The Wretch and I have been married for forty years. We are still together for a variety of reasons, the primary of which is that we know that no one else would have us. That's all right. We rub along pretty well together.
However, The Wretch has this annoying habit of speaking like the engineer he is. A case in point is the weather.
Our conversation goes something like this:
Me: Let's walk down this street. There're more trees and the shade makes it cooler.
The Wretch: It's not really cooler. You just think it is.
Me: It is definitely cooler in the shade.
The Wretch: No. What you're feeling when you're in the sun is only radiant heat transfer. The temperature is the same whether you're in the shade or the sun.
Me: Feel the back of my neck. When I'm in the sun, it's hot.
The Wretch: It's all in your mind.
Me: Could we walk down the street with the trees? I like the view.
The Wretch: Why didn't you just say so in the first place?
Gem for the day: don't try to to have an intelligent conversation with an engineer.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Day 232, August 3
Another problem menopausers have is that we are usually linked with menopause mates. Mind you, this is not altogether bad. However, it can have its drawbacks, such as when we start to look like each other.
The Wretch and I are both sort of pudgy around the middle. We both have once blonde hair that is more gray and white than blonde now. We both have our hair cut very short. We both have pasty white skin.
As if this weren't enough, we have a cat who is also starting to look like us. She, too, is a bit pudgy around the middle. She too has hair where gray and white are making their presence known. She isn't pasty white, but, I figure, give her time. It will come.
Gem for the day: if you and your mate start looking like each other, smile and think, "Wow, do I ever have good taste."
The Wretch and I are both sort of pudgy around the middle. We both have once blonde hair that is more gray and white than blonde now. We both have our hair cut very short. We both have pasty white skin.
As if this weren't enough, we have a cat who is also starting to look like us. She, too, is a bit pudgy around the middle. She too has hair where gray and white are making their presence known. She isn't pasty white, but, I figure, give her time. It will come.
Gem for the day: if you and your mate start looking like each other, smile and think, "Wow, do I ever have good taste."
Friday, August 2, 2013
Day 231, August 2
One of the problems that "pops up" as a woman ages is flatulence at the most inconvenient, embarrassing times. This particular phenomenon makes itself known especially if one bends over.
OMG!
There's no blaming it on the dog, especially when one doesn't have a dog. And I can hardly blame it on my sweet kitty. No, I must own it.
Gem for the day: if gas is a problem for you, avoid vegetables and stick with chocolate. Chocolate is a known gas-inhibitor!
OMG!
There's no blaming it on the dog, especially when one doesn't have a dog. And I can hardly blame it on my sweet kitty. No, I must own it.
Gem for the day: if gas is a problem for you, avoid vegetables and stick with chocolate. Chocolate is a known gas-inhibitor!
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Day 230, August 1
Well, we're back to suffering for beauty. (Frankly I don't want to suffer for beauty. I've suffered for duty. That's enough.)
But some women are made of heartier stock than I. Take, for instance, the practice of sticking your feet in to a basin filled with tiny flesh-eating fish. These fish nibble off the rough, dry skin so that only soft, baby-like skin remains on your feet.
Really? Why not just stick your feet into a pirranha-infested river?
My feet have enough problems without sticking them into a school of flesh-eating fish.
Gem for the day: if someone tells you to "suffer for beauty," tell him where to stick it.
But some women are made of heartier stock than I. Take, for instance, the practice of sticking your feet in to a basin filled with tiny flesh-eating fish. These fish nibble off the rough, dry skin so that only soft, baby-like skin remains on your feet.
Really? Why not just stick your feet into a pirranha-infested river?
My feet have enough problems without sticking them into a school of flesh-eating fish.
Gem for the day: if someone tells you to "suffer for beauty," tell him where to stick it.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Day 229, July 31
Today is my birthday.
It's one of those benchmark birthdays, the one where I can take Social Security if I choose to. (Damn. I feel old even writing that.) When I asked The Wretch how much SS I would get, he said, "Well, you always did say you could do a lot with a quarter."
I CAN do a lot with a quarter. But even I cannot live on a quarter a month. Oh, well, maybe I can make up for my lack of paying work with my beauty, spirituality, and intelligence.
Gem for the day: If you can't live on your SS, you can alway supplement it by hiring out for sex!
It's one of those benchmark birthdays, the one where I can take Social Security if I choose to. (Damn. I feel old even writing that.) When I asked The Wretch how much SS I would get, he said, "Well, you always did say you could do a lot with a quarter."
I CAN do a lot with a quarter. But even I cannot live on a quarter a month. Oh, well, maybe I can make up for my lack of paying work with my beauty, spirituality, and intelligence.
Gem for the day: If you can't live on your SS, you can alway supplement it by hiring out for sex!
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Day 228, July 30
Today's subject is a trifle naughty. If you feel you can't handle naughty, feel free to skip this.
With that preface, let's get to it.
Have you noticed how men are wont to name their "parts?" What's with that? Why would you name a body part? Occasionally, I refer to my breasts as "the girls," but that is mostly for convenience. You say the word "breasts" too much and you end up sounding like you're at a butcher counter ordering chicken parts.
But men feel compelled to name their male member. I honestly don't get it. It's as if this particular part has its own social security number, zip code, and what-have-you. Men even talk about this part in the third person.
My husband, The Wretch, was talking about somebody named Harry one day. It took me forty-five minutes to realize that Harry was not a person!
Gem for the day: if your mate starts talking about someone named Harry or Dick or John, tune out. You won't miss a thing.
With that preface, let's get to it.
Have you noticed how men are wont to name their "parts?" What's with that? Why would you name a body part? Occasionally, I refer to my breasts as "the girls," but that is mostly for convenience. You say the word "breasts" too much and you end up sounding like you're at a butcher counter ordering chicken parts.
But men feel compelled to name their male member. I honestly don't get it. It's as if this particular part has its own social security number, zip code, and what-have-you. Men even talk about this part in the third person.
My husband, The Wretch, was talking about somebody named Harry one day. It took me forty-five minutes to realize that Harry was not a person!
Gem for the day: if your mate starts talking about someone named Harry or Dick or John, tune out. You won't miss a thing.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Day 227, July 29
We're back to one of my favorite subjects: weapons. Weapons, that is, for moi! (That's French for "me.")
I continue to work on The Wretch to get me a weapon. If I can't get a gun, let me have a taser. When I say taser, I mean a real, honest-to-goodness taser that shoots out little prongs that hook themselves into my target's body and level him. I don't want one of those wimpy tasers that just gives an electric shock.
The Wretch, wretch that he is, doesn't want me to even have this would-be gun. He says it's for my own protection, that I might hurt myself. Please. I managed to make it through four pregnancies that averaged 27 months apiece and he thinks I can't handle a tiny shock?
No. He's concerned about his own hide. For the life of me, I can't imagine why he's concerned IF he treats me right. And that's the sticking point. He knows he doesn't always treat me right.
Gem for the day: Once more this is for the males out there: If you don't want to be tasered by your wife, girlfriend, or live-in, don't piss her off.
I continue to work on The Wretch to get me a weapon. If I can't get a gun, let me have a taser. When I say taser, I mean a real, honest-to-goodness taser that shoots out little prongs that hook themselves into my target's body and level him. I don't want one of those wimpy tasers that just gives an electric shock.
The Wretch, wretch that he is, doesn't want me to even have this would-be gun. He says it's for my own protection, that I might hurt myself. Please. I managed to make it through four pregnancies that averaged 27 months apiece and he thinks I can't handle a tiny shock?
No. He's concerned about his own hide. For the life of me, I can't imagine why he's concerned IF he treats me right. And that's the sticking point. He knows he doesn't always treat me right.
Gem for the day: Once more this is for the males out there: If you don't want to be tasered by your wife, girlfriend, or live-in, don't piss her off.
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