The Comedians Wife

The Comedians Wife
If it's good luck when it rains on your wedding day, what does it mean if a hurricane blows through?

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Blue Balls

I once read a theory that men prefer strident noises and firm hand shakes. That they are better at solving technical problems than women, and like the color red.

I would like to take a moment to prove this theory wrong! My basis for proving it's falsehood.  Just a simple day in the life of a wife and mommy.

Here goes:

 If men were better at solving "technical" problems. Why oh why can't they figure out how to put the damn roll of toilet paper on the holder?  Do you think if I left a "technical" manual, of how to do it , it would help?  Also, and forgive me for going here ladies, but I feel I must.  Why is it impossible to get everything that is suppose to be in the toilet...In the toilet?  This is technical.  A technical act.  In fact not getting it in is a "TECHNICAL FOUL" if you ask me.

My husband, will not leave a pick up game of basketball, against 8th graders at the park, until every basket has been made, and every shot has been hit.  Getting the same, point, aim and shoot determination into our toilet...Never.  Not once.    He has yet to make his business land in the toilet with no extra parting gifts left around the rim for yours truly, in 10 plus years.

You'd think I would be use to it, or at least know it's coming when I lift that porcelain SOB to clean.  Nope! Shocks me every time!   I still have the same "UHHHH" body jerking backwards reaction, like I just saw an alien pop out of the toilet,  followed by gagging sounds, then curse words, then sheer wonderment of how the hell "It" got "There" and how it's all even physically possible.

Today while cleaning the bitch, I had a vision of all wives, moms of boys, and anyone else who has the great pleasure of cleaning the bowl.  Clad in there ginormous yellow rubber gloves, (I mean whose hands are that big Rubbermaid?) Toilet bowl cleaner wands in hand,  marching up the steps of the White House, protesting poops and penis's!   News papers would read, today in history women decided they deal with enough shit already!

After my day dream, and a long shower,  I drifted back into my proving this men theory wrong, and thought about the strident noise part.

If men like strident noises so much, how it is that no matter how hard or loud the baby cries in the middle of the night, they don't seem to hear it?  They can sleep right though it. Not even a one eyed peek.

If they like loud noises so much, how come when I yell out real loud for help with the groceries, I still get nothing? No movement, no response. As a matter of fact, I usually have to follow it up with another, louder request, and then maybe I get  a "Oh, sorry I didn't hear you."

So far this theory is for shit.

Lastly, I would like to touch upon the color theory. Truly the real reason I started to write this blog today.

While having a seemingly innocent conversation with my son, at a place called, "The Playhouse". Which is exactly that, a giant play house for kids.  My son was frolicking through the ball pit, delighted to be throwing his body across the balls instead of watching mommy clean the toilet.   I decided it was a perfect opportunity to continue with our practicing of colors lesson.  The ball pit was filled with red and blue balls. You see where I am going?

There I was, ever so sweet, enjoying my doting mom moment. Thinking how brilliant I was to turn fun time into learning time. When I started to explain, slow and loud  "This is a BLUE BALL...Blue balls, these are BUUU-HUU-LUUE BALLS." "Can you say, BLUE BALLS?"   "Try it with mommy." "Buuu-luuue Baaaa-hhaaallllll-sssss."

My son repeated, "Bew Bawls!" "Bew Bawls" over and over and over again! YAAAAAYYYYY" In my high pitch ecstatic mommy voice, I started to cheer and reply, "Very Good Jack." "Blue Balls!" Clapping and jumping the entire time.

It never even dawned on me, that besides the fact it truly was a BLUE BALL, this conversation had any other meaning.  That was until the man, who was sitting across the ball pit with his daughter, started laughing and grunting under his breath, (which I clearly heard) "..Heh Heh ...Blue Balls" like he was Bevis or But head or something. Clearly amused by my little fopar.

For a split second I thought maybe he was laughing at the way I said balls.  No matter how hard I try to lose my NY accent, balls is still a tough one. Then I realized there was no laughter upon my "RED BALLS" lesson.   Just blue!!!

Yet again, helping me prove just how wrong that stupid guy theory is.  Clearly the color "BLUE" had more of an impact on this man then red.

I rest my case, and my dignity today.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

The Dreamer.

I'm a big advocate for believing in your dreams.  I think the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody else see's but you, is fearless.  Quite honestly I think it's  a major turn on as well, and one of the biggest things I admire about my husband.  

 I've also accepted the fact, that life makes no guarantees as to what you'll have, and standing by your choices, and your dreams, can sometimes be a pretty daunting task.  

We've all read quote after quote, and listened to speech after speech, about just how easy it is to follow your dreams. The fact is, it's not always as simple as, "Never say never",  and "Always have a dream in your heart."  Life seems to like the curve balls a lot more than the poets. It's no wonder people have lost sight of what it is that truly makes them happy.      

I'm not sure when the dreaming started to drift out of my own life, and definition settled in, but somewhere in between I got a little lost.   

Ironically as a new mommy, the path I see into my sons future has never been more clear.  With every fiber in my being, I truly believe he can be whatever it is he wants to be.  I've never been  more sure about anything in my life.  I tell him so every day.

This got me thinking.  When did I lose that certainty in my own self? I truly hate the land of beige and predictable and certainly never want to return there ever again.  

Yesterday I had the opportunity to dust off the old "dream" cape, and hang up the  "mommy" cape, ( if only for a moment) and what I learned, surprised the hell out of me.  

I don't have to choose.  I don't have to be defined with just one title. I can still dream my little heart out, and believe in every single one of those dreams.  My back has got room for many capes, and like the true fashionista that I am, I can wear the hell out of all of them!

Even if at the end of the day nobody else see's what I see, you can be sure I will be strutting down the runway in my mind, like god damn Cindy Crawford, to the sound track of Glee, Season 1. 

(Insert the cast of Glee singing..."Don't Stop Believing right about now. )

Side Bar- Have you noticed blogging is really just a big old diary entry we let everyone read. How bizarre is that? 

I promise more bitching and funny to come.  The dreamer in me, had to purge. 

Thank you thank you!