Because it’s still Monday somewhere. I think.

January 13, 2009

Ah friends, it’s not you. It’s me. I think I have something chronic that sucks all my energy away. I mean besides the Turnip. Anyway, the gloriously revered Madame Fabu bestowed a tremendous favor upon me yesterday (saving me at least two hours and sizable grief and anxiety out of my day) so I promised I’d blog for her pleasure.

Speaking of the turnip. Project normal sleep pattern is a colossal FAIL. I was lying to myself and saying it was just the weekend that threw him off until he woke me up at 1am today by poking me with the laser tag gun saying “You took my teddy, Now me goings shoot you.” and laughing maniacally.

I confess I did not watch the Golden Globes. I don’t usually watch those shows (except for the Oscars which is more about socializing with my cousin litchick and our friends Sherman and Ray. Sherm, if you are reading this, I’m still committed to our Oscar musical number involving Winnie the Pooh characters on ice. I think we are onto something groundbreaking with it…). However, the post-Golden Globe buzz on twitter (ok pretty much since i only follow a handful of people, the buzz consisted of twitters from my cyber-stalkee Trelvix and my beloved Lucy) indicated that Mickey Rourke was not the hip happenin’ comeback kid that the IMDB has been implying as of late (I think Trelvix best captured the essence of what’s become of the man with “I took a crap and Mickey Rourke was in it. I wrote the part for Nicolas Cage but we could never agree on a believable toupée for the turd.” and “This probably won’t come up but – just in case – my safe word for today is “Mangina O’Rourke”)

Friends, I’m embarrassed to admit this but The Crseum is nothing if not about full disclosure (when I feel like disclosing that is). I had a horrible crush on Mickey Rourke back in the day. “But Crse! He’s hideous!” you are probably exclaiming right now. True dat, gentle readers, and for those of you younger folks, don’t bother google imaging him. He’s always been hideous. But by unfortunate chance, I happened to become sexually aware about the time the movie “9 1/2 weeks” came out. I won’t go into graphic details about how the movie played into my first disturbing forays into sexual experimentation (in the context of a relationship that should have probably ended with me pressing charges but that’s neither here nor there) but I will say this; I thought the movie was so hot at the time that the male lead could have been played by a plastic faced clownish looking man and it still would have been hot (oh wait, it was played by that guy…).

I could blame the crush entirely on 9.5 weeks, but then friends? Then came my next phase of sexual identity development. As summed up in the movie “Barfly”. Because where does a healthy red-blooded American girl go after being psycho-sexually manipulated? How the hell would I know where she goes? My particular brand of dysfunction, however, led me directly to the brilliant and witty, yet completely falling apart and emotionally unavailable alcoholic. In my defense friends, it was “what we did” in my social circle (Can I get a whoo-whoo on this Luckybuzz? Lainie? Roxie? ) My friends and I, we all had our Charles Bukowskis back in the day. Different ones for the most part. (Friends familiar with My Town know that there is no shortage of underachieving brilliance wrapped up in hot little packages of self-loathing here in my city and surrounding burbs.) Anyway, at the time, I saw absolutely no correlation between my romantic choices and the way Mickey Rourke still managed to look (in my opinion) sexy and piss-stained all at once. I went through an absolute “Barfly” phase friends. I could recite Faye Dunaway’s lines ad nauseum. (And “fortunately” for Luckybuzz, I did).

Mickey Rourke dropped off the radar about the time I met Gill. Ah friends, we did try to bring him into the relationship. We rented “Wild Orchids” and “Angel Heart” (and Lucy I agree, Lisa Bonet did indeed carry him in that film!) and Im sure we “enjoyed” them both. Still, he had no context in our world. We were getting married, he was being arrested for spousal abuse. We were pursuing educations, he was making direct to video films. We were raising our little family, he was being arrested for DUIs. Now, when I look at Mickey Rourke, all I see that turdish mangina as described by M. Trelvix.

I guess you could say that I was lucky he did fade lest I find another repugnant character of his to model my sexual ideals after, thus missing out on my chance at a (relatively) sane happily ever after with Gill. I don’t see it like that however. In fact, the megalomaniac in me can’t help but wonder if somehow my withdrawal of devotion ultimately did lead to the trainwreck he called a career (and let’s face it, personal life) in the 90s. You know, like the butterfly effect? Of course, we’ll never know but in any case? You are welcome for that America.

Anyway, it’s time to face the day. I still mean to blog about my CPR class last week. Because it’s not often I get to watch a large woman wearing far too much yellow feel herself up in front of a room full of people after snubbing me repeatedly only to realize that ultimately she had a girl-crush on me the whole time. Oh yes friends, I still haz it….


Da Rules

September 24, 2008

Ive found myself recently inspired by other well-spoken bloggers who have put unique and creative spins on those hideous women in the 90s who wrote those appalling and sexist rules for dating and relationships. I remember being horrified when they came out although my new spouse and I got a lot of mileage out of mocking them within the context of our new relationship. These bloggers have inspired me to discuss with Gill and set forth my own set of rules as far my own relationship requirements. Gill largely lives by these rules. Except when he doesn’t. Which makes me want to cockpunch him (Special thanks to Dexter Colt for adding this to my own personal lexicon). So here are my rules. In no particular order.

  1. Sometimes when you are driving, I randomly shriek, scream or gasp. This is not meant to be insulting. I just have bad depth perception. And sometimes you are a sucky driver.
  2. Speaking of which, don’t take everything I say as a thinly veilled insult. When I said, “Honey watch my breaks. They haven’t been too great lately and Im worried with the rain.” I am saying “Honey watch my breaks. They haven’t been too great lately and Im worried with the rain.” Not. “You are an incompetent  jack-ass who shouldn’t have a license.” You shoud know this because I will say the latter directly when I think it.
  3. This leads me to the next rule. When we are arguing, do not use my non-verbals as a cue to indicate agreement. For instance, when you use phrases like “You just think Im one big dickhole”, I smile sardonically. Not because I think you are a dickhole. But because “dickhole” is one you haven’t thrown out in a while. I will probably tell you I appreciate the phrase at a later time when I don’t want to cockpunch you. Until then, don’t make it worse by creating a “you think Im a dickhole because you smirked” argument.
  4. And when we argue, I will call you bad names like “moody little teenage bitch girl with PMS” and you will call me an ass. And we will forgive each other when we are done. Because that’s how we roll.
  5. You can call me an ass as needed. I am an ass. I don’t mind.
  6. Be honest. It means way more to me that when I get a bad haircut that you say “You are hideous, don’t even look at me”, then telling me it looks nice. It also means I can believe you when you tell me I look pretty.
  7. Expect me to be honest too. I try to be polite but when you go into preparing a meal knowing you aren’t using my favorite ingredients or are doing something all whacked out with the seasoning, Im being very polite by telling you the meal is “interesting”. Because what I really want to say is “how can you possibly say you love me while serving me this bile?” (Of course it’s not bile objectively, but friends he knows Im picky)
  8. Sometimes Im going to bring dogs home. Or invite strangers to live with us without warning you. These two behaviors are not mutually exclusive nor do I see your acceptance of one behavior as a reason to limit the other. No matter how many times you say you don’t like dogs. Because I know you do. You will call me an ass for it. And you will be right. But we are keeping the dog.
  9. When shopping for presents, stick to the list. I do not want/need expensive jewelry nor will I ever be mad that you don’t buy me flowers. A good book. An ipod charger. Gum. Candy. Im pretty simple. If you stick to the list.
  10. When buying cards, if you buy me a “wife” card that has a cartoon dragon or other caricature-ish type of drawing, I will call it lame and make fun of it. I respect us both too much not to do that.
  11. If you spend 110 dollars on an oil change and it didn’t come with a blow-job, don’t expect me not to be bitter. For days.
  12. Bitterness in general will not affect our daily relations. I still love you and like you and want to maintain normal interactions. I just need to randomly throw the 110 dollar oil change in your face every time I feel the bitterness.
  13. Sometimes you will get phone-calls about how effed up the money situation is and don’t use the bank card. You may call me an ass and be equally bitter towards me.
  14. When we are cleaning together, do not stand three feet from me. When you do this I feel an inexplicable urge to charge you in the stomach and drive you out of my space as if i were some sort of battering ram. Im not sure why I feel it, but you probably need to know that.
  15. If you want me to cook, clean, launder clothes, don’t criticize how I do it. I will ride that particular grudge train for decades.
  16. In terms of household repairs, do not call me over to the problem to ask my advice. There has been nothing in the entire history of our relationship that should indicate I will have anything to offer you beyond “call my dad.” “Call my dad” has been my answer consistently throughout our marriage. When you say to yourself, “Im going to ask crse what she thinks.” replace it with “I shoud call crse’s dad.”
  17. In terms of intimacy, here a few things that do not enhance the experience nor should be considered as foreplay. 1) Hearing the three year old crying and banging on the locked door.  2) The phrase “assume the position”. (That phrase may work but really. It’s unfair to count it as foreplay). 3) Telling me that if I want to do things “my way”, you are going to need some extra special attention.
  18. This leads into the next intimacy related rule. If you say something really funny at the beginning, expect that I will giggle all through our experience.
  19. It’s not that I mind you hanging out with your friends. It’s that I mind being held hostage by tiny emotional terrorists for hours on end while you are gone. And that if you do, you are completely mean and useless for the next two days. Frankly the mean bothers me more than the useless.
  20. I also don’t mind if your friends think Im a bitch for “not letting you” hang out more. I prefer “bitch wife” to “cool wife” any day of the week. “Cool wife” gets exploited a lot. It’s not a possessive jealousy thing. It’s a “you simply cannot stick me with these crazy little need freaks after the week Ive had” thing.
  21. This leads me right into the next rule. I don’t “let” the children tear our house up. You don’t understand what it’s like when you aren’t here. They are like tiny little jedi masters who confuse me into not realizing the destruction as it unfolds. It’s spooky really.

Ok that’s enough for now. I feel a book idea of my own coming on…

You will never sink my battleship.

May 31, 2008

Once again friends, we find ourselves together and wide awake in the middle of the night. (Look at the time stamp too, who’s the brave girl up in the dead hour? oh yes I am the brave girl.) I actually wouldn’t be out here at all but Gill is in a snit about some lost pillow of his and refuses to carry on a late night conversation with me. His whining about this is odder than you’d think since Gill used to be known for more austere sleep choices, scorning frivolities such as pillows and beds (I need to review the marriage timeline to figure out exactly when he became such a princess about these things because this is clearly not the same man who convinced me that sleeping together on a small futon cushion on the floor “breeds intimacy”). I tried to remind him that in these post-modern times, every man is responsible for his own pillow. Of course, he pulled the pillow disparity card. When I realized that he was not going to allow the pillow precedence rule* as a valid form of defense against his flawed perception of pillow balance, I knew he’d abandoned all of his reasonable thinking skills. He did not strengthen his case one bit when he answered everything I said with “Maybe if I had a pillow I could hear you, but s’s omeone stole it and all I have are your cast off pillow scraps so I guess I can’t hear you until my real pillow is back.”

Although it means I am up at 4am, I actually love this part of our relationship dynamic. His pillow entitlement tonight could be a stand alone piece of bitchery. However, it could also be part of a meta-dynamic that has been playing out for two days now, involving our whites and linens. Without divulging everything about what Ive come to refer to as “the big lie that is my clean underwear situation”, I will tell you that I have grudging admiration for Gill’s ability to keep me constantly guessing. Was tonight’s late-night bitter rant isolated prima donna tantrumming? Or was it side rage coming out as a response to my latest victory move in the underwear hiding scheme? (Ive taken to wearing his when I can’t find mine). For me, my own uncertainty about his motives creates a healthy tension in the marriage that keeps things fresh. Ok im finally getting tired. Thanks for keeping me company friends!

* For the uninitiated, the pillow precedence rule acknowledges the correlation between the number of pillows you are permitted to have and the number of times your bodies been knocked out of alignment due to childbirth. Based on the correlation, a 7 to 1 correlation is absolutely fair for two children. As you can see, it is basic math and not an arguable point. (ergo, Gill is ridiculous)