Sometimes people ask me why did you marry J-man? Sure, he lets me eat food off his plate, buys me flowers twice in one week and strokes my head while telling baby animal stories when I can’t sleep. But just now? He made me soak his white t-shirt after he’d spilt homemade pizza sauce on it while making my dinner. It’s a lot for me to deal with when I’m trying to watch TV.
So it’s just as well he has the world’s stupidest sense of humour:
The reason this makes me laugh is not so much the fact that I can imagine J-man, who insists he’s some kind of professional, will leave it somewhere after a really important meeting. It’s mostly because it reminds me a lot of what I was like as an eight-year-old neighbourhood roughian. This is the kind of stuff I used to write on my wooden ruler. Once I sent an invitation to a picnic to a boy in the street with instructions to: “eat my shorts”. This is the same boy to whom I sent an anonymous Valentine’s Day card bearing the greeting “You Tickle My Fancy and I Fancy Your Tickle”, not fully understanding the glaringly creepy sexual overtones. I hate myself, I really do. It’s lucky I even found someone to marry.
PS. Just FYI, I’ve been meaning to BRB lately, but I’ve been trying to sort out the backend of my life. You may think I finally booked that appointment with the backend doctor, but I really mean “backend” as in, “offline”, life. We need to find a house! LOL.
A list of weird things about being non-employed (I don’t like the word ‘unemployed’ as it has connotations of drinking XXXX Gold, eating dog food and spying on my neighbours through two toilet rolls I have come to believe are x-ray glasses).
Caring too much: Today I walked past a newsagent and gagged on my cola slurpie when I saw a tabloid revealing why Kim Kardashian wants to adopt a baby. For the next 10 or 15 minutes I thought about that poor baby. Who is going to take care of it when the girls are doing a classy photoshoot on the beach next to a big dollar sign? What about Kim’s boozy new series based in New York? And, you guys, she said she would spend her year as a 30-year-old enjoying being single. She’s just so irresponsible. I started getting a little riled up. What about those of us who might not get a chance to have a baby because we have no bed, no home and currently store our underpants in a grey plastic bag? And then I realised … actual THINGS are happening in the world.
Sharing too much Staying at home all day long while the J-man and Julia work at their actual jobs that pay actual money that they can spend on actual things is really lonely. So by the time they get home I’m champing at the bit to talk to someone and tell them everything I know, like “nervous vomit” is the best YouTube search ever. And sometimes I forget that my marriage is actually a sacred, special bond between man and wife and not a semi-homoerotic, incestuous frat party. Like last night when I went into our bedroom and Joel was getting dressed after his shower. When I walked in, he told me I was mere milliseconds away from seeing his inner sanctum. So I yelled out to Julia and told her the good news. And now I’m telling you.
Crying too much I know this is totally a first world version of torture, so excuse me while I complain about how hard it is, how unbelievably difficult and awful and gut-wrenching and sad that I have to walk past my favourite shops and resist the temptation to buy something. Today I went into Alannah Hill in the city and saw that she has started making short shorts. And not just any short shorts; short shorts in loud 70s patterns with frills, bows and polka dots. I held them up and admired them, my eyes welling with tears, before quickly putting them back on the rack and racing out of the shop. It’s not like I’d rock short shorts at the moment anyway. I mean, you really have to remember, I’m deathly pale from having been in Romania, Bulgaria, Greece, Italy, France, the UK, Spain and the US for the last few months. Woe is mine.
Guilt tripping If I am not on Seek, circling job ads in the paper with red texta or working my contacts (Hi Deirdre at Big W Bathurst!) 24 hours, seven days a week, I am mentally beating myself up about it in my spare time. No, I won’t meet you for drinks because what if someone emails me while I’m out. Sorry mum, I can’t talk to you on the phone because I’m keeping the line busy (Sorry Deirdre). Oh hay cousin Sophie, I know I said we’d catch up soon, but what if I miss being spotted by a talent scout while I sit in my pyjamas on the couch. I’m the only person in the world who is suffering. You should all think about that while you sit in your air-conditioned offices, you horrible employed useful members of society.