I had another crap night’s sleep last night- it’s become apparent to me that our memory foam mattress has either remembered my positioning from my last crap night’s sleep, or has Alzheimers. I fear the latter. Couple this with the fact my husband has taken to sleeping like a wing-nut, and you’ll begin to understand why I’m in such a shit mood. After of a night of tossing and turning on a bed of knitted flumps next to a man who is at least 68% elbow, I’m ready to kill someone.

Unlike most mornings, when I come downstairs to relative silence, this is a weekend day, and as such, hubby is home- making coffee with the finesse and grace of a Tetley chimp playing the spoons. I muster a smile and try and ignore the dog who looks like something Paris Hilton rejected, in the Tesco value cardigan we’ve been forced to dress her in since her coat got sheared by an over zealous vet.

I have plans for the day- it’s going to be productive, I’m going to organise everything and show Anthea Turner and Martha Stewart that fat Welsh birds can be goddesses too. I’m going to designate drawers for lightbulbs, plant seeds, bake a cake and do some washing- I’m going to put the washing on the line and then iron it, instead of convincing myself that ironing on a need to wear basis is my contribution towards feminism. I’m going to be nice to my husband all day, and show him how much I love him by not demanding a foot massage and cup of tea before I make dinner. In short, I’m going to do everything a crap housewife doesn’t do, but first, as a final goodbye to the crap housewife in me, I’m going to sit, watch the news (watch Jeremy Kyle and read the bits of the news that are of interest to me on the Internet,) drink coffee and smoke like the last cake I made.

The dog by now isn’t falling for ‘where’s the cat’ ‘who’s there’ ‘daddy’s got chicken’ and ‘piss off and let me come round you needy, child substituting ratbag’ and as such is demanding a morning cwtch (pronounced cootch. This, for those who don’t know is what the Welsh call a cuddle, it can also mean a small cupboard, which incidentally is where the dog will end up if she doesn’t stop licking my eyeball.)

The dog (a french breed bichon frise who eats shit and backs down in a fight) happens to have the cutest face known to man and has managed to melt me. My mood is improving slowly as the nicotine soothes my frazzled nerves and the coffee starts the engine, which by the way has failed it’s MOT on so many different counts in the last 12 months I’m surprised the DVLA hasn’t clamped my slippers. I don’t think I’d be surprised if while walking round Sainsbury’s my gearbox fell out in the exotic fruit aisle- take gearbox to mean what you like.

This blog isn’t going to mention current affairs or World events often, it’s my escape from monotony and the horrors of real life I see unfolding daily, however, I’d be hard pushed not to mention the terrible quake that has hit Japan, and the destruction caused by the resulting tsunami. My thoughts are with the victims and their family’s and I hope that the rescue operation is swift and effective. I’m not going to write much more about the event for fear of becoming maudlin and preachy about the changing face of the planet, but I am going to draw attention to one of my (numerous and likely ridiculous) questions about the effects of a tsunami:

What happens to the sea life? Specifically the sea life with large teeth, poisonous spikes and/or a killer instinct. When the last major tsunami hit in 2004 I couldn’t help but wonder if there may be sharks forced inland on the crest of the wave as it were. My husband, who studied marine biology treats this question with that special expression he uses to indicate he thinks I have a mental illness and am cute. I hate this expression, and if I didn’t want to know the answer to the question that caused it, I would punch him in the throat.

My husband is convinced that sharks roaming the streets on a surging tsunami is both unlikely and stupid, so imagine my delight when I log on to facebook and see that an old school friend has posted a link to a video titled ‘whale flung into building in tsunami’- now obviously, I’m not delighted that such a thing has happened, but I am delighted to be able to wipe the smirk of husband’s face (which is sporting it’s usual gingery weekend stubble, I may add.)

‘In your (ginger) face’ I announce. ‘In the nearly four years we’ve been together, when have you been right? I’m always right- just because it didn’t occur to you doesn’t mean I’m wrong.’

My mood has elevated as there is nothing I enjoy more than being right, especially when I’m right about something the that the husband is considered an expert. He looks sheepish and laughs, being the good loser he is- another something I hate- a good loser is just a loser to me.

My joy is short lived however, as I click on the link and realise that it’s been posted to something called FouTube, and a quick google of the video title reveals that many people have reported this link to be a virus- something I manage to disguise from the husband by telling him the dog’s peeing on the carpet (she isn’t, but I need to save face.) I’ve not mentioned the evidence again, I’m hoping he thinks I’m being the bigger person by not rubbing it in his (ginger) face. I think he’ll find out though when the laptop dies of Aids.

I manage the chores in record time. I have designated drawers to items I thought I would never own, napkin rings, seeds, little food flags to warn veggies of disguised ham… I have also managed two loads of washing, no mean feat considering that the washing machine is in the bathroom and the line and tumble dryer are in the garden and garage- my hip is especially bad today and I’m known for an innate inability to carry things down stairs without falling over.

I have made good on my bake-a-cake-promise, and what started as a shepherds pie is now a bubbling chili for the husband. I have filled, emptied and refilled the dishwasher, watered my seedlings and begged them not to die before my sickeningly green fingered mother in law visits- I’ve also managed to somehow throw make-up at the correct areas of my face without looking like something sponsored by Disney. If I’d managed to shave my legs this morning, I could pass as a decent wife, however that challenge was beyond me and if he’s not shaving the autumnal smattering on his chin and upper lip, I’ll be buggered if I’m tackling the splintered mess on my shins.

The rest of the day is uneventful and relaxing, exactly how weekends should be. I mean, on the the face of it, I’m not a crap wife at all, I’ve done the house stuff, made dinner, baked, made myself half decent to the eye, if not the touch.

It’s as we enter the evening time that my crapwifenessness really comes out to play, when normal people are starting to breathe, settle and nod off on the sofa, I’m just waking up. And I hate being bored. I have countered this boredom with a series of little games and demands that keep me sane while driving my dear husband into madness. It’s a small price to pay. He has the patience of a bulimic with a slow cooker, and I’m constantly impressed with his ability to ‘take it on the (ginger) chin.’ They’re not major things, I don’t dress up as Rambo and jump out of cupboards to scare him (anymore.) They’re little things, little acts of deviance designed to wind him up- you see, I can’t just accept that he’s amazingly laid back and easy going, I have to break him.

It’ll start with something simple, like waiting for him to sit down and open a beer and then pretending to loudly die of thirst. He’ll try and ignore me and I’ll flail around like Michael Hutchence clutching my parched throat until he gets me a glass of wine. Today though, I’ve gone straight for the ‘silent witness game.’ He’s trying to watch Top Gear, I’ve muted it and hidden the remote and he can’t have it until he’s guessed which kind of horrific death I’ve suffered as I lay on the morticians block/rug (I’ve spread my hair out and am rigid, holding my hands claw like in front of my like a mad woman buried alive.)

We muddle on for ten minutes, him desperately trying to guess the cause of my demise, me corpse like on the floor and bingo-

‘electrocuted’ he shouts. His relief is palpable. ‘By what?’ I counter.

Fifteen minutes in he realises it was the electric whisk and rewinds Top Gear. Thank God for V+.

It’d be something if it stopped there. It won’t though. There’ll be a hundred little annoyances between Corrie and bedtime, whether it be refusing to say anything other than ‘Tuesday’ or ‘Honalulu’ when he speaks to me, or developing a life threatening and noisy ailment only curable with a 45 minute foot massage. By the time we get to bed the poor sod is knackered. But still fucking cheerful. Another day has passed, and as much as I love him, and I really, really do. I will break him.

Bed time is usually my last bid attempt to tip him over the edge. We have lived in this house for four months now and there has not been a single night yet that he’s been able to get into bed without fulfilling a challenge. I usually get an attack of the ‘can’t walks’ just before bed, meaning that husband has to coax me into mobility and put me to bed before coming back downstairs to check windows, doors, pets and plants. In this short time I will have arranged myself star-like over both sides of the bed and created a challenge or two that he must complete before he’s allowed in. Tonight is no different.

The first is easy, he’s to write me a head poem (as in not committed to paper) while he showers. He’s breathing a sigh of relief at the simplicity of the task and I have to make a lightening quick rewrite to the second challenge for fear of it being too easy…

‘You have to shave a lightening bolt into your pubes and make your cock look like a member of Kiss.’

In hindsight, the lightening bolt is more Bowie-esq, but the gauntlet has been set. ‘I have to make my cock be in Kiss?’ he asks- poor wording poor husband. I’m like a dog with a bone when it comes to calling him gay-

‘I didn’t say that! You want to put your cock in Kiss! You’re gay for Gene Simmons- you want to bum him’

Poor husband is back peddling to no avail, I’m not letting this one go and I’m laughing so much he’s now unable to keep a straight face and the challenge has been revised to:

‘You don’t have to shave you pubes if you can look me straight in the face and say ‘I ##### ######, do not want to put my man meat into the ageing arse of Gene Simmons and/or feel his RockGod tresses tickling my balls or stomach.’

You may be wondering, as I do every single night why he doesn’t just say no. This has never happened, admittedly there is some negotiation about the challenges once in a while, but he has never just refused to do it. I once asked him why this was and he said that it’s quicker to do the challenge than listen to me telling him why he should do the challenge- I think that he’s playing me, and as long as he doesn’t break or jib out then I’m still constantly annoyed by him and his unbreakable resolve. I suppose on some level this gives him the upper hand.

The straight faced Gene Simmons renouncement takes 35 minutes by which time it’s too late for him to have a shower- I think I’ll attack his personal hygiene tomorrow.

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