My poor sweet husband
2006-02-24, 2:12 p.m.
My poor sweet husband. We had a convergence of events that started last Friday that resulted in no sex for a week. It wasn’t that I was angry, or that something was going wrong in our relationship. It was the combination of the following that left me befuddled and beflummoxed and quite frankly uninterested in performing:
1. An “I have no friends” crisis that made me really sad and introspective. And probably self-pitying and pouty, but this is MY journal, and if I say I was completely mature about it, I was. No pouting here.
2. My period. Please note my steadfast refusal to say “Aunt Flo”. That’s just stupid. Call it what it is. It’s not like “Aunt Flo” is disguising anything. YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE.
3. New glasses altering my perception of reality and making my brain really tired and confused and fuzzy. I kept staring at my hands, as their new proximity to my face – out there at the ends of my arms - really fascinated me. I did mushrooms once in the 80s, and this was a bit reminiscent of that experience, without the visual and auditory hallucinations. Which suck and are very scary, by the way. Don’t try the mushrooms.
4. The fucking dog, Mrs. Beans, acquiring a new bad sleep habit, i.e. howling at possums in the middle of the night, every single night.
Mrs. Beans says “What?”
All of that sadness and crampiness and altered perception and lack of sleep worked together contiguously to make me very sleepy and cranky and flat for a week. AND I HATE IT WHEN I’M FLAT.
You know, just yuck. Flat. Like you’ve been robbed of your personality.
Here’s how the above-listed heretoforementioned items have been resolved:
1. I have a dinner date with a new internet friend/stalker next week. I love meeting new people! Also, I got a call from a school-friend (you know, the mom of one of LG’s friends at school), and while the 7th graders are having their ice skating party tonight, some of the cooler 7th grade moms are going out to dinner together, and I got invited. I’m popular! I’m necessary for the success of any social gathering, obviously.
2. I just got over it. Duh. It runs its course, and then it’s gone. Each time, I think “maybe for good this time.” Each time, I am wrong.
3. I’ve been wearing them every day – have given myself a week to shit or get off the pot, so to speak. Today was my self-imposed deadline to either get used to them, or return them, and I am happy to report that I can’t see a freaking thing without them now, so they shall indeed NOT be returned.
4. Mrs. Beans has found herself crated and closed off in a room by her widdle self the past few nights, so as to insulate her from the sounds of the midnight possums. She will be crated for a week, rather than lolling about on the couch, in order to get her sleep habits back on track. We have to rock her world every now and then, or she’ll start thinking she’s in charge of us. Just like a baby, but letting her cry it out doesn’t really work. So far, it’s working. Sleep is interrupted only by my own neurotic tendencies to wake up and worry about some work-related detail, rather than the dog’s demented yodel.
And here’s what the resolution of these items has resulted in so far:
1. I have gotten enough sleep the past two nights.
2. I’m focused.
3. I feel good physically.
4. I feel good mentally, like I’m a person that other people might like to hang out with. I know I shouldn’t get my self-esteem from other folks’ opinions, and that’s not it: it’s more like that little part of me that likes to socialize has gotten back on track.
And so you know what finally happened last night, don’t you? DON’T YOU?
Well, it’s not really that simple. OF COURSE there’s a story to it.
I got home, and Don (see “about” over there in the sidebar (I have a sidebar!) if you need to catch up on who the hell is Don) was there, and he’s been brewing his own beer lately, and he had a sample for DW and me to try. (Note: it was good.) He stood in the kitchen, looking out at the rest of the house, and said “I really like this house.”
“It likes you, too,” I replied. “What can we do to get you back out here more often?”
This launched a very long conversation regarding his Very Bad Girlfriend, She Whom We Call Courtney, and long story short, she hates my and DW’s guts more than we ever imagined, we don’t think much of her, there’s a lot of small town gossip and shit going on, Don doesn’t particularly like dating her, although she’s a fun drinking buddy, and he realized that dating a woman who might cause one to lose almost-lifelong friends is not a good idea.
Not that WE were going to dump him; he was in the process of ditching and dumping us, and once he realized what he was feeling forced into doing, he decided who he really wanted to dump. Not us. I mean, look at us. Would YOU want to dump this:
Laura says “What?”
This was a two-hour conversation, during which one bottle of wine was consumed by Don and me, and DW had to go upstairs and take a Medal of Honor break, because he can’t go that long without playing some kind of video game.
But at the end of the night, after talking for two hours, and my consuming half a bottle of wine and a handful of Ruffles for dinner, and Don moseying his way home, DW and I finally broke our one-week drought.
Other good news: I’m liking my new glasses, and even got a compliment from a STRANGE MAN in my comments on them yesterday (Thanks, Mark! I’m seeing through them right now, and am keeping them).
And more good news: I’m going out with friends tonight. My own friends – not the wives of DW’s golf buddies.
I’m going to leave you with a transcript of a conversation I had with my sister, EB, regarding her sister-in-law MB:
Me: I know MB’s been kind of busy, what with her getting married on Saturday, but I had another run-in with that godawful attorney that we both know, and I wanted to send her an email about it. But my email would contain this whole story wherein I said “Suck my dick” to somebody, and I’m not sure how MB would take that. Is she someone you cay say “Suck my dick” to?
EB: I’m not sure. I don’t have her quite figured out yet. Most of the time I think she’s really cool, but then sometimes I think maybe there are things that you can’t really say to her.
Me: Well, then I won’t send her my story, because “Suck my dick” is the funniest part of it.
EB: Is this that same attorney y’all were talking about my wedding brunch? Don’t get her started talking about the law and all that stuff; those stories just go on and on, and I don’t want her talking about that around me. It drives me crazy. It never ends.
Me: Well, what are some topics that we CAN talk about around you?
EB: I dunno. Sucking dicks?
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