So, I've made it over a week! That is a huge accomplishment for me. But for today, I'm not sure what to write about. I feel not so funny today. I wish there were a douche for that.
Girl: Mom, do you ever feel not so funny?
Mom: Oh, honey, that's natural. I use Summer's Eve Humor Wash. Here, let's go to
the bathroom and I'll show you how to use it.
Girl: Isn't it like a douche?
Mom: Well, yes.
Girl: How will it make me feel funnier? It just smells like rotting fish that has
been fermenting for a week in the sun.
Mom: Yes it does, and that's hilarious.
See, not funny. I mean, I could just write about something depressing, but I don't want this blog's foot to step on my other depressing blog's toes. So, we'll try to think of some funny shit.
Here's a funny fact. I must go on Facebook about 10 times a day. Although, most times I just click it on because it's like a tick. If I post a comment or something, I'll check to see if anyone liked it or commented. Yeah, I do that. Other people do also. My total time on FB probably doesn't even amount to an hour a day though, unless you count the times that I have multiple windows open and one of them is facebook. Okay, that's really more of a sad fact, and maybe it should go on my other blog. :(
Maybe this is a funny fact? I talk to my pets like they're people. Every time I walk into a room where one of them are hanging out, I'll say, "Hey Fuzz!" or "What's up Stinky?" His name is really Stinksy, but we call him Stinky, even though he only stinks when he lays on dirty towels. If I walk into the bedroom, I'll say, "Hi Pete!" Is that funny or sad?
I googled funny facts. I didn't really see much stuff that made me even crack a smile. Fun facts aren't necessarily funny, I guess.
Well, here's a funny nugget. I'm in the habit of calling people the FP's girlfriend. Like, say, several years ago he was into watching Nancy Grace. So, I would say, oh, your girlfriend's on TV. A little while ago it was Chelsea Handler (who is a funny fucker, btw). So, for the past several years, since we've lived in our current apartment, the FP's main squeeze has been our landlady. She's a nice lady, to us anyway. When we first met her, she liked me right away, but she didn't really pay attention to the FP. I believe her husband was a diplomat and they lived in the Philippines for a while, or they visited there, so that was why she liked me. If you don't know who I am, which seems impossible if you are reading this, I'm a Filipina- American. Oh, and also the FP is my husband. If you want to know what FP stands for, you will have to read my food blog, which you will find when you check out my profile page. I'm not sure if I'm first generation or second generation Fil-Am, because I've googled it before and different people have different interpretations.
Anyway, the landlady is very hands on. She will be here all day kneeling in the dirt in the front replanting the landscaping. Did I tell you she was old? It seems like it's unPC to say old now, right? You're supposed to say elderly or something else? Well, this lady is pretty damn elderly. She's like an octogenarian. She doesn't walk very fast, but she will work all damn day long. And she always wears pants and sneakers and a shirt, and a sweatshirt on top of the shirt. So, she will be weeding or planting or watering or whatever all day long, winter, spring, summer or fall, with a sweatshirt on all day long. I have no tolerance for heat any longer. If it's 80, and I walk outside, I feel like I'm going to pass out. But she'll be at it all day in the baking sun, no problemo.
So, she is a grandmother, well probably a great grandmother. And she wears grandmother undergarments, or granny panties, if you will. So, she gardens and stuff (not uphill though) and she's bent down in the dirt a lot. And sometimes her granny panties are riding up. So, the first time, I caught the FP staring at them. I mean ogling. I mean undressing her with his eyes. Maybe even some foreplay with his retinas, definitely second base with his rods and cones.
So, I called him out, and then we (I) decided she was his new girlfriend. On top of that, she found out he was a private chef and taught cooking classes. This intrigued her as it intrigues most women. OOh, a handsome man who can cook?!? So, he would be leaving for work, and they would have a long conversation about what he would be cooking that day. And when he would have a big event he would be bringing in a lot of groceries, so she would ask about that. Then the day after she would ask him how the event went. It got to the point that when I saw her, she would ask me how his event or cooking class went. I was reduced to chopped liver. But, I'm a liberal wife, so I've allowed this relationship to go on, literally under my nose.
Unfortunately, she has lots of properties, so she will spend lots of time at one, and then disappear for months. So, the FP doesn't have the most steady relationship with her, but whenever he gets a chance to see her, he lights up like the Las Vegas strip. Why do I put up with this? I guess he's being honest at least, and who wouldn't fall for her? Also, I'm hoping that maybe she'll eventually cut him in on her will. You know, just a small token...
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
New & Exciting!
So, when I start something new, I am all gung ho about it, and then after a short time, I lose interest or I just plateau or hate it because I can't get any farther. Somehow, I managed to keep the food blog alive, although there have been long absences. The second blog is fairly new, so I am chugging along with that one. Since no one reads it and it's really coming from a dark place, I don't feel the need to post on that one as often.
This new third blog o' mine is supposed to be a daily musings, so let's see how many days I can go before I don't post!
Day #2 (my favorite number because I'm juvenile like that)
I wasn't mad. Very annoyed though. Irritated as well. I went into the kitchen, and there was a vegetable oil slick on the counter that had spilled onto the floor as well. It was that fucking overpriced 123 brand oil I bought at the neighborhood Mexican store last week. I didn't even know it still existed. So, when I bought it, I took it home to cook. When I pulled the plastic ring to open it, the whole top of the mouth came off with it. I removed the ring and put the whole thing back on the bottle. I think I wanted to hide it so I would have a bottle of oil at home if I needed it, and also, so it wouldn't get knocked over and Exxon Valdez all over the kitchen.
The next day, the bottle was gone. My husband, TFP (the Food Pimp, which you understand if you read my food blog), had taken it to work. He's a private chef, and he mainly teaches cooking classes at apartment complexes in the clubhouse for the residents. So, he takes whatever he needs from the kitchen. I was fine with the bottle gone. It was out of my life.
Fast forward about a week later to today. There's that damn bottle again, laying sideways on the kitchen counter with half the oil covering the counter. I was pissed. It was like a poltergeist, that 123 oil. I yelled "fuck." TFP asked from the living room futon, "what?" I replied, "this stupid oil with the broken top spilled all over the place, and it's a pain in the ass to clean up." No answer.
No answer. Whenever there's some irritating occurence like this, there is often no answer. Not even an, "oh" or "that sucks" or even an "I didn't do it". I didn't spill the oil. The most likely candidates were Stinksy (the male cat) or TFP. So one of them might have cleaned it up or helped a little. Even if they didn't admit to it, one of them could have brought me a towel or rag or oil boom or something to act like they were helping.
Here's the thing. I married this man. I love him to death. He's my favorite person in the world. But he's a slob. He doesn't care about a messy dirty environment, really. I am not a neat freak by any means, but I don't like living in squalor. Sometimes it almost gets to that point in our apartment before it's remedied. Before, when we were younger and partied more, it would get to that point for several days before we cleaned. Now, usually before that point, I need to clean. The FP's tolerance for a dirty messy apartment is higher than mine, so I usually cave first and clean one little area like it's my safe zone. I don't expect him to jump in and start cleaning every time I do. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't.
I married him with the knowledge I couldn't change him. Part of why he's got such a great personality is his oblivion to everyday household life. He's like beyond that. Seriously. No sarcasm. You know, like great artists who were crazy with schizophrenia or bipolar or obsessive compulsive or whatever. The FP leaves cabinet doors open, doesn't put tops back on condiments or toothpaste, leaves the bathroom light on (which is annoying because the noise of the fan irritates me). He's rough with appliances and stuff. When he gets out of the car, the way he drags his ass on the seat rips the material on the seat. When we had a bedframe, he would flop onto the bed, and eventually the frame on his side of the bed caved, so it was lopsided. He leaves a residue of hair product on things.
I can't go around behind him and tell him to finish the cycle, close the door, switch off the light, put the cap on, figure a new way to exit the car, wash his hands after he touches his hair or applies product. I would just be nagging. He doesn't learn lessons and I know that. But can't I have license to get irritated every once in a while?!
Women who marry men and think they can break them, and who can't live with the annoying habits, usually are disappointed because they feel like they failed. I wouldn't want TFP to want to change me, with all my faults. Oh, and I have so many. I sometimes catch myself doing one of my annoying habits, and it pisses me off. I can't afford a therapist, so I write blogs instead.
I think when we were in college, the FP stepped on the prong of his belt. You know, his clothes were all over the floor and he didn't see it. It jammed right into his foot. He was a runner, so that sucked more than if it had happened to a run of the mill person who mainly needs their foot to walk. So, he said he learned his lesson there. Several years later, I remember seeing his belt on the floor, prong erect, saluting me, saying, see, he forgot all about me!
Here's the tradeoff though. He's good or great at everything he does. Okay, every once in a while there's something he's not good at, so he usually doesn't continue to try at it. But, any sport he's tried, he kicks ass. Cooking - he's one of the best cooks I know. Music - maybe he started off slow with guitar, but he's very adept now at the instrument - he blows me away as I have regressed if anything. When he listens to music, he can pick out individual parts and analyze them. If the guitar is a Fender Strat, he can tell. He can figure out what effects are being used. He remembers set lists to shows he's seen and shows he's played. He's really intelligent, although his shtick is that he acts dumb for laughs. His analytical ability is really highly underrated.
So, if he reads this, he'll either be pissed or embarrassed, or he will enjoy the attention. Because doesn't everyone love to be written about?
Anyway, I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at myself. Why didn't I just set the precedent of being a nag early in the relationship?
This new third blog o' mine is supposed to be a daily musings, so let's see how many days I can go before I don't post!
Day #2 (my favorite number because I'm juvenile like that)
I wasn't mad. Very annoyed though. Irritated as well. I went into the kitchen, and there was a vegetable oil slick on the counter that had spilled onto the floor as well. It was that fucking overpriced 123 brand oil I bought at the neighborhood Mexican store last week. I didn't even know it still existed. So, when I bought it, I took it home to cook. When I pulled the plastic ring to open it, the whole top of the mouth came off with it. I removed the ring and put the whole thing back on the bottle. I think I wanted to hide it so I would have a bottle of oil at home if I needed it, and also, so it wouldn't get knocked over and Exxon Valdez all over the kitchen.
The next day, the bottle was gone. My husband, TFP (the Food Pimp, which you understand if you read my food blog), had taken it to work. He's a private chef, and he mainly teaches cooking classes at apartment complexes in the clubhouse for the residents. So, he takes whatever he needs from the kitchen. I was fine with the bottle gone. It was out of my life.
Fast forward about a week later to today. There's that damn bottle again, laying sideways on the kitchen counter with half the oil covering the counter. I was pissed. It was like a poltergeist, that 123 oil. I yelled "fuck." TFP asked from the living room futon, "what?" I replied, "this stupid oil with the broken top spilled all over the place, and it's a pain in the ass to clean up." No answer.
No answer. Whenever there's some irritating occurence like this, there is often no answer. Not even an, "oh" or "that sucks" or even an "I didn't do it". I didn't spill the oil. The most likely candidates were Stinksy (the male cat) or TFP. So one of them might have cleaned it up or helped a little. Even if they didn't admit to it, one of them could have brought me a towel or rag or oil boom or something to act like they were helping.
Here's the thing. I married this man. I love him to death. He's my favorite person in the world. But he's a slob. He doesn't care about a messy dirty environment, really. I am not a neat freak by any means, but I don't like living in squalor. Sometimes it almost gets to that point in our apartment before it's remedied. Before, when we were younger and partied more, it would get to that point for several days before we cleaned. Now, usually before that point, I need to clean. The FP's tolerance for a dirty messy apartment is higher than mine, so I usually cave first and clean one little area like it's my safe zone. I don't expect him to jump in and start cleaning every time I do. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't.
I married him with the knowledge I couldn't change him. Part of why he's got such a great personality is his oblivion to everyday household life. He's like beyond that. Seriously. No sarcasm. You know, like great artists who were crazy with schizophrenia or bipolar or obsessive compulsive or whatever. The FP leaves cabinet doors open, doesn't put tops back on condiments or toothpaste, leaves the bathroom light on (which is annoying because the noise of the fan irritates me). He's rough with appliances and stuff. When he gets out of the car, the way he drags his ass on the seat rips the material on the seat. When we had a bedframe, he would flop onto the bed, and eventually the frame on his side of the bed caved, so it was lopsided. He leaves a residue of hair product on things.
I can't go around behind him and tell him to finish the cycle, close the door, switch off the light, put the cap on, figure a new way to exit the car, wash his hands after he touches his hair or applies product. I would just be nagging. He doesn't learn lessons and I know that. But can't I have license to get irritated every once in a while?!
Women who marry men and think they can break them, and who can't live with the annoying habits, usually are disappointed because they feel like they failed. I wouldn't want TFP to want to change me, with all my faults. Oh, and I have so many. I sometimes catch myself doing one of my annoying habits, and it pisses me off. I can't afford a therapist, so I write blogs instead.
I think when we were in college, the FP stepped on the prong of his belt. You know, his clothes were all over the floor and he didn't see it. It jammed right into his foot. He was a runner, so that sucked more than if it had happened to a run of the mill person who mainly needs their foot to walk. So, he said he learned his lesson there. Several years later, I remember seeing his belt on the floor, prong erect, saluting me, saying, see, he forgot all about me!
Here's the tradeoff though. He's good or great at everything he does. Okay, every once in a while there's something he's not good at, so he usually doesn't continue to try at it. But, any sport he's tried, he kicks ass. Cooking - he's one of the best cooks I know. Music - maybe he started off slow with guitar, but he's very adept now at the instrument - he blows me away as I have regressed if anything. When he listens to music, he can pick out individual parts and analyze them. If the guitar is a Fender Strat, he can tell. He can figure out what effects are being used. He remembers set lists to shows he's seen and shows he's played. He's really intelligent, although his shtick is that he acts dumb for laughs. His analytical ability is really highly underrated.
So, if he reads this, he'll either be pissed or embarrassed, or he will enjoy the attention. Because doesn't everyone love to be written about?
Anyway, I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at myself. Why didn't I just set the precedent of being a nag early in the relationship?
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