It is a very good thing that the Singaporean Missus and her sisters and brother will soon gather in Singapore, to bond, eat and walk around saying “soooooooo cheap”.
Because otherwise, the Venus & Mars border clashes back in New Zealand would almost certainly escalate into a nuclear conflict.
We mention this because we were just enjoying a lazy summer Sunday in New Zealand, lounging on the deck, petting the dogs, and topping up the healthy mall Japanese lunch (miso soup and tuna roll) with real ‘Merican food (cheese, crackers and Root Beer).
At which point the Missus strolled out, armed with three ibuprofen packets, each containing a different number of capsules.
“I would appreciate it if you would… Do you see these three packets? None of them are empty. They are all taking up space. It is so… Untidy. So, I ask, would you mind…”
Now, it would be pointless, since we were unarmed, because of New Zealand’s stupid gun laws, to defend ourselves in this matter, even though our defense would be absolutely bulletproof.
See, we have a bum shoulder which has, as of last Monday, required two, count them, two cortisone shots. This is because there is a spongemorphic spangula of the freetus valve socket, or something like that, according to our specialist.
Even though the shots help a bit, when I lift my hand above shoulder level, especially if I am moving it across my chest — like to retrieve pain medicines from the cabinet, or to fling excess pain meds back in the general direction of the pill cabinet (which is inside the bigger cabinet, of course) — it feels like there is a half-torn cello string in my shoulder that hits a rusty nail and goes PWAAAAAANNNNNGGGGG.
At which point I drop to my knees and say a very bad word.
So, to avoid this major PWAAAAAAANNNNNGGGG and subsequent bad word, I tend to lunge at the pain meds, grab whatever I can, gobble a couple, and then fling the excess back. Yes, I admit that this makes the pill drawer, inside the plastic cabinet, inside the bigger cabinet, somewhat messy.
You would not think this was a big deal. Unless you were married. Because if you were married, you would know this type of thing is the sucking chest wound of marital bliss.
And, not to downplay this matter involving the untidy flinging, and use of, ibuprofen, it is nothing — NOTHING — compared to the TRASH WARS.
Recently, the Blog completely, totally, 110%percent lost his rag over the 10 billionth Venus attack on Mars involving trash, or as they so quaintly call it in New Zealand, rubbish.
If we were to summarize this incident, we would do so by simply saying, and not generalizing at all, the fact that all women, everywhere, when it comes to trash, and to a lesser extent pain meds in the plastic cabinet inside the bigger cabinet, are completely, utterly, unfreeking believable crazy and should all, right this minute, be institutionalized.
But if we were to go into slightly greater depth, which we don’t really want to, because we are above that sort of thing, we would make the following points.
The Blog, late at night, is responsible for taking down the kitchen rubbish, and recyclables — including cans, glass bottles, plastic bottles, and the 10,001 other types of plastic that the City Council will not and has not ever recycled, but which the Missus INSISTS ARE RECYCLABLE because she learned this in her fashion recycling course in college.
In addition, we are responsible for taking out the plastic bowl that is always overflowing with peels and squishy stuff that we must dump into the organic bag.
Because it is written.
So every night, without fail, about midnight, or later, we stumble down the stairs, balancing bags and bottles and rubbish, and somehow make it outside which, since we have one hand and must go through two doors, always requires flexibility and creativity.
Once outside, we dump the organic goo into the special burlap bag, put down the bowl it was in, try to quietly drop the glass and plastic into the recycling wheelie bin that lives next to my neighbor’s window, then kick the big plastic trash bin’s top loose, or, if we misfire, possibly up to five feet in the air, at which point it bangs on the concrete and loudly rolls down the driveway.
We deposit the kitchen trash bag into the big bin — repeat, INTO THE DAMN BIN, EVERY DAMN NIGHT RAIN OR SHINE — and then go back inside, lock the door, walk upstairs, realize we left the stupid organic bowl somewhere downstairs, go back down the stairs and search until we find said bowl, normally on the ironing board or the washing machine, but occasionally on top of the fridge or fence railing, at which point we trudge back upstairs and collapse in bed, totally exhausted by the ordeal.
AND, once a week, on Tuesday nights, we open the big trash bin, reach inside and pull up the Council Rubbish Bag, which has been smashed to the bottom by all the small bags of daily rubbish bombed in at midnight, then we smash everything into the one Council Rubbish Bag ($3), tie it up, and deposit it next to the street.
Now, we don’t claim this is heroic, although some would.
But we do ask you what on Earth could be wrong with this system? Well, OK, the neighbor might have some input on the 1 a.m. thing, which is occasionally 2 a.m., but he is unarmed, so tough.
There is no reason on Earth the Missus has any grounds to complain, is there? No reason at all.
And yet we need the effin United Nations to negotiate a Rubbish Truce at least once a month Down Under because the Missus — despite her long-standing instructions made to me, IN WRITING, that clearly state the Blog is responsible for trash and recycling and organic goo — will every now and again take a small bag of rubbish out herself, on her way to her gurly fashion studio.
And she will see the chaotic state of untidyness in the trash bin — with small plastic bags strewn carelessly hither and thither, with the main Council Rubbish Bag NOT PROPERLY ERECT — and she will have to stick her hand into the trash bin to lift up the Council Rubbish Bag and tidily place all the smaller bags into it.
At which point this incredibly prayerful, artistic woman to whom I have been married for almost 30 years, will implode with the force of 10,000 super novas of impending pain that must be dished out and we mean RIGHT NOW.
Because she will have imagined that she has just come in contact with man hork.
See, in an unthinking and foolish moment perhaps 25 years ago, we admitted that we are not opposed to horking a loogie into our own personal trash can, which, right this moment, sits under our desk, a mere six inches from our right foot and the snoring Crack Puppy.
Now, we understand, that gurly Venus types are not all that flexible when it comes to horkage. We don’t know what they do with their loogies, or if they do not actually have loogies. We don’t understand how they can avoid it, especially in Springtime when pollen particles Down Under are about the size of a softball, but maybe they don’t actually have loogies. It’s a mystery.
We grasp the concept that women are not compatible with horked-up loogies. We are not a caveman, OK?
We would never., ever, even on our death bed, ask the Missus to retrieve the trash bag from our trash can, which has, admittedly, been horked in, and upon, for years. Decades even.
In fact, if we were to be brutally honest, the Blog would have to admit that perhaps that is not really “rust” on the bottom of our trash can. But that would almost certainly be Way Too Much Information, so we will move right along.
Anyways… Where were we?
Oh, right, discussing our Constitutional Rights to Hork in Our Own Damn Trash Can versus when the Missus, BREAKING HER OWN RULES by taking out the rubbish, goes off like a rocket because the trash bags are JUST SO UNTIDY, and, OMG, she has to reach inside where there MIGHT BE HORKAGE…
When this irresistible force (pent-up, Venus-ish anti-horking gurly disgust) can no longer live in close proximity to the Immovable Object
(the Mars-ish Blog that flatly refuses to give up his Constitutional right to hork in his own damn trash can AND pile up the trash bags, in a blatantly untidy manner) it is well and truly time for the Missus to go to Singapore.
And, even better, it is time for the Blog to go see BRUCE FRICKING SPRINGSTEEN who, we are more certain than anything we have ever been certain about in our whole ENTIRE life, horks manly Boss Loogies into his own trash can, regardless of what Patti Scialfa says.
Editor’s Note: No, Patti says The Boss is not allowed to hork.
Click HERE for more information about Why Men Act Like That.