The compromise

They say it's all about compromise, give and take - a bit of flexibility goes a long way, blah blah blah! Compromise only works when both parties are prepared to give a little. Today we found ourselves unexpectedly in a free situation, our daughter has gone to stay with some friends for the weekend. It left us in a dilemma, we should do something together - these opportunities rarely happen and so we should enjoy the freedom. So we start to discuss the possibilities, it's a brainstorming session, no pressure, all ideas welcome. You get my drift. My thinking is, we live miles from the city so if we go out for drinks it's a trek home not to mention the ridiculous cost of taxi fare etc. If one of us was going to offer to drive it would be me - and to be honest trailing around the kind of pubs he likes would be my idea of hell... compromise, compromise. So I suggest going to the theatre, we look at what's on, nothing he fancies. I suggest going to the cinema, and refrain from picking the film (even though there are at least three films I would love to see but I'm compromising). Nothing he wants to see. I suggest going out for the day, but apparently taking a day trip is something only pensioners do so that idea is banished too. I'm rapidly running out of suggestions and we're no further on in deciding what to do. Idea's from his camp are decidedly sparse, so far everything I've brought to the table is provoking a scowl. The only thing he suggested was meeting my dad for drinks.... hello we have time to just be a couple and it's the first saturday night we've been in a position to go out for months and you want to spend it with my dad! What gives?? Eventually I trundle off to bed, taking my pensioner mind set and droopy ass with me. I'm lying there feeling slightly wounded at the pensioner comment and thinking about how even my best compromising skills have failed. Yet again. And then it hits me.... something fun and interesting, something we don't do often (no it's not sex)....Ice Skating. So I leap out of bed and shout down the stairs "We could go Ice Skating". There is a moment of silence... and then "Erm, yeah we could do". So that is it, no more debates, let's see what he is made of. Ice Skating.. lets see how much fun you can take when your big old ass hits that rink!

Thank You

Just wanted to say thank you to Blue Velvet and Tabitha for reading my blog. I'm still fairly new to this, only been blogging since Sunday and so I'm not sure if this is even the right way to do things. Anyhow, you two made my day and I'm glad you liked my blogs!

The Comfort Zone

We’ve all done it, settled into a relationship and been hit by the contentment train. We relax a little, allow our men to see us in our comfy fluffy pj’s with matching fluffy slippers, wear the comfy knickers from time to time, and stop being so paranoid about every little detail. In other words we stop trying to be perfect and just hope our man won’t mind the real version. We still make an effort though, we still want them to find us attractive so we try to keep ourselves looking nice and maintaining our appearance. Men, when content that their partner does indeed love them and are secure in the knowledge that the lady in their life is around for good seem to abandon all of their principles which you were so impressed by. I remember when me and my partner met, for about three months he would go out of the room to pass wind, I was so impressed that a man would go to such lengths in the name of manners. Of course it didn’t last and before long he was asking me to pull his finger so he could fart on demand. Other niceties disappeared too, the interest in my emotional wellbeing for example. There was a time when he would listen attentively to my tales of a bad day at work, nod sympathetically and practically fall over himself to give me a foot rub. Now, when I return from work after a stressful day I barely even receive a grunt of recognition as I walk through the door. If I try to instigate a conversation and the TV is on (which is most of the time) he’ll impatiently respond with “I’m trying to watch this, tell me in the break”. Then I try to cram a full conversation into a three minute commercial break and you can guarantee he’s not listening to a word I’m saying, he’s more interested in ogling the girl on the clubbing CD advert who is busy grinding her way around a pole.
Don’t get me started on the lack of interest in their appearance either, when you’re courting they’re always at the gym, toning and honing themselves. Now, we’d be more likely to find them in the KFC next to the gym rather than on the treadmill. They’d make a real effort in their clothing choices too, always looking dapper and sharp. Now they wear any old thing, and more often than not will decide to do the painting in their best shirt. Sweaty feet hang over the arm of the sofa, their dirty socks discarded in a little sweat pile on the living room floor along with their smelly shoes. They get up in the morning, bedraggled and with their once pristine boxer shorts hanging halfway down their ass, scratching their head with one hand and their balls with the other. They take great pleasure in striding off to the bathroom with the paper under their arm and don’t even have the good grace to open the window when they’ve finished. All of the endearing little habits that impressed us so much long gone now, along with their manners and sense of romance.
Now if I mention romance he looks at me like I’ve gone slightly mad. The man who would once light candles all over the house now considers them a severe fire risk and the cause of the majority of house fires. The remote control which was once a dual owned piece of equipment is in now in sole possession of his lordship, apparently it’s been surgically attached to his finger and would cause intolerable pain if it were removed.
The truly deluded men even criticise their long suffering partners, making snidey remarks if they’ve put on a little weight (failing to notice they’ve put on three time as much and we haven’t said a word). Or be the first to mention the grey hair they’ve spotted and when they do go shopping with us they pick out the most garish and slutty outfit as the winner. It sometimes makes me wonder if they know us at all. And they wonder why we all have a rabbit, it doesn’t talk back, looks pleased to see us and makes us feel really good – what more could a girl ask for!

The Modern Man

Is there really such a thing as the modern man? I’ve been researching this the only way I know how, asking all my girlfriends if a) he exists, b) do they have one, c) or have they met one? The resounding answer is no! So I got to thinking, what is the definition of a modern man? My research was extensively carried out in a thorough and professional manner (ok I admit it was a room full of women, several bottles of wine and a takeaway – food and drink is an ingenious incentive)! We concluded that our perception (as women) of the modern man is one that sees the relationship as an equal partnership, contributes equally towards the raising of the children, their relationship, and the home. So what would this look like in our everyday lives? No more picking up of dirty socks and underpants from the bathroom floor (because our modern man would take responsibility for his own belongings). The children wouldn’t be hungrily waiting for us to return home because “Dad didn’t know what you were making for dinner” as a tasty nutritious meal would be waiting for us when we got in. There wouldn’t be any excuses thought up for not doing housework (“I don’t know how that hoover works, it’s too technical for me” is a common one (despite the fact that they’ve just spent hours wiring up the latest playstation or installing surround sound speakers). The modern man would appreciate his wife and all that she contributes for her family, he would know that it’s the little things that count, running a bath for his wife/partner, offering to make the children’s lunches, taking the time to ask how her day went. He would know what days the kid’s have football, netball, swimming and he wouldn’t need a map to find his way around his own home! He wouldn’t get snappy and impatient on Sunday mornings when he offers to get up with the kids because his hardworking wife needs a lie in. He’d be considerate and ask which tv programme his wife wants to watch instead of hiding the remote. I’m still looking for the modern man, as are all of my friends and if anyone finds one please please notify the media, we may be able to clone him for future generations!

To wax or not to wax that is the question?

Personally, I am considering an industrial lawnmower as I’m unfortunately one of those people who can rapidly become overgrown and wild within a relatively short amount of time. The first time I realised that women were supposed to tend to their lady locks I was in a bar when I was about 18. I was eavesdropping on a conversation between two blokes. One of them was describing what a nightmare he was having with his girlfriend, apparently she was beautiful, but his problem was with her very overgrown muff! I was mortified, prior to this I thought what you got in terms of lady gardens was non negotiable. I could feel myself blushing imagining my own boyfriend having the exact conversation in a pub across town with one of his friends! Since then it's been the bain of my life and I’ve tried everything from shaving, trimming, hair removal creams and waxing. I’m ashamed to admit that my quest for a neat and tidy lady garden has taken me to some extreme lengths in the past. Emergency jobs have included an incident where I had no hair removal kit and was forced to use a pair of wallpaper scissors. Ok not forced to but after a couple of glasses of wine thought it was a good idea . Please don’t try this at home as it resulted in injury but luckily I escaped with minor cuts and didn’t need stitches! Another mortifying occasion was on holiday with my long suffering other half. We were planning a romantic night in, he’d popped out for a takeaway and I thought this the ideal chance to try out a new hair removal cream. I applied it carefully and waited the ten minutes for it to take effect. I popped myself in the shower when I sensed a burning sensation downstairs. I nervously looked down to find my bits had swollen beyond recognition. I gingerly wrapped myself in a towel and frantically searched the apartment for some kind of cold compress, the ice box was empty and I was contemplating calling reception for an ice pack when I spotted the two cans of cola sitting in the fridge. You can imagine the horror of my poor bloke when he returned back to find me lying on the sofa with two cans of cola between my legs. It wasn’t my finest moment, needless to say.
So you can see I just don’t feel that attractive with an unruly mop of hair poking out the sides of my knickers. My first experience of taming the beast (so to speak) was a waxing appointment, I had never had any kind of wax before so I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. The salon wasn’t exactly great, they didn’t advise me to trim down there first and bearing in mind I’d never even had a trim in my life it would have been less painful and decidedly less embarrassing, the poor girl had to use strips that were at least six feet long!
I came out very sore and not much better off. I decided that waxing wasn’t for me and tried to keep things under control myself for the next couple of years. It all came back to haunt me when after talking with my girlfriends one of them mentioned that her boyfriend had commented that she had bottom hair. I was horrified, not ever a place I looked myself but to think that I could be inflicting such a terror on someone else struck fear in me. I decided to bite the bullet and went with a therapist that I’d heard was really good. I made the appointment, and arrived to find there was no swanky salon, it was based above a newsagent and next to the tattoo parlour. With trepidation I climbed the stairs and was pleasantly surprised to find a small but spotlessly clean salon, they didn’t have rooms, just cubicles separated by curtains. The therapist introduced herself as Sarah, she was in her forties and immediately broke the ice by telling me she’d done this job for years and had seen more lady gardens than I’d had hot dinners so I wasn’t to feel embarrassed. She explained that there is a variety of options available for waxing, she went through each one to ensure I knew exactly what they entailed and what this would look like. The waxing wasn’t half as painful as I expected, but I think this was mainly down to the fact that Sarah was an absolute professional, she also had a streak of the perfectionist which meant no rogue hair was permitted to stay in a place it shouldn’t! It was quick, fairly painless and most of all I left looking great and feeling fantastic. I’ve never looked back, so my message to all you woman battling with excess hair, find a fabulous professional like mine! And don’t tell everyone when you do – otherwise you’ll never get an appointment!