The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: annoying husbands

Micro-Mangering

We have a Nativity Scene on our entryway table. It is a beautiful Fontanini set that my husband bought for me as a gift early in our marriage. Over the years my mother and mother-in-law have added to the set with additional key players like wise men and animals. The whole family treasures it. 

The only problem is that nobody agrees on how to set it up each year. Every time I walk past it, the pieces have been moved. For a long time I thought this was the work of toddlers gone wild. But now I know differently. 

My husband is a control freak. 

He has a very specific idea of where each figure should go, the angle at which they should be facing, and the proximity of each figure to the others. He’s obsessed. We call it “micro-mangering.” The man knows his Nativity and likes it just so. 

It kinda pisses me off. I mean really, what a waste of energy. If you want to micro-manage something, how about the laundry? Or if only he had the same high expectations for the kitchen and would painstakingly care for and rearrange the pots and pans so carefully. Maybe if we had pots and pans with Baby Jesus painted on the side… 

So naturally, I find myself rearranging the Nativity pieces in crazy ways just to bait the poor guy. It is so easy and creates so much fun. It’s probably a tad sacrilegious… but I just blame it on the baby. Shhhh. Don’t tell him OK.  Besides, I figure any God who would create ME in his image clearly has a great sense of humor and won’t mind a little sheep-on-camel action in the name of a good joke.

 

"Um, excuse me, but your sheep is buggering my camel, dude."

"Um, excuse me, but your sheep is buggering my camel, dude."

 

"Don't just stand there Joseph! Help me for Chrissakes! This barn cat is trying to steal the breath of the new born King! Help!"

"OH! Oh my goodness! Somebody... HELP! Don't just stand there Joseph! Help me for Chrissakes! This barn cat is trying to steal the breath of the new born King!"

 

"Do you smell what I smell?"

The forgotten verse to the beloved classic carol: "Do you smell what I smell?"

©2008 The Bearded Iris

68

Is it me, or are the libidos of men and women totally incompatible?  I really think Ellen and Portia are on to something here.  Not the least of which being that their bathroom is probably so easy to clean.  

I remember hearing once that men reach their sexual prime in their late teens but that women don’t reach theirs until like their 40s.  What the fuck kind of intelligent design is that?  It seems slightly misogynistic. Like God said, “Well, I don’t want women to want sex all the time when they should be busy taking care of their families. I know, I’ll just delay their sexual prime so they can propagate first, play later.”  Clearly God was not taking into account the fact that by the time we are done with all that breeding all our fun parts are too stretched out and ugly to feel good about sharing them with anyone else (at least with the lights on).  

I’m only 38, so I keep telling my husband to wait for it….his time is coming.  Of course by then, he’ll be so old that he’ll need to take Viagra and have his doctor on speed-dial in case he gets a perma-bone. But while we are both patiently waiting for my prime to get here, why oh why does he always seem to want sex at the precise moment when it is the last thing on earth I’d rather do.  OK, true, that is like 99% of the time. But come on.  Gimme a break, dude.  When I begged you to get that vasectomy and promised you spontaneous wild sex wherever and whenever you wanted, I had my fingers crossed behind my back.  

Here, I’ll give you an example.  Husband gets home from work the other day all sexed up and raring to go (must be that sexy voice of Terri Gross on NPR).  His timing could not have been worse.  Unbeknownst to him, I had received my monthly visitor earlier that day. You know, Aunt Flo.  Mr. Menstrual.  The Curse. Paul Revere Riding the Cotton Pony.  I’m bloated, crampy, pimply, gassy, and slightly inebriated.  But Mr. Twenty-Five-Years-Past-His-Prime doesn’t seem to notice all the warning signs and nuzzles up to me hoping for a little slap and tickle.  I say, “Sorry hon. Can’t. Got my period today.”  Oh the look.  You would think I had said that I just spent his retirement fund on another batch of Fat Burning Soap from QVC.  To say he was disappointed would be an understatement. All I wanted was my box of wine, a heating pad, and whichever Meredith Baxter Burney movie was playing on Lifetime TV.  I was also hoping he wouldn’t then ask for a 68: “You do me and I’ll owe you one.”  Luckily for me, he got on the Internet instead.  Hallelujah for free porn.  

If he was my gorgeous lesbian life partner instead, we’d be on the same cycle, sharing an institutional-sized box of Tampons from Costco, watching Lifetime together, guilt free.  But then, who would mow the lawn and grill the steaks?  I guess I’ll keep him.  And here’s hoping for that sexual prime to get here sooner than later.

Peace and Quiet of Olympic Proportions

I love my husband.  I do.  He is a keeper.  And I am so lucky to have him in my life.  That being said, we’ve been married for eleven years and the man is driving me absolutely nuts.  Luckily for me, he doesn’t have a blog or any interest in airing our dirty laundry, or else he could be writing post after post about my myriad quirks and annoying habits.  But unfortunately for him, I do have a blog, I have no shame, and writing about this stuff keeps me from earning a 28 day stay at Promises with Britney.  Sorry, hon.  

So here’s my gripe du jour.  It occurred to me last night that The Olympics will be coming to an end soon, and this makes me blue.  My reasons are two fold.  

1.) Yes, for all the same reasons as the rest of you Americans, and sports fans, and humanitarians in general. Of course. It is truly captivating to watch people who are the best at what they do.  Particularly, I love to hear my husband and children discussing the awe inspiring feats of Michael Phelps every day. My husband, who did not shed a single tear when any of his children were born, gets all choked up retelling the story of how Michael Phelps set a goal of 8 gold medals, achieved this goal, and now has more gold medals (between his two Olympics) than any other person, ever.  Hey butt-munch, I birthed all three of your children, two of whom were over 9 pounds each, and twice without drugs, but yeah, go ahead and cry over Michael Phelps’ accomplishment.  That IS something!  Perhaps I am just a tad bitter, no? Maybe I am also envious of Michael Phelps…not only did he accomplish what he set out to do, but his goal was huge! He set multiple World Records.  My loftiest goals right now are to clear off the dining room table sometime this week and make sure the kids have clean underwear everyday. Pathetic.

2.) But really, the thing I will miss the most about the Olympics is the peace and quiet around here at night. These last two weeks have been heaven.  Since my husband knows that I’m not much of a sports fan and don’t really care about watching the Olympics, he has been voluntarily retiring to the basement (a.k.a. “The Man-Cave”) every night after the kids go to bed to watch the Olympics by himself, leaving me blissfully alone in the family room.  It has been delightful.  No fighting for the remote.  No “discussions” about what to watch.  No eye strain from his manic channel surfing.  No frustration from not being able to hear the TV over his excessively loud grape chomping and popsicle slurping.  Just me and the dog, cuddled up on the couch, with complete control over everything in my world for the first time all day. I could definitely get used to this. 

So I will miss you Beijing, but there is light at the end of the tunnel….football season is just around the corner.  And until then…oops!…I forgot to buy popsicles at the store again.


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