Cuts Like a Wife

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the third (and final) of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

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We are stay-at-home mothers and wives, among other things. We’ve already come clean about our not-so-perfect attempts at housekeeping and child-rearing, and now it is time to spill the beans about our marriages. 

Marriage is hard. There are ups and downs. If it were easy, everyone would or could do it. But we all know what the divorce stats are these days. This is not something to be entered into or written about lightly. I knew I’d need some input for this post. 

I asked my husband, The Gatekeeper, for ideas on this topic and he just sniggered.  I prodded him: “Come on Honey, here’s your chance… I’m writing about what a shitty wife I am… let me have it! What should I say?” His response was, “Well, basically just write about what you do any given day.”  

Nice. 

“Very funny,” I chided. “Yes, your life is so awful, isn’t it?!”

“Did you say life or wife?”

“Dude. You are askin’ fer it.” 

“Yep. Am I gonna get it?” 

Cut to the Barry White music, dim the lights, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and 30 seconds later we were smoking cigarettes and checking our pulses. Kidding. We don’t smoke. 

My point is, I think we have a pretty good marriage. We like each other most of the time, we have a few laughs now and then, we love each other unconditionally, we support each other, and we both seem generally satisfied with the status quo… or so I thought. 

But last night we were both reading in bed and he started laughing out loud. I found this interesting because he had just started to read Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin. It was a Christmas gift to him from my parents all about the political genius of Abraham Lincoln. President Elect Obama said that if he could only take two books with him to the White House, one would be the Bible and the other would be this book. Now, I have a hard time imagining that this nearly 1000 page historical tome would be laugh-out-loud-funny, but whatever. I, on the other hand, was reading Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark. This ought to give you a clear understanding of how different we are. But you know what they say about opposites attracting.

Anyhooo, I was just dying to know what in that big ol’ boring book could possibly be so damn funny and asked him to share. He turned to me with a smirk and told me to listen to this journal entry written by Judge Edward Bates in the 1850s (Bates was one of Lincoln’s opponents in the race for the Presidency in 1860):

“How happy is my lot! Blessed with a wife & children who spontaneously do all they can to make me comfortable, anticipating my wishes, even in the little matter of personal convenience, as if their happiness wholly depended on mine. O! it is a pleasure to work for such a family, to enjoy with them the blessings that God so freely gives.” 

Yes. Well that is pretty damn funny, isn’t it.  And funny that it is from a book called Team of Rivals, because isn’t that what marriage feels like sometimes? 

But back to that quote… now, is it just me, or have times changed quite a bit? 

I mean, excusez-moi, but I don’t know a single woman or child who lives purely to provide comfort and joy to their husband or father. Am I wrong here? Or am I just associating with the wrong people? 

Not only do I NOT do ANYTHING to anticipate the wishes and needs of my husband, but it is not unusual for him to flat out tell me to my face what he wants and for me to still not do it. And yet, I think he has it pretty good. Sure, there is a shirt of his that has been buried under a pile on my ironing board for close to two months that I keep forgetting to iron for him. And yes, I sometimes forget to buy his favorite soap or deodorant at the store, to the extent that he has to remind me umpteen times and then often ends up going to the store himself for it. And of course, I have been known to secretly stalk ex-boyfriends on Facebook once in a while. So what. 

I had one of my Aunties visiting me a while back and she was watching the clock one day. It got close to 5 pm and she said, “Aren’t you going to go get cleaned up a little? Put on some makeup? Your husband will be home soon.” I laughed until I practically peed my pants. “WHAT?! Are you kidding me? Should I mix up a martini and meet him at the door with his slippers too? Hell no! It’s garbage night. He needs to take out the garbage when he gets home, walk the dog, and then take Nature Boy to scouts. In about an hour I will be busy wiping the food off the floor and walls that Bucket Head tosses all around the room while he eats. Why on Earth would I go get gussied up NOW?”  But again, it’s a different world today. The way I see it, marriage is an equal partnership. Serve and be served. Give and ye shall receive. The wife is not property. The wife has a lot more on her plate than merely anticipating and acting on every need and desire of her master husband. 

Remember how I recently said that my parenting sins aren’t so bad compared to others’ sins and how life is all about making comparisons and justifications?

Well, I figure, I may not be the most attentive wife on the planet, but my husband could have it so much worse.  

One of my best friends was telling me just the other day that her husband was nagging her about not getting the laundry done. Been there. When my husband gets on my back about me not meeting one or more of my homemaking obligations, it usually lights a fire under my ass and makes me want to show that bastard by getting it done faster/better/more whatever, so I can then say “SO THERE!” But not my friend. You know what she did? She secretly took her hubby’s dirty undies out of the hamper, folded them, and put them back in his drawer. That poor bastard is probably wearing dirty skivvies right this very minute! HA! 

I know another woman who once peed in her husband’s chicken soup because she couldn’t stand all his bellyachin’ when he was sick and he had been treating her like shit. No lie. 

And I can’t even count how many of my friends hate having sex with their husbands and joke about how they avoid it at all costs and can totally live without it. Or how about that poor woman on Oprah last week who has been faking orgasms for 24 years?! Lordhavemercy. See that… there are a lot of people out there with wives way worse than me. 

So you see, I think my husband has it pretty good. Yes, I’m not the best housekeeper or cook. No, I don’t knock myself out to look pretty for him at the end of the day… who has time for that shit?  I may e-flirt shamelessly with Facebook friends, and forget to pick up the dry cleaning, or buy the right snacks. But I make sure that my husband has clean undies most of the time. I cut his hair every few weeks. I call his parents just to say hi once in a while. I give him back scratches and bake him cookies now and then. And I love him… with my heart and with my body, and way more than the national average for married couples, thankyouverymuch. 

So husband, you go ahead and laugh about how absurd it is that over one hundred and fifty years ago there existed a man who wrote in a journal that his wife lived to please him. I agree. That is hilarious. I’d really like to read HER journal entry. Oh wait, she probably wasn’t allowed to learn to read and write. Yes… times have changed, haven’t they? And honey, would you care for some more chicken soup?

Cornhole

Well since nobody has come forward with that one-way ticket to ANYWHERE, I had no choice but to go to Cub Scout Family Camp with my brood yesterday.  I love that my 9 year old son is a Cub Scout…I do.  He has a blast and it is always very wholesome, good clean fun, which I suspect is good for growing children and is in somewhat short supply around my germ-invested cesspool of a home.  Soap carving, anyone? 

But I have two problems with the whole Cub Scout camp-out thing.  

1.) They have a very strict rule that no alcoholic beverages are allowed at camp. 

2.) The other moms and dads are very nice.  I mean VERY nice.  Like the nicest people I have ever met.  

In other words…I do not fit in there at all.  And being in the balmy, great outdoors around very nice, responsible, not-funny parents and 30 loud, screaming, little boys running amok and carrying pocket knives really makes me want to soothe myself with a cocktail or two. I’m bad. I know.

But I muscled through the pain and managed to really enjoy myself, even though I was disturbingly sober. And there were a few high-points that I’d like to share with you, because if I don’t, I’m going to explode.  

First, let’s talk about Cornhole.  Oh, where do I start?

OK. The facts: Cornhole is a real bean-bag toss game that originated in Ohio. The board looks like this:

Seriously. I’m not making this up. 

Apparently, people who play this game are very passionate about it. The dimensions of the board are strictly regulated, as are the bean-bags, the distance between the player and the board, the scoring, etc. However, I had never heard of this “game” until Cub Scout Family Camp when one of the very very nice dads brought his Cornhole supplies to share with the group. So naturally, when I walked by and he asked me “if I wanted to play Cornhole” with him and his sons…I almost crapped my pants.

“Excuse me?” I stuttered. (Wow, maybe this camping thing won’t be so bad afterall!)

So he clarified. Pointed to the board. Tossed me a bag of dried corn. And we played. And you know what? It was really, really fun! But I was DYING, ya’ll.  Because I couldn’t control myself and made a snide crack about how I had never heard the term “Cornhole” outside of the prison movies that I so enjoy watching and HE TOTALLY DIDN’T GET IT.  He cocked his head to the side and made that face like “Huh?” And I realized that not everyone shares my wickedly dirty mind and that I should probably not attempt to joke around with Cub Scout Dads. They are very nice. And very straight. And to some of them, Cornhole is no laughing matter. 

But thank God for my husband. As soon as I finished my Cornholing session with Mr. Ohio, I ran as fast as my stumps could carry me to tell my man about the game and we giggled until our faces hurt.  We don’t do that very often…my husband is actually one of those Nice Cub Scout Dads…but luckily for me, I must have rubbed off on him a bit (wink wink) because he does appreciate a good butt-hole joke from time to time. Not often enough, I say, but we’re working on it. I’ll keep rubbing.  

So one more really funny thing to share, if you don’t mind.

The Scoutmaster organized an “Iron Chef” competition between the boys. The kids were divided up into three teams, given access to a pantry of processed foods, and taught various outdoor camp cooking methods. One of which is the Dutch Oven. Honestly, I should force my son to stay in Scouts just for the material. Hmmm, more ass-related humor. I wonder what Freud would say about that. Clearly I am trapped in the Anal Stage of Development (and I’m not blaming my parents…I’m not). But anyhoooo, let’s just say that listening to these nice nice dads very seriously teach the group the art of the Dutch Oven was almost too much for me to bear. Oh how I longed to have someone pull one of my fingers! Pick a finger, any finger.  

After the cooking demonstration, the three teams were each assigned a secret ingredient to incorporate into their dishes. My team’s secret ingredient was popcorn.  Now, I was just lurking on the edge of the group, having to follow my 19-month old son, Bucket Head, around and make sure he didn’t wander off and get eaten by a bear, so I wasn’t really helping the kids choose the menu.  But watching these other nice nice moms and dads strategize and play to win was fascinating. The main requirement to the contest was that the kids had to do all the cooking….the parents could only supervise and control the cooking fuel.  But when I learned that they were stumped about how to use the popcorn in their dishes, I had to butt-in.  They were deciding to just do a simple trail mix of popcorn and nuts when I sidled up to one of the more assertive moms and asked her if we had access to marshmallows and butter. I then planted the seed in her head that if we made popcorn balls out of the popcorn, it would be a real crowd pleaser and something that the kids would have fun making.  And that nice mom hopped on my idea faster than an Ohioan on a stiff ear of corn.    

Now, I’m not used to being listened to by anyone other than my team of well-compensated, highly skilled psychiatrists, so suddenly being thrust into the mix of an Iron Chef competition with a team of chefs reporting to me was quite the power trip.  Suddenly, Bucket Head was fending for himself and I was melting butter and marshmallows in a Dutch Oven, fixin’ to lead my team to a sure victory. You know that phrase “too many cooks in the kitchen”? Well, imagine the chaos when you’re talking about an outdoor camp style kitchen with propane fueled burners and a very enthusiastic team of very competitive nice nice parents and their 6-9 year old boys. It was mayhem. But the popcorn balls were my idea and I was not going to let my team down, dammit! That is a dangerous position for a suddenly sober dirty minded not nice nice mom like me. The pressure!  

Well we oiled up the hands of these 7 little kids, and I gotta tell you, I don’t think their hands were all that clean, ewww. Boys this age are notorious nose and ass pickers. But rules are rules and we had an Iron Chef style ticking clock to beat, so we greased ‘em up and let them dig into the pot and grab handfulls of gooey popcorn and mold them into balls. It was messy. It was sticky. It was germy. But it was really cool. And having all those nice nice moms and dads suddenly listening to me, following my lead, and singing my praises was very empowering. Thank GOD it worked.  Just look at my glistening balls. Aren’t they gorgeous?  

Fast forward to the judging. My husband, who has a talent for garnishing, helped the boys plate up the other dishes and deliver them to the judges with those germy popcorn balls decorating each plate like something you’d see in a real restaurant…and I’m talkin’ about a classy joint like The Cracker Barrel.

You should have heard the “ooohs” and “ahhhhs” from the judges and other campers. The popcorn balls were a HUGE hit. In fact, the lead judge exclaimed that he hadn’t eaten an old-fashioned popcorn ball since he was a child and the nostalgia of it really touched his heart.  Yep, those germy sweet and salty balls o’ mine won our team first place! They even recognized me by name in the award ceremony. It may be one of my proudest moments. (Note to self: never underestimate the power of balls, and also, I really must get out more.)

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Cla-HAIR-rification

Well, hot damn, ya’ll! Thanks for all the great comments and responses about That Old Black Magic! It is so nice to know that so many of you have struggled with similar body and facial hair issues and have some great tips to share.  I sure do appreciate your generosity!

Special thanks to my friend “Suburban Slave” for suggesting that one should always pre-trim before any kind of wax or cream application. Her suggestion for The Remington Trim and Shape, sounds like a real winner. I also just love her practical tips for using this trimmer “in the shower or get this…straddling the toilet backwards!” Wow! Girl, you sound like more fun than Bristol Palin on junior prom night! Call me next time you go out Honkey Tonkin’…I’m in!  

I would also just like to clarify about something pertaining to my own hygiene preferences. Yes, there are some people who do prefer “The Hollywood”…which means that EVERY LAST HAIR is removed from the genital region.  I am not that kind of girl, honey. Personally, I think that is a teensy bit on the creepy side. And if my husband liked it totally hairless, I’d be worried that maybe he preferred his girls a bit younger than me.  And by younger, I mean prepubescent. In other words, ewwwwww. 

So, nooooo. When I wax or Magic Cream my goodie basket, I like to leave a little landing strip…like a visual guide for my husband. I do believe he appreciates the extra effort. But I’ll let him tell you himself if he chooses to comment. You might not believe this, but that sweet man is one of The Bearded Iris’s biggest fans!  Isn’t that something?!  You know he is one hell of a special man if he supports and even occasionally applauds his wife telling (and sometimes showing) all this raunchy smut to the whole wide world. Thanks, hon. Sorry about that time I called you a “butt-munch.” Oh and also that time I called you a “punk ass bitch” and threatened to chain you up in the garage and kill you with rat poisoning. You know I was just funnin’ with you, right?

So back to my bearded clam and exactly what I mean by “keeping my shiznit tidy and tiny.”  I will gladly illustrate it for you visual people.   

My goodie basket used to look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and now it looks more like this (minus the dancing dinner rolls on the forks…usually):

 

….well, actually, if you want to split hairs (mwah mwah!), it really looks more like this:

Got it?  Sorry about the confusion, ya’ll.  

So, in summary: not bald, just tiny.  Rhymes with shiny and hiney. Coincidence? I think not. 

But listen friends, your choices for bush hogging and muff styling are only limited by your imagination. Check out these fun ideas sent into me by one of my favorite Aussie readers: New Waxing Options for the Progressive Woman.  Wow – that shit is funny.  I’ve unintentionally sported a few of those looks over the years. Now I’m real careful to not tend to my feminine hygiene after too many drinks or without my glasses. Another good tip for you mothers out there: wait until your kids are asleep or at school before you do any kind of bush whacking.  As if my kids needed ONE MORE REASON for psychotherapy.  Poor things.  

A’ight. Keep it clean, girls.  Nobody (except maybe Dr. Oz) wants a big ol’ stanky bush for a hat.  Just remember what my least favorite Food Network star says: “Keep it simple. Keep it sweet. And always keep it semi-homemade.”  Although, I’m pretty sure she was talking about an elaborately themed table scape and not about her perky blonde childless va-jay-jay, but whatever.

Democracy in Action

My husband and I had a hot, hot date today, ya’ll.  He played hooky from work so we could spend some kid-free time together.  We ditched Bucket Head at his Grandparents’ house last night for a sleep over, and once the two big’uns got on the school bus this morning at 6:51 AM, we got busy.  And by busy, I mean me on the computer writing, and him on the can reading the paper.  

But once all our morning ablutions were behind us, we decided to actually spend some time together.  We went out for a big ol’ Southern breakfast (with grits and sausage gravy), and actually talked about more than how we were going to get the kids to and from their various activities.  It was wonderful.  We got to talk about us.  Not kids. And it was daytime and we were in public, so I wasn’t passed out on the couch snoring while he maniacally flips between 12 different TV shows. Sigh.   

After breakfast we drove around for about 20 minutes looking for a service station with gas.  Nada.  We tried 12 different places and they were all tapped out.  Very scary.  I have about half a tank, so I’ll try again first thing in the morning, but still.  

While we were out tooling around in my tricked out minivan looking for gas, we decided to swing by the local Democratic Headquarters to volunteer for the Obama campaign.  It was not very easy to find…set back off a barricaded road under construction in a shabby old office park. I wonder if that is a safety issue…less chance of a Molotov cocktail being thrown in the window if the Bubbas can’t find it, or if they had trouble finding anyone who would lease them a better space.  Once we found it, the sun-faded signs in the window were a little disheartening.  I am imagining that the Republican HQ in my county is more of a sight to behold.    

But we walked in and met the sole volunteer there.  His name was John and he has put his life on hold to do nothing but manage the Obama campaign here in North Georgia until after the election.  He seemed very excited and passionate and grateful for our help.  I told him I was afraid to put an Obama sign in my yard or on my car because of the rampant racism and right wing conservatism here, and he told me:

“Be brave.”  

And honest to God, I got choked up.  

I looked down at my arms and they were all goose pimply.  See for yourself.  

I thought about the fact that less than 100 years ago, women weren’t even allowed to vote in this country. And about the fact that blacks had even fewer rights than women.  And that here is a black man, who was raised by a single mother, and worked his way through college.  A man who has made history by being the first African American to be nominated by a major party for the President of the United States of America. A man who shares the same values that my family and I share: accountability, self reliance, love of country, and treating your neighbor as you’d like to be treated. And I am moved. Moved to action. We signed up to make phone calls and go canvassing this week and we left. 

Feeling inspired and alive, we drove straight to the County Adminstration building and WE VOTED FOR BARACK OBAMA.  Early voting is the way to go, people.  It feels so good to get it out of the way.  Knowing me, I’ll wake up on November 4th to a severe thunder storm, with three sick kids, a hole in my roof, no gas in my car, and a wicked hangover.  Yeah, there is no way I’m going to let my penchant for procrastination prevent me from casting my vote.  So we did it.  And it was HOT.

 

So hot, in fact, that we left the polls, went straight home, and made sweet democratic love.  And the birds were chirping and the sun was shining and all was right with the world.  And that was just the first time. Lord have mercy!

So my friends, if you are looking to rev up your love life and do something for the greater good.  Go vote with your lover.  But make sure you vote for Obama, because otherwise, the aphrodisiac effect is null and void. In fact, I recently heard that voting republican actually diminishes sexual prowess. Just thought I’d pass that along.