I never used to be able to understand how couples could stay together in a loveless relationship, co-habiting long after the co-joining of bodies had stopped, but then I moved in with a girl of my own and discovered the bitter truth. The fact of the matter is that people stay together long after the love has left the building because it’s easier that way. Sure, one of them could move out and move on, but that would involve disentangling joint mortgages, finding new lodgings and fighting a bitter custodial battle over the family dog. It’s far simpler to stay together by default until eventually the irreconcilable differences - i.e. the husband’s penchant for wearing adult diapers and holding S&M orgies in the basement - force them apart. Living together without the love might not be ideal, but the other alternative - separation - is a logistical nitemare. I dread the day when push comes to shove and my girlfriend boots me out of the house for good, leaving me shivering on the front step with only the embers from my smouldering possessions to keep me warm. (That’s why I don’t keep lighter fluid in the house; hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Especially a scorned woman who’s high on lighter fluid.) I might not have a mortgage and sprawling CD collection to split, but I do have a bairn to share, not to mention a cumbersome 42" plasma to move, which I vowed never to dismantle and reassemble again. Thankfully, my relationship has yet to reach the point of having to worry about the intricacies of disengagement. I’ve not even got to the loveless stage yet, let alone the irreconcilable differences part. Although I can’t therefore claim to share the aforementioned husband’s penchant for wearing adult diapers and holding S&M orgies in the basement, I can sympathise with his predicament. After all, his wife can’t exactly be normal either; if she hadn’t turned into such a frigid bitch, he wouldn’t have been driven to seek fulfilment in less salubrious ways. Until her mood-swings and his swinging got too much however, an uneasy truce prevailed. Sure, he might have hated the cow, but for all of the five minutes a day he saw her for, it was easier to maintain the status quo. A few moments of awkward smalltalk over breakfast is a small price to pay for avoiding a costly divorce.
As it stands, I see about as much of my girlfriend as I do the postman. (Although she sees a lot more of him. In fact she sees all of him.) I don’t particularly care for the postie - not cos he’s fucking my girlfriend but because he’s a fucking postie - but so long as he keeps delivering my mail, I can abide with him. Likewise my girlfriend; sure, she bugs the hell out of me sometimes, but the friction is kept to a minimum because we hardly ever see each other. And we do manage to grab some quality time together, we’re usually more interested in generating friction of the mutually pleasurable sort. Ours isn’t a loveless relationship - at least I don’t think it is - but we see so little of each other it’s hard to tell. (For example, as I am writing this blog, the clock on the computer indicates that it is 12:21pm. I’ve been up for five hours, but have yet to set eyes on my girlfriend, who is still sleeping. By the time she arises, I will have left to go into town and by the time I get home, she will be leaving to go to work.) Although living separate lives under the same roof is not ideal, on the plus side, it means we treasure the snatched moments we do get together. Late at nite, when the bairn is asleep, the day’s work is done and Desperate Housewives isn’t showing, we are able to curl up on the sofa, hold hands and just talk. And it is at these times that I am reminded precisely why I love my girlfriend: because of her blondisms.
My girlfriend isn’t blonde, but that’s not to say she can’t act like one at times. I’m lucky because I get the best of both worlds - a pretty brunette with all the dizziness of a bleach blonde, but without the visible roots and the cupboard full of peroxide. (Peroxide wouldn’t normally bother me, but while electronically tagged I’m anxious not to leave myself open to prosecution, not least for stockpiling materials that may assist in the commission of an act of terrorism.) Like all true - and fake - blondes, my girlfriend is prone to spouting fatuities from time to time. (Example: ‘Why is Boxing Day called Boxing Day - is it because after Christmas everyone gets rid of their cardboard boxes?’) Her most heinous crime however is to fail to get my jokes. Ask women what they look for in an ideal man and they’ll say ‘Someone who makes me laugh.’ Well guess what - my girlfriend got such a man and yet what do I get in return? Nada. Not so much as a snigger or a nod to acknowledge my comedic efforts. Much as I would like to make out that it’s because my jokes are so high-brow, the fact of the matter is they are puerile and predictable. Yet even corny counters deserve some recognition surely? ‘There’s a new film out called Déjà Vu’ remarked my girlfriend the other day. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that one before somewhere’ I replied. My girlfriend stared at me blankly. Another time, she informed me that the toilet was leaking. ‘I just went in and found this puddle of water all over the bathroom floor’ she complained. ‘I bet that came as a shock to the cistern’ I interjected. Once again, my half-assed joke failed to elicit the half-assed laugh it so richly deserved. And that’s why I’m re-telling this anecdote - I need you to laugh to make me feel special. This weblog is an outlet for all my brilliant - and not so brilliant - one-liners that go unnoticed in real life. My girlfriend doesn’t laugh at anything I say; my daughter laughs at everything cos she’s too young to know any better, but you - I like it when you laugh, because it is discerning laughter, measured to fit the quality of the joke that precipitated it. My girlfriend, to give her credit though, does have her own occasional moments of wit, even if it is left to me to apply the finishing touches. ‘Before I started going out with you, I used to think you’d have a really small penis that wouldn’t touch the sides’ she once confessed. ‘Thankfully I was proved wrong.’ ‘Yeah, I know - it turns out that I’ve got an enormous penis’ I replied modestly ‘…and yet it still doesn’t touch the sides.’
As it stands, I see about as much of my girlfriend as I do the postman. (Although she sees a lot more of him. In fact she sees all of him.) I don’t particularly care for the postie - not cos he’s fucking my girlfriend but because he’s a fucking postie - but so long as he keeps delivering my mail, I can abide with him. Likewise my girlfriend; sure, she bugs the hell out of me sometimes, but the friction is kept to a minimum because we hardly ever see each other. And we do manage to grab some quality time together, we’re usually more interested in generating friction of the mutually pleasurable sort. Ours isn’t a loveless relationship - at least I don’t think it is - but we see so little of each other it’s hard to tell. (For example, as I am writing this blog, the clock on the computer indicates that it is 12:21pm. I’ve been up for five hours, but have yet to set eyes on my girlfriend, who is still sleeping. By the time she arises, I will have left to go into town and by the time I get home, she will be leaving to go to work.) Although living separate lives under the same roof is not ideal, on the plus side, it means we treasure the snatched moments we do get together. Late at nite, when the bairn is asleep, the day’s work is done and Desperate Housewives isn’t showing, we are able to curl up on the sofa, hold hands and just talk. And it is at these times that I am reminded precisely why I love my girlfriend: because of her blondisms.
My girlfriend isn’t blonde, but that’s not to say she can’t act like one at times. I’m lucky because I get the best of both worlds - a pretty brunette with all the dizziness of a bleach blonde, but without the visible roots and the cupboard full of peroxide. (Peroxide wouldn’t normally bother me, but while electronically tagged I’m anxious not to leave myself open to prosecution, not least for stockpiling materials that may assist in the commission of an act of terrorism.) Like all true - and fake - blondes, my girlfriend is prone to spouting fatuities from time to time. (Example: ‘Why is Boxing Day called Boxing Day - is it because after Christmas everyone gets rid of their cardboard boxes?’) Her most heinous crime however is to fail to get my jokes. Ask women what they look for in an ideal man and they’ll say ‘Someone who makes me laugh.’ Well guess what - my girlfriend got such a man and yet what do I get in return? Nada. Not so much as a snigger or a nod to acknowledge my comedic efforts. Much as I would like to make out that it’s because my jokes are so high-brow, the fact of the matter is they are puerile and predictable. Yet even corny counters deserve some recognition surely? ‘There’s a new film out called Déjà Vu’ remarked my girlfriend the other day. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that one before somewhere’ I replied. My girlfriend stared at me blankly. Another time, she informed me that the toilet was leaking. ‘I just went in and found this puddle of water all over the bathroom floor’ she complained. ‘I bet that came as a shock to the cistern’ I interjected. Once again, my half-assed joke failed to elicit the half-assed laugh it so richly deserved. And that’s why I’m re-telling this anecdote - I need you to laugh to make me feel special. This weblog is an outlet for all my brilliant - and not so brilliant - one-liners that go unnoticed in real life. My girlfriend doesn’t laugh at anything I say; my daughter laughs at everything cos she’s too young to know any better, but you - I like it when you laugh, because it is discerning laughter, measured to fit the quality of the joke that precipitated it. My girlfriend, to give her credit though, does have her own occasional moments of wit, even if it is left to me to apply the finishing touches. ‘Before I started going out with you, I used to think you’d have a really small penis that wouldn’t touch the sides’ she once confessed. ‘Thankfully I was proved wrong.’ ‘Yeah, I know - it turns out that I’ve got an enormous penis’ I replied modestly ‘…and yet it still doesn’t touch the sides.’
1 comment:
Discerning, if belated, snigger.
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