Short Men and Red Roses

Today is Valentine's Day.

Since our marriage in 1989, I have received red roses on Valentine's Day every year from my husband, Alex.  I also get a sweet mushy card and give him one as well.

Okay, Alex always gives me a gift on top of the roses and the card.  Some years it's a piece of jewelry.  Some years it's a nightgown.  Some years it's a ticket to the Monterey Aquarium.  He's a good husband.

I was talking to a woman I know a while ago who was lamenting how tough it was to find a "good man".  She had recently joined Match.com and another dating site and was having no luck at all even after having about 30 "dates" and numerous contacts.  This woman was horrified that the men on these sights lie about their height.  She is about 5'8" tall and wanted to meet a man who was at least 6' tall.

Now, I completely understand caring a whole lot if a man I met told me he was single and he was lying.  I would be horrified if a man told me he was a salesman and neglected to mention that crack cocaine was what he sold.  I might even be upset if a man failed to mention that he was actually a little bit pre-op on the female to male sex change operation.  But height?  Who even asks somebody how tall they are to decide if you want to date them or not.

I know a guy who meets some women on dating sites and he gave me the skinny.  If you put that you are 5'6" tall, nobody wants to date you.  So, he uses 5'9" on his profile just to keep from being completely ignored.  His feeling is that a woman just might like him if she met him and she might not notice the 3" he's adding.

I don't get it.  I've been married to two men who were, well, short.  Alex is a short guy.  I am taller than he is in heels.  (I've also been married to tall people because I'm an equal opportunity bride.)  Maybe it's just me, but I really don't have rigid rules about who I will be attracted to.  (I don't actually "date" now that I'm married, but you get my point.)  When I was dating, I dated men who were old, men who were young, men who were fat and men who were skinny.  I also dated rich men and poor men and healthy men and sick men.  I may or may not have even dated a couple of girls along with the good men and the bad men.

Love is about the person, not the measurement, whether height, weight, salary, or I.Q. 

I'm never joining "Match.com".

Me and My OCD

I look somewhat normal, but don't be fooled.

I have just decided that I suffer from Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.  I guess I've had it for a long time, but never really recognized my symptoms.

I cannot buy enough shoes.  I have to pick up anything that is out of place immediately.  I refuse to get out of bed before 9:00 AM.  As if that's not bad enough, I only appreciate white flowers.  I love flowers, but if they are not white, they are somehow "wrong".  And when something is "wrong", it makes me nervous.

I get on kicks where I read about one subject obsessively.  But that's not all.  I'll get so that I have to research anything about that subject that is mentioned in the book.  This would be great if I was reading about something that would further my education in a practical way, but it never is.    I'm so venal that I pursue knowledge about the harems of the Ottoman Empire.  Now how often does that come up in conversation?

Recently, I've been reading about war.  Not just one war, but everything I can find about all wars.  Got a war in China in the 13th century?  Great, let's read about it.  How about the war on drugs?  Fine!  "The Art Of War"?  Superb.  The Civil War?  Oh yeah.  WEB Griffin has written a lot military fiction, maybe 50 books.  I've read them all.

Before that, I was on a Polygamy kick.  I think I read 27 books about polygamy in a row.  Now, I know I have discussed having "Sister Wives" and I still think it's a good idea.  I want young strong sister wives who like to cook, clean house, do laundry, iron, walk dogs, and clean up dog poop.  I know the polygamous community is not usually all that great for some people, but I think it would work fine for me.  I am not a jealous woman, but I am a lazy one.  I am still hoping that Nicky and Ziva decide to join us one day.  But I'm open to adding one or two more sister wives if they bring the right skill set to the table so to speak.  If she could sew or do a little plumbing, it would be awesome.

With sister wives, I would have much more time to read and buy shoes and arrange white flowers.  

Or maybe I should just get a pill for the OCD.  That might be a lot cheaper.

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I am getting a ton of "blog" commentary these days.  Many of them look very much like they are written by the same person who sent me the above comment.  I'm sort of thrilled with the attention, because I love attention.  Don't we all?

What confuses me just a bit is what kind of a blog am I being invited to visit.  Who are these people who send me about 25 "comments" a day on my blog?  I'm offered a lot of options.  I can learn to increase my skill at playing poker.  I can find out about "male enhancement therapy".  I can lower my car insurance.

Frankly, I'm sort of fascinated.  Most of the comments are fine if you don't mind that they really have not bothered to read the post.  The comments tell me I have done a wonderful job of explaining a difficult situation.  Or sometimes that I am truly gifted.  (I sort of like that one.) But frequently, they are very quick to invite me to check out their sites.

Now I feel a little guilty because I have never clicked on any of these links.  Does somebody pay these people to peruse blogs and leave comments?  Does anybody ever reciprocate and go to these weirdo sites?  

Okay, I don't really need a loan for bad credit.  And, frankly, I play poker just fine.  The "male enhancement therapy" that most interests me has to do with electrical wiring and even a little painting and plastering expertise.  But that may be just me.

My husband was telling me about a contractor who was held at gunpoint by a woman for 3 days while she forced him to do numerous home repairs for her.  Sadly, I understand where she is coming from.  But I digress.

Who are these people and why do they feel compelled to comment on my posts using the name 'Anonymous'?   

I'm A Gucci Girl In A Payless World

My birthday is on Monday.

Now, I'm not saying that I expect gifts from Gucci or Prada.  I realize the economy is not doing that great.  I even realize that we may be looking at a severely cut Defense budget and that our income comes directly from the Defense budget.

But I'll be damned if I think it makes any sense that I have to receive plastic shoes from Payless as a birthday gift.

My husband is crying about the increased taxes.  He's crying about the Defense budget and how it impacts his line of work.

Excuse me?  Ever heard of a paper route, Alex?  Ever heard of mowing neighbor's lawns on weekends?  Ever heard of Grand Theft Auto?  I mean, come on.

I didn't cause the financial situation.  Why should I have to suffer from it?  I never gave out a shaky loan.  I never did a hinky business deal in my life, (okay, there was that one time, but he had it coming).  All I'm saying is stop moaning about finances and understand that I have some standards.

Cheap ass shoes hurt my feet.  Cheap ass shoes wear out really fast.  Cheap ass shoes make your feet smell like pickles (and not the good kind).  I really don't mind a cotton skirt from good old JC Penneys or Sears and Robuck.  I don't mind a cotton tee shirt from the Gap or Old Navy. 

Just please realize that shoes and bags cannot be from Payless.  That's all I'm saying.

Disco Zombies

I don't understand this fascination with Zombies.  They are dead people and they are ugly.  What is the deal?

Okay, Vampires, I get.  They are kind of sexy with all that neck-sucking business.  Werewolves?  Not so much.  I love dogs and I love wolves, but I don't want to date one if you know what I mean.

My husband, Alex, is a Zombie fanatic.  He loves "The Walking Dead" and even reads books about Zombie wars.  I don't get it.

In the old days, I think in Haiti, they had zombie priests or something in voodoo.  I never really understood that either.  Either you are dead or you are alive.  I don't buy into the idea that it's a half and half thing.  My husband tells me I'm missing a lot.  For example, Zombies can only move in one direction (forward) and they cannot swim.  Why this is important for me to know, I cannot tell you.  But Alex insists it's worthwhile information.

Alex also listens to a lot of Disco music.  I never even acknowledged Disco when it was happening.  He insists on playing "Saturday Night Fever" songs when he cleans up the kitchen.  His radio is always playing something like Gloria Gaynor or Sly and the Family Stone. 

I like classical music and country music and rock and roll and rap and blues, and hip hop.  Disco makes me shake, but not in a good way.  I find Disco as annoying as Zombies.

I don't eat KFC either.  That is so not chicken.  But if Alex is hungry, he will go by KFC.  Maybe he likes seeing the Zombies there while he listens to Disco music on his iPod. 

I really don't know any more.

"Put It In Your Mouth! Do It!"

Excuse me?

Alex walked in the office when I was looking at the whole internet and said "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me.  He was holding something in his hand.

I looked at him and wondered if he had lost his damn mind.  He reached his hand toward me showing me a nasty little piece of chocolate that he had saved off of a chocolate Santa Claus we gotten from a friend at Christmas.  Alex had eaten everything but the head of the Santa.

I said "Put it in my mouth?" and he started grinning.  He is one sick bastard, that one is.

Alex needs to keep in mind that we are married and have been for many years.  The demands to 'put it in my mouth' are pretty funny at this stage of the game.

Plus, I don't want some nasty piece of chocolate he's been holding and letting melt in his grubby hands.  And where does he get off saying "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me?

Well, unless he's holding  a big bunch of hundred dollar bills in the other hand.

Then I might think about it.  Naw.  Just kidding.

Sleeping In Separate Bedrooms

We've been married for almost 25 years.  I guess this was inevitable.

Since Monday night, my husband Alex and I have been sleeping in separate bedrooms.  No, we didn't have a fight.

I have a problem that is making it very difficult for anybody to sleep with me.  If anybody has ever had this problem, they will understand right away.  If they haven't, they will think I'm crazy.  The truth is probably someplace in the middle.

I started getting sick on Saturday.  I got worse on Sunday.  By Monday, I was re-writing my will.  I had a fever of 101F.  I was racked with coughing spells that actually felt like they were cracking my ribs.  When I bent over, it was like opening a faucet from my nose and eyes.  Coughing was agonizing, and completely out of my control.

Because of the upcoming holiday, I went to the doctor and he put me on a Z-Pac and nasal spray and some strong antihistamine medication.  My doctor also assured me I probably wouldn't die, but we all know doctors sometime lie in the situations just because that's what they do.  

Alex was in the process of trying to prepare a major presentation for work.  I'm not sure he noticed when I moved out of our bedroom and into Harry's apartment downstairs.  Alex also had Zoe and Harry, our two big mutts to keep him warm during a really cold spell.  I do understand that Alex was very preoccupied with work. 

By the way, I am a person who embraces being a "caregiver".  My husband, Alex, does not understand the concept of the word "caregiver".  (But you might also understand why I was trying to change my will.)

I had my misery and pain.  And I had yowling, hissing, meowing, rutting cats in my ears driving me crazy.  When I put my head down at night to sleep, my eardrums were full of squeaks, squeals, clicks, meows, moans, hisses,and sometimes Geiger counters that kept me awake.  These noises were in total concert with my breathing.  I began to realize, there may be worse things than death.

Now I like cats just fine.  But I really don't like cats in my head making a total racket.  When Alex considerately came in to check on me after about 72 hours, I had finally fallen into a drugged and fitful sleep.  He says he could hear "wheezing noises".  Wheezing my ass!  Those were the cats in my head making all that noise.

My fever is gone.  I have two more days of antibiotics. I'm beginning to think I may not have to do anything with my will right this minute.  I may even go back to our blissful marital bed by Christmas, but I may bring the cats!