinched.
Me: “What are you flinching for?”
Him: “I thought you were going to try and suffocate me with a pillow.”
Me: “It was at least a foot from your face.”
Him: “Yes but I had my eyes closed and when I opened them the pillow was coming toward me. My instinct is to move away from someone that I think may be trying to kill me.”
Me: “I would not kill you by suffocation. You are bigger and stronger than me, you could just push me away. So what would be the point in trying?”
Him: “True, I always figured you for a poisoner anyway.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You would try to poison me. With arsenic or anti-freeze or rat poison. Something like that. You would just offer me something sweet laced with poison, because you know I can’t resist the sugar. Then next thing you know, I’m dead.”
Me: “You are crazy. I couldn’t even get a hold of poison. It isn’t like they sell it on every street corner.”
Him: “They do sell rat poison everywhere.”
Me: “Oh yeah, where?”
Him: “Like I am going to tell you.”
Me: “Oh. My. Gosh. You are certifiable.”
Him: “Well, if you must know, you can get it at the hardware store.”
Me: “Where they have video cameras? They have video cameras in more places than they have rat poison. So that would be a ‘no’ on poison.”
Him: “Lucky me.”
Me: “Well, since you are being morbid, how would you ‘off’ me?”
Him: “I would tell you something so scary you would keel over from a heart attack. That way I am sort of innocent. I mean, it isn’t my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”
Me: “Whaaaaat?!”
Him: “Yeah, more bang-for-my buck, so to speak.”
Me: “You really are nuts.”
Him: “Sleep tight.”
Me: “Like I could go to sleep after this conversation.”
I have heard the saying “If you love something set it free, and if it comes back to you then it is truly yours.” Or some such nonsense. My motto is: If you love something, keep it close to you, smother it if you have to, it is your sworn duty to make it miserable for life. After all, you did promise ‘til death.’
Marriage is an interesting institution. I have had many people ask me what makes a good marriage, and by many, I mean no one. Of course, not being an expert has never stopped me from giving advice before and it won’t stop me now. Who needs expertise when you have drive, ambition and a general lack of good sense? So let us take a moment to explore this establishment we call marriage.
I really do wish I knew what the secret to a good marriage is. Is it, communication, intimacy, romance, quality time, freedom to be oneself? Who knows? Each book, movie, and video says something different. One book I read said the secret to a good marital relationship is knowing how to fight together. The book purports that if you can’t fight fairly with your spouse then your marriage won't last. I was talking to a recently divorced friend about that theory and she said her ex didn’t care enough to fight in their marriage. It would be safe to say my husband and I don’t have that problem.
Him: “Where did you put my sweatshirt?”
Me: “What sweatshirt?”
Him: “The black one.”
Me: “I didn’t take it.”
Him: “Then where is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Where did you put it?”
Him: “I didn’t put it anywhere. I had it yesterday and now it is gone.”
Me: “Well the hamper is empty and there are no clothes in the dryer or in the laundry basket, if it isn’t in the closet then I have no idea where it is.”
Him: “Why are you hiding it from me?!”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Just tell me where it is!”
Me: “I don’t know where it is!”
Him: “Yes, you do!”
Me: “No! I! Don’t!”
10 minutes later.
Me: “I was vacuuming and found your sweatshirt shoved in between the bed and nightstand. It must have fallen off the bed.”
Him: “I knew you had it.”
Of course we all know that cheating is usually a marriage killer, there has been a lot of talk in the news recently about how infidelity is affecting the marriages of movie stars. This person is having an affair, this person is having multiple affairs, this one has cheated on his wife so many times he has a hard time remembering what she looks like, etc. It makes one wonder if anyone’s marriage is safe from unfaithfulness.
Me: “Honey, have you ever had an affair?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “You know, have you ever cheated on me? You can tell me. I just need to know, for my own peace of mind.”
Him: “Listen, I can’t make one woman happy. What in the heck would I want with two?!”
I went to a ladies-only bible study where the instructor encouraged us to stop bossing our husbands around. One thing she insisted on is that we stop telling our husbands to ask for directions when they are driving somewhere (even if he is lost) because doing so would make him feel “adored.” I decided to ask my husband his feelings on the subject.
Me: “If I didn’t tell you to ask for directions would you feel adored?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “How about if I stopped telling you how to drive?”
Him: “That isn’t the word I would use. I might feel more relaxed; but adored, no.”
Me: “What if I stopped suddenly gasping every time we passed someone on the freeway? Adored?”
Him: “Um, still no. More relaxed still, but I would wonder what is wrong with you.”
Me: “So if I can’t tell you how to drive why do you get to tell me how to drive?”
Him: “I tell you how to drive so that you won’t hit things.”
Me: “You think I am a bad driver?”
Him: “No, I didn’t say that. But . . . .”
Me: “What???”
Him: “You did hit a parked car pulling out of the driveway.”
Me: “It could have happened to anyone.”
Him: “You ran into the drive thru box at Subway.”
Me: “It was in an awkward location.”
Him: “You go the same speed on the highway as you do in town. If you can call 35 mph 'speed.'”
Me: “No one needs to go 70 mph.”
Him: “You hit a pedestrian!”
Me: “I hit one pedestrian and no one ever lets me forget it!”
Him: “Most drivers don’t run over people.”
Me: “He wasn’t even in a crosswalk.”
Him: “How many bodies do you need to leave in your wake before enough is enough?!”
Me: “I see your point. So I shouldn’t give you driving instructions?”
Him: “Affirmative.”
I was reading the news and came across a headline that read “Woman Stabs Husband Over Honey-Do List” and all I could think was, man, haven’t we all been there before? Every time I go to a wedding I think of when my husband and I took our vows. “Richer, poorer, sickness, health, blah, blah, blah, ‘til death do you part.” That end part, that is my favorite. "Til death," which loosely translated means someone ain’t gettin' out of this thing alive. When Ruth Graham, wife of famed evangelist Billy Graham, asked if she ever considered divorce she said, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” I like the way she thinks.
The other night I rolled over in the bed and my husband flinched.
Me: “What are you flinching for?”
Him: “I thought you were going to try and suffocate me with a pillow.”
Me: “It was at least a foot from your face.”
Him: “Yes but I had my eyes closed and when I opened them the pillow was coming toward me. My instinct is to move away from someone that I think may be trying to kill me.”
Me: “I would not kill you by suffocation. You are bigger and stronger than me, you could just push me away. So what would be the point in trying?”
Him: “True, I always figured you for a poisoner anyway.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You would try to poison me. With arsenic or anti-freeze or rat poison. Something like that. You would just offer me something sweet laced with poison, because you know I can’t resist the sugar. Then next thing you know, I’m dead.”
Me: “You are crazy. I couldn’t even get a hold of poison. It isn’t like they sell it on every street corner.”
Him: “They do sell rat poison everywhere.”
Me: “Oh yeah, where?”
Him: “Like I am going to tell you.”
Me: “Oh. My. Gosh. You are certifiable.”
Him: “Well, if you must know, you can get it at the hardware store.”
Me: “Where they have video cameras? They have video cameras in more places than they have rat poison. So that would be a ‘no’ on poison.”
Him: “Lucky me.”
Me: “Well, since you are being morbid, how would you ‘off’ me?”
Him: “I would tell you something so scary you would keel over from a heart attack. That way I am sort of innocent. I mean, it isn’t my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”
Me: “Whaaaaat?!”
Him: “Yeah, more bang-for-my buck, so to speak.”
Me: “You really are nuts.”
Him: “Sleep tight.”
Me: “Like I could go to sleep after this conversation.”
I have heard the saying “If you love something set it free, and if it comes back to you then it is truly yours.” Or some such nonsense. My motto is: If you love something, keep it close to you, smother it if you have to, it is your sworn duty to make it miserable for life. After all, you did promise ‘til death.’
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Meat(loaf) of the Conversation
Men and women communicate differently. I should know. As the only woman in a house full of men, it is painfully obvious. Even the turtle won’t talk to me. Well, he is dead. But intuition tells me his dying was just a creative way to give me the silent treatment.
With regard to talking to men there is one principle I have learned, men like short conversations and interactions. By short, I mean one word and preferably one syllable responses.
Me: “Would you like chicken or pork chops for dinner?”
Him: “Either.”
Me: “I was thinking about getting a new hair-do.”
Him: “OK.”
My son says his teacher talks too much. I asked him what he meant by that. He said, “My teacher goes on and on about nothing. He talks constantly, like a girl.” So now, not only are throwing like a girl, crying like a girl, hitting like a girl and screaming like a girl all insults, but now talking like a girl is bad as well. This is a really unfortunate turn of events because talking is something that most females do really, really well. I even talk in my sleep! If there was a talking hall of fame I would be in it.
I did some super-scientific research (I asked all men I am related to leading questions and gave them $5 each) to try and understand why men have a problem with long conversations. Through my study I found that there are four basic reasons why men prefer to keep verbal communication to a minimum.
1.) They think you are trying to sell them something and/or separate them from their money.
2.) They feel that you are trying to get them to do something that they don’t want to do-- like eat meatloaf.
3.) They are afraid that the more words used is in direct proportion to the likelihood that crying will take place.
4.) They are afraid if you start talking you may never stop.
To summarize, men are paranoid.
Even though men keep their uttering’s brief there is a lot of meaning in those select expressions. For example, when you ask your husband “Would you rather have tacos or spaghetti for dinner and he says “either” what he really means is “I don’t care as long as it isn’t meatloaf again.”
When you say, “I love you.” And your husband says “I love you too.” What he really means is “Oh crap did I forget her birthday or something or did she make meatloaf again?”
When you ask your husband “What do you think of my hair?” and he says “It’s nice.” What he is really trying to say is “The hair is nice but that dress makes you look a little wide through the hips.”
When you ask “Do these earrings go with this necklace?” and he says “Yes.” What he really wants to communicate is: “Oh my word! She is going to make us late for our reservation and then we are going to have to sit at the bar for 30 minutes until a table opens up and then that one weird waiter is going to keep coming up to me and checking to see if we are ok and touching me on the shoulder and she knows I cannot be touched right before I am going to eat steak!"
When men are speaking their brains are going through a process to eliminate excess words from their speech. It is like a verbal diet. Because of this process men often try to speak in words but the only thing that comes out are grunts. Although primitive and controversial, these guttural noises are still in use today. Many scientists have spent years trying to decode these ancient ramblings. The secret lies in the subtle differences in tone and length of grunt. Here is a brief tutorial on some of these types of communication.
“Hrmpf” means “You are wrong.”
“Hrmmmmpf” means “Interesting, but I still think you are wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmpf” means “Talking about it doesn’t make you less wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmmmpf” means “Seven o’clock, a week from Tuesday.”
Part of the problem is that men don’t understand what women are talking about, or why. I asked my son to explain why he fades out mentally when talking to girls. He told me this story about having to talk to a girl in his class; they were partnered up for a science project. He asked her about the model they were making of the digestive system and her response was:
“Ok, like some friends of mine, well not friend-friends but people, you know, that I hang out with, were going to like go to the mall. But I don’t mean go-go, I mean like go. And we were like looking for stuff that we couldn’t find because it was like moved around or something, in like the store. And we had to ask a person who like was working there, but they didn’t work there and it was like so embarrassing. I almost died! Seriously died! And now I almost never go in there anymore because it was like so totally traumatizing.”
My son’s response was, “What does that have to do with the small intestine? Oh yeah, it is a waste by-product. I get it now.”
I have read a lot of books on how to get my husband to talk to me. The books outline different methods and give them cute names to help you remember how to use them. I have defined a few of them below.
The Sandwich Principle—If you have something important to share (the meat) surround it on both sides by compliments (the bread). For example: "Honey, I am so glad that I have such a wonderful husband like you that wants to take care of me and provide nice things for me, because I just maxed out the credit card buying shoes, and I am also so grateful that you don’t believe in the death penalty.
The Salt Principle—If you have something important to share first lure him in by laying out some salt so that he will be thirsty for more information and then be willing to engage in a discussion. For example:
Me: Phew, that was a close call today; I am so glad the ambulance arrived when they did.
Him: What ambulance?
Me: Oh, at the mini-mart. It was a little touch-and-go there for a while before the fire trucks got there, but they were able to put the blaze out in no time at all.
Him: Blaze? What Blaze?
Me: Oh, just a little unintentional fire. The important thing to remember at a time like this is that no one got hurt and just be thankful for our loved ones.
Him: What did you do?!
The Heimlich—Hit him with several quick jabs to the chest and refuse to stop until he talks to you.
Him: I can’t breathe!
Me: Talk to me!
Him: I can’t breathe! *Gasp*
Me: Talk to me or else!
Him: *Wheeze*
Me: Fine, don't respond! But if you think falling into unconsciousness is going to get you out of this conversation, you are mistaken!
One of the books said that I should read the news so that I have something interesting to talk to him about at the end of the day.
Me: “On the news today they were talking about personality types. Do you think I have a type A personality?”
Him: “I think one of your personalities is.”
One of the books said that I should be sure to talk to my husband about spiritual matters because it will forge a deep emotional connection.
Me: “It was a terrible situation, but then I just knew what to do, it was like God spoke to me.”
Him: “Oh yeah, is he really, really old like everyone says?”
One of the books said that I should be fascinated with his interests and I should leave it open for him to discuss what is important to him.
Me: “So is there anything that you would like to discuss?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Is there anything that you would like to talk about?”
Him: “Tonight?”
Me: “Well, tonight or whenever?”
Him: “With you?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “No.”
After years of careful study of the male species and trying to figure out the best way to communicate, I finally asked my husband what he thought the difference is between the way men and women converse. He said, “Men stick to the facts and women talk about how everything makes them feel. If I was in an accident I would describe it with the facts. Like, I ran off the road here and hit this tree and it caused this type of damage. You would say something like, (insert falsetto voice here) ‘I was so scared, I thought we were all going to die, I saw my life flash before my eyes and all I could think about were my children being motherless.’”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t? Really?”
“No, I would stick to the facts as I saw them. I would say, my husband is a terrible driver that tried to kill me by running into a tree. I think it is because of the insurance money. Thank God you are here to save me officer. I hope you have an ambulance for me and handcuffs for him. He is a maniac.”
“Those are the facts?!”
“As I see them, yes. It is all a matter of perspective my dear.”
And that my friends is the secret, it is all in how you look at it. And how I see it, is if he doesn’t talk to me tonight, I am going to feed him meatloaf . . . just like I did the turtle.
With regard to talking to men there is one principle I have learned, men like short conversations and interactions. By short, I mean one word and preferably one syllable responses.
Me: “Would you like chicken or pork chops for dinner?”
Him: “Either.”
Me: “I was thinking about getting a new hair-do.”
Him: “OK.”
My son says his teacher talks too much. I asked him what he meant by that. He said, “My teacher goes on and on about nothing. He talks constantly, like a girl.” So now, not only are throwing like a girl, crying like a girl, hitting like a girl and screaming like a girl all insults, but now talking like a girl is bad as well. This is a really unfortunate turn of events because talking is something that most females do really, really well. I even talk in my sleep! If there was a talking hall of fame I would be in it.
I did some super-scientific research (I asked all men I am related to leading questions and gave them $5 each) to try and understand why men have a problem with long conversations. Through my study I found that there are four basic reasons why men prefer to keep verbal communication to a minimum.
1.) They think you are trying to sell them something and/or separate them from their money.
2.) They feel that you are trying to get them to do something that they don’t want to do-- like eat meatloaf.
3.) They are afraid that the more words used is in direct proportion to the likelihood that crying will take place.
4.) They are afraid if you start talking you may never stop.
To summarize, men are paranoid.
Even though men keep their uttering’s brief there is a lot of meaning in those select expressions. For example, when you ask your husband “Would you rather have tacos or spaghetti for dinner and he says “either” what he really means is “I don’t care as long as it isn’t meatloaf again.”
When you say, “I love you.” And your husband says “I love you too.” What he really means is “Oh crap did I forget her birthday or something or did she make meatloaf again?”
When you ask your husband “What do you think of my hair?” and he says “It’s nice.” What he is really trying to say is “The hair is nice but that dress makes you look a little wide through the hips.”
When you ask “Do these earrings go with this necklace?” and he says “Yes.” What he really wants to communicate is: “Oh my word! She is going to make us late for our reservation and then we are going to have to sit at the bar for 30 minutes until a table opens up and then that one weird waiter is going to keep coming up to me and checking to see if we are ok and touching me on the shoulder and she knows I cannot be touched right before I am going to eat steak!"
When men are speaking their brains are going through a process to eliminate excess words from their speech. It is like a verbal diet. Because of this process men often try to speak in words but the only thing that comes out are grunts. Although primitive and controversial, these guttural noises are still in use today. Many scientists have spent years trying to decode these ancient ramblings. The secret lies in the subtle differences in tone and length of grunt. Here is a brief tutorial on some of these types of communication.
“Hrmpf” means “You are wrong.”
“Hrmmmmpf” means “Interesting, but I still think you are wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmpf” means “Talking about it doesn’t make you less wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmmmpf” means “Seven o’clock, a week from Tuesday.”
Part of the problem is that men don’t understand what women are talking about, or why. I asked my son to explain why he fades out mentally when talking to girls. He told me this story about having to talk to a girl in his class; they were partnered up for a science project. He asked her about the model they were making of the digestive system and her response was:
“Ok, like some friends of mine, well not friend-friends but people, you know, that I hang out with, were going to like go to the mall. But I don’t mean go-go, I mean like go. And we were like looking for stuff that we couldn’t find because it was like moved around or something, in like the store. And we had to ask a person who like was working there, but they didn’t work there and it was like so embarrassing. I almost died! Seriously died! And now I almost never go in there anymore because it was like so totally traumatizing.”
My son’s response was, “What does that have to do with the small intestine? Oh yeah, it is a waste by-product. I get it now.”
I have read a lot of books on how to get my husband to talk to me. The books outline different methods and give them cute names to help you remember how to use them. I have defined a few of them below.
The Sandwich Principle—If you have something important to share (the meat) surround it on both sides by compliments (the bread). For example: "Honey, I am so glad that I have such a wonderful husband like you that wants to take care of me and provide nice things for me, because I just maxed out the credit card buying shoes, and I am also so grateful that you don’t believe in the death penalty.
The Salt Principle—If you have something important to share first lure him in by laying out some salt so that he will be thirsty for more information and then be willing to engage in a discussion. For example:
Me: Phew, that was a close call today; I am so glad the ambulance arrived when they did.
Him: What ambulance?
Me: Oh, at the mini-mart. It was a little touch-and-go there for a while before the fire trucks got there, but they were able to put the blaze out in no time at all.
Him: Blaze? What Blaze?
Me: Oh, just a little unintentional fire. The important thing to remember at a time like this is that no one got hurt and just be thankful for our loved ones.
Him: What did you do?!
The Heimlich—Hit him with several quick jabs to the chest and refuse to stop until he talks to you.
Him: I can’t breathe!
Me: Talk to me!
Him: I can’t breathe! *Gasp*
Me: Talk to me or else!
Him: *Wheeze*
Me: Fine, don't respond! But if you think falling into unconsciousness is going to get you out of this conversation, you are mistaken!
One of the books said that I should read the news so that I have something interesting to talk to him about at the end of the day.
Me: “On the news today they were talking about personality types. Do you think I have a type A personality?”
Him: “I think one of your personalities is.”
One of the books said that I should be sure to talk to my husband about spiritual matters because it will forge a deep emotional connection.
Me: “It was a terrible situation, but then I just knew what to do, it was like God spoke to me.”
Him: “Oh yeah, is he really, really old like everyone says?”
One of the books said that I should be fascinated with his interests and I should leave it open for him to discuss what is important to him.
Me: “So is there anything that you would like to discuss?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Is there anything that you would like to talk about?”
Him: “Tonight?”
Me: “Well, tonight or whenever?”
Him: “With you?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “No.”
After years of careful study of the male species and trying to figure out the best way to communicate, I finally asked my husband what he thought the difference is between the way men and women converse. He said, “Men stick to the facts and women talk about how everything makes them feel. If I was in an accident I would describe it with the facts. Like, I ran off the road here and hit this tree and it caused this type of damage. You would say something like, (insert falsetto voice here) ‘I was so scared, I thought we were all going to die, I saw my life flash before my eyes and all I could think about were my children being motherless.’”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t? Really?”
“No, I would stick to the facts as I saw them. I would say, my husband is a terrible driver that tried to kill me by running into a tree. I think it is because of the insurance money. Thank God you are here to save me officer. I hope you have an ambulance for me and handcuffs for him. He is a maniac.”
“Those are the facts?!”
“As I see them, yes. It is all a matter of perspective my dear.”
And that my friends is the secret, it is all in how you look at it. And how I see it, is if he doesn’t talk to me tonight, I am going to feed him meatloaf . . . just like I did the turtle.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friend or Dough
A study came out in 2006 in the American Sociological Review that said Americans are suffering a loss of quantity and quality of friends. Friendships have been declining since 1985, and the article goes on to say that 25% of Americans have no close confidants. I think this is probably true and have a theory about why it is happening: it is hard to make friends. One reason why it is hard is people don’t meet face to face. You cannot get to know people unless you meet them. Either they have to leave their house, or you have to leave yours. This means someone has to get off the couch.
I have tried lots of different ways to make friends but usually when I meet someone I just talk too much and scare them away. I am excited and they are like, scared. I once thought that if I just spent more time alone, when the time came that I was around others, I could show more restraint. The only thing that happened was I started talking to myself. My husband once walked in on me having an argument while I was alone and apologized for interrupting me and then left the room. He doesn’t want to talk to me either.
When I became a mother I would go to parent co-op groups to meet other mothers. We all had kids, so we had something in common, but building a connection with them was harder than I thought it would be. I had to miss a meeting once and when I came back they had ‘voted me off the island’ survivor style. “The tribe has spoken,” as they put the top on my sippy-cup and told me to pack my diaper bag and go.
It was back to the search. I had to lower my expectations. I decided that not every friend is going to be a close one. It occurred to me that there are lots of different kinds of friends and different kinds of friendships. There is the fair-weather friend, the take-you-to-the-airport friend, the take-you-to-the-airport-and-wait-with-you-in-baggage-claim friend, and then there is the kind that will take you to the airport, get there early so that the two of you can sit the coffee shop and make fun of airline employees before you get on the plane friend. Those are the best kind.
Along with all the good versions of friends, there are some bad ones too: The diet sabotager, the flakey friend, the borrows-your-stuff-and-never-returns-it friend. Then there is the worst kind, the Amish Friendship Bread Friend otherwise known as the AFBF. This friend is not really a friend at all. They are a friend that hates you. My advice is to stay away from them.
You probably already have an AFBF in your life, if not; count yourself lucky. If you do not have an AFBF, or are not sure that you would recognize one, pay attention and I will describe them for you. It is easy to recognize an AFBF, they are typically overly cheerful with sunny dispositions, and they are nice, nice, nice. It is enough to make you sick. They are generous and sweet and so you know they have an ulterior motive, and it is to recruit you to Amish Friendship Bread hell.
The trick is to not be drawn in by their affability, they are ruthless and they mean business. If you see an AFBF at a PTA meeting, soccer game, charity event or at church, do not engage them in conversation or look them directly in the eye, turn sideways and slink away as quickly as possible. If you are caught talking to an AFBF unawares it may be necessary to sacrifice an acquaintance. That means grab someone close and say, “Hey, have you met Sally, she is new to the area. She loves to bake.” Then, run!
There may come a time in your life where it feels like everyone around you is an AFBF. You may receive five or more bags of glop at a time. Do not open them, do not squish them, do not add any ingredients. Just stop the cycle right now, and throw out your baggie of yeasty sludge. Do it now, and do not look back!
Now you may be thinking that I am overreacting, what could be so bad about the AFBF, you may ask yourself? Well, let me tell you. The AFBF is an Amish Friendship Bread maker. They are the ones responsible for the deadly and ever-powerful Amish Friendship bread starters otherwise known as the baggie of doom. Some have called it the Amish chain-letter, but I think it is much more sinister, I believe it is the Amish bid for world domination. Think about it, if they can get you to ferment, and then squish, a bag of poisonous slop on your kitchen counter for 10 days; and then scoop it into more bags and pass it out to your “friends,” and then make your slime into something to eat . . . they can get you to do anything.
It is a form of Amish mind-control. Don’t let the cute quilts and buggies fool you, those people are angry. It might be all of our electric ovens; I am not sure what they have against us, all I know is that if anyone brings me a bag of goo with a cutesy poem attached that says Amish Friendship Bread, I know that person has gone to the dark side. I am on to you Amish subversives!
Just remember what your mother told you about friends jumping off cliffs—if a “friend” told you to take a zip-top bag of tainted dough and then tells you to add more stuff, squeeze it every day, let the air out of it, and make it into something that when cooked looks like hazardous waste material--would you? Besides I always forget about my bags of slop and they ferment way past their due date, one even exploded on the counter while I was on vacation. Heed my warning and do not let this happen to you!
Trust me, make new friends, but keep one eye open for the AFBF. Call me paranoid, but I think I have seen black buggies circling my block . . .
I have tried lots of different ways to make friends but usually when I meet someone I just talk too much and scare them away. I am excited and they are like, scared. I once thought that if I just spent more time alone, when the time came that I was around others, I could show more restraint. The only thing that happened was I started talking to myself. My husband once walked in on me having an argument while I was alone and apologized for interrupting me and then left the room. He doesn’t want to talk to me either.
When I became a mother I would go to parent co-op groups to meet other mothers. We all had kids, so we had something in common, but building a connection with them was harder than I thought it would be. I had to miss a meeting once and when I came back they had ‘voted me off the island’ survivor style. “The tribe has spoken,” as they put the top on my sippy-cup and told me to pack my diaper bag and go.
It was back to the search. I had to lower my expectations. I decided that not every friend is going to be a close one. It occurred to me that there are lots of different kinds of friends and different kinds of friendships. There is the fair-weather friend, the take-you-to-the-airport friend, the take-you-to-the-airport-and-wait-with-you-in-baggage-claim friend, and then there is the kind that will take you to the airport, get there early so that the two of you can sit the coffee shop and make fun of airline employees before you get on the plane friend. Those are the best kind.
Along with all the good versions of friends, there are some bad ones too: The diet sabotager, the flakey friend, the borrows-your-stuff-and-never-returns-it friend. Then there is the worst kind, the Amish Friendship Bread Friend otherwise known as the AFBF. This friend is not really a friend at all. They are a friend that hates you. My advice is to stay away from them.
You probably already have an AFBF in your life, if not; count yourself lucky. If you do not have an AFBF, or are not sure that you would recognize one, pay attention and I will describe them for you. It is easy to recognize an AFBF, they are typically overly cheerful with sunny dispositions, and they are nice, nice, nice. It is enough to make you sick. They are generous and sweet and so you know they have an ulterior motive, and it is to recruit you to Amish Friendship Bread hell.
The trick is to not be drawn in by their affability, they are ruthless and they mean business. If you see an AFBF at a PTA meeting, soccer game, charity event or at church, do not engage them in conversation or look them directly in the eye, turn sideways and slink away as quickly as possible. If you are caught talking to an AFBF unawares it may be necessary to sacrifice an acquaintance. That means grab someone close and say, “Hey, have you met Sally, she is new to the area. She loves to bake.” Then, run!
There may come a time in your life where it feels like everyone around you is an AFBF. You may receive five or more bags of glop at a time. Do not open them, do not squish them, do not add any ingredients. Just stop the cycle right now, and throw out your baggie of yeasty sludge. Do it now, and do not look back!
Now you may be thinking that I am overreacting, what could be so bad about the AFBF, you may ask yourself? Well, let me tell you. The AFBF is an Amish Friendship Bread maker. They are the ones responsible for the deadly and ever-powerful Amish Friendship bread starters otherwise known as the baggie of doom. Some have called it the Amish chain-letter, but I think it is much more sinister, I believe it is the Amish bid for world domination. Think about it, if they can get you to ferment, and then squish, a bag of poisonous slop on your kitchen counter for 10 days; and then scoop it into more bags and pass it out to your “friends,” and then make your slime into something to eat . . . they can get you to do anything.
It is a form of Amish mind-control. Don’t let the cute quilts and buggies fool you, those people are angry. It might be all of our electric ovens; I am not sure what they have against us, all I know is that if anyone brings me a bag of goo with a cutesy poem attached that says Amish Friendship Bread, I know that person has gone to the dark side. I am on to you Amish subversives!
Just remember what your mother told you about friends jumping off cliffs—if a “friend” told you to take a zip-top bag of tainted dough and then tells you to add more stuff, squeeze it every day, let the air out of it, and make it into something that when cooked looks like hazardous waste material--would you? Besides I always forget about my bags of slop and they ferment way past their due date, one even exploded on the counter while I was on vacation. Heed my warning and do not let this happen to you!
Trust me, make new friends, but keep one eye open for the AFBF. Call me paranoid, but I think I have seen black buggies circling my block . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)