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Archive for the ‘Random Fantasy Land’ Category

Wait a hot minute…

In Main, Marriage's Dirty Laundry, Random Fantasy Land, Relationship on September 18, 2009 at 1:45 pm

MG is bored.

Waits for shocked gasps to subside.

MG waited  many years an eternity a very very long time to get married to Him. And now that they’re married, He comes home at 7.30pm, goes to bed at 9.30pm, and leaves the house by 6.30am.  In those two hours that He is awake and with MG, he watches T.V., they cuddle pointlessly on the couch, eat a dinner prepared lovingly by a shirtless MG, and then He passes out again while MG works through her frustration at turning into an ordinary haus frau by making the kitchen spotless again.

You see, while waiting that very very long time to get married to Him, MG had had all sorts of fantasies of Him coming home to her, she serving Him a hot cooked meal, and then lying in His manly muscular arms on the couch afterwards, watching mindless T.V., while they enjoyed the very fact of their being together again, inhaling the scents of each other, affectionately rubbing skin against skin and doing all those sickening sugary syrupy things that estranged-lovers-that-meet-for-the-first-time-after-eons-of-separation do.

And now? Now that MG has this fantasy in real life?

Long dramatic sigh.

As Abraham Maslow could have predicted, MG, having actualized this need of having a loving man in her bed every night,  is bored with the Domestic Bliss theme, and needs something new.

And sadly for her moral fibre, MG only feels slightly guilty about feeling so, and two questions arise:

a) Where is this honeymoon period they speak of? Have we already exhausted our given quota in the dating part of our relationship?

2) Is this just the inevitable low after the high that was getting married?

Rock ‘n Rolla Part III

In Getting Married, Main, Random Fantasy Land on March 31, 2009 at 5:26 pm

Trolling the Web after Part I , I went looking for people getting married, perhaps with blogs, perhaps without, but who actually thought like me. You know, for moral support and all that. (Writing a marital blog can be stressful! So many questions about “level of detail”, or “should I really put that really unsavory detail about Him out for worldwide consumption?”. Balancing those kinds of questions with a natural need to be open and vocal when writing has not been easy.)

Turns out this was quite a challenge. My criteria seemed to be insurmountable. I wanted people who “thought” like me. This was the first issue. You see, most brides-to-be didn’t seem to think at all. And the remaining blogs were all about “calla lilly flowers, perfectly satine jewelled designer ribbons, bridesmaids being bitches, general bitchery, general botchery, fake eyelashes, dyed and tinted eyebrows, should I get boob surgery, my first wedding disappointment, drama, drama, misery, misery, this is my perfect day and it’s all going wrong, I think I’m going to dieeeee” (Gag!)

I present to the court, MG Exhibit 1

(My non scientific observations about marriage blogs also include:

1) 99.99 % of these bloggers are female

2) 100 % of them are crazy!)

I don’t begrudge any brides-to-be their moments of pondering over the perfect shade of champagne colored crystal cream-creme for their dress- I mean God knows I’m doing lots of that myself lately (ruby red or garnet red?)- but really, do they have to be so very verbose about it?  And worse still, so boring about it? Where is the sarcasm? Where is the Funny? Where is the serious thinking behind the fact that you are about to commit to someone else forever? (Or at least until the Divorce?) Surely the fact that you’re in love doesn’t mean that the two of you are going to be happy every step of the way? And if you’re not going to be happy together during all of forever, where is the deep think related content behind that? Why does nobody ever want to talk about the “for poorer” and “in sickness” parts of the vows?

While I love Him a lot, I know that we’re not going to be happy every step of the way. There will be fights, there will be DRAMA, there will be SO MUCH DRAMA. We will involve the kids. We’ll vow not to involve the kids. The kids will force us to take sides. The parents will get involved despite our many vows to always present an united front to them. There will be throwing of toothpaste tubes and slamming of doors. There will be hanging up of phones and wiping up of snot. There will be arguments over who does the dishes, and who blew too much at the bars last night, and declamations of “I can’t believe I married you.” Love isn’t enough to get over that! It takes kindness, and sensitivity, and compromise, and yearning to go back to “how we were”, to get there, not just love. So tell me, my blogging brides, have you thought about that in between the personalized matchbooks as guest favors, and the significant-to-us cake toppers?

When I started trolling the Web that day, I set out to find brides who thought like me, that perhaps, the ring and the proposal were not everything, were not, for lack of better terminology, the be all and the end all of getting married.  The rock matters, yes, the manner of proposal should be meaningful, yes, but “he proposed to me in a parking lot so my marriage is now ruined!”, and “my first wedding disappointment was that my ring was not rhodium-polished gold!”, and my personal favorite, “the proposal sucked, so the wedding, and the marriage will now suck too!”

Really?

Listen, my aspiring-to-write brides-to-be: be bitchy. Be bad ass. Be happy. Be gay. Rip a new one into your damn bridesmaids for all I care! But for the love of all that is cyberspacey and marriage related, please, please, please, stop being whiny and thus, boring!

The Fifties

In Main, Random Fantasy Land, Relationship on February 17, 2009 at 6:30 pm

Does the title of this post mean the return of the hoop skirt? Hardly.

It, in fact, refers to the perfectly utopian ideal of the 1950’s hauswife. This oft-emailed one in particular, from a 1954 home economics textbook:

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal, on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so that you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the home just before your husband arrives, gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad he is home.

Some don’ts: Don’t greet him with problems or complaints. Don’t complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The Goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.”

Wanting to do this in Real Life word-for-word Channeling the spirit behind this tome of good housewifeliness, I decided, this past weekend, because I couldn’t think of a gift, in honor of Valentine’s Day, having not seen Him in a while, to engage in a little bit of faux Perfect Womanness and make him dinner. And to emulate, as much as I could, the ideal woman as above.

Of course, being a modern woman of the new millennium, I got done with my real job first. And ended up with three hours to execute everything. I made lasagna. I ran the vacuum twice. I baked focaccia. I smoothed my hands over my carefully revealing outfit, and made sure not a hair was out of place. The bathroom looked like no one had ever penetrated its porcelain virginity before, let alone committed the acts of befoulment that bathrooms are known for. The cranberry and baby spinach salad with a smooth lime-yogurt dressing was cooling its heels in a sparkling modern salad bowl especially removed from the cabinets for the occasion. The table looked like the Queen of England was coming to dinner. The bed was soft, warm, inviting. And when he knocked, I met him at the door with a glass of chilled Chardonnay. And gave him a kiss that he will probably never forget, right after I made sure the southern style apple crumble was already in the oven.

Needless to say, I blew his mind. And not just with my sparkling witty conversation.

I can, however, already hear the ultra-feminist lobby of critics cringing. “You did what? As a treat? This is what He would consider a treat? You, my friend, just set back your status and power in this relationship sixty years. He’s going to start expecting this once you get married, and then what? You’re going to do this everyday? You work a full time, high stress job, and you cook dinner every night? You do realize that Superwoman, that uber-woman of mystical child-rearing, bacon-bringing, and gourmet meal cooking fame is a myth, right?”

Sigh. But it felt so good. I know, I know, this is the part where you start wondering whether I have a college degree, or whether I live in some third world country, where this sort of slavery should be abolished, but has not been. Alas for my Indian heritage, it’s true. I have both an American university degree, and pretty solid feminist leanings.

But, (and there is always a but):

My mother, that wonderfully controversial modern Indian wife of stereotype and yore, the job holder and the perfect cook, reminds me constantly of my wifely duties. Insidiously dropping hints in everyday conversations with one-liners that are meant to pass on the Indian way, as much as tell me what is expected of the Indian male in an Indian marriage, (“but if you don’t get into the habit of making dinner for yourself after work now, what will you guys eat once you’re married?”), this particular evening would have been something she approved of. (In theory. After marriage. Without the alcohol. Preferably with Indian food.) And as anyone who has heard of Herr Sigmund Freud will tell you, if the mother approves, the daughter, somewhere in her soul, will be tres content.

This, as you, clever reader, may have gathered by now, leads to some serious cognitive dissonance.

On the one hand ideas such as “he should be making me dinner” are not unusual in my head. But on the other, a very personal and raging maker-of-hearth-and-home instinct was satisfied by this dinner.  I was proud to be Superwoman for the day. I loved cooking for My Man.

And that’s when it hit me.

I didn’t do this because I have some unsatisfied urge to secretly be transported to 1954.

I did it because I wanted to show I could be Superwoman. And thus make Him realize how much I loved him, how great I was. And when he did, and very appreciatively so, it became obvious. This dinner making, this house cleaning, the wearing of nice clothes…it was a Valentine’s gift to myself.

And while you may point out that this is what the authors of the home economics book were saying in the first place “his happiness leads to yours”, there is a key element that separates me from the sepia colored tones of the 50s.  I did it because I wanted to. Not because I had to. Not because it was expected of me by society, or by my high school subjects, or because my mother wanted me to.

And that, my feminist friends, has made all the difference.

Allow Me to Have A Moment of Listing in Third Person

In Getting Married, Main, Random Fantasy Land, Relationship on January 29, 2009 at 10:53 am

MG had a bunch of things to write about this week, except that they were all sort of mini blogs in the making, and concerned about the bunch of trash that already floats about in cyber-space, she decided instead to make a List of her mini blog items so that y’all could enjoy it all in one easy-to-read centralized location. Quick wins, all around.

(Can you tell MG works with a bunch of corp-jargon-speaking dunderheads?)

1) MG was having a SHIT week last week. SHIT I tell you! Work sucked, and she’s not sure if she mentioned this, but work really sucked last week. So much so that the Kleenex Ad where the red-head types in “Touch I Touch Q Touch U Touch I Touch T” was something out of her own life last week.

2) MG, being the sneaky controlling crazy Lady Friend that she is, has had His Gmail password for a few years now. While she rarely checks His email, she happened to do so last week. And she, er, stumbled upon photos of none other than…*dun dun dun*…The Rock. On someone else’s ugly-ass hairy finger. And she means hairy.

Once MG stifled the red hairy monster growling “MINE” in baritones of fury, and stopped seeing the world in filters of red, she quickly realized that Him and her had had a deal- she could read his email, as long as he had already read it first.  But what on earth was a normal girl like her to do? It said “Diamond Ring” in the subject line! How could anyone resist reading that particular email!?

The only option left, sadly, was to be super-sneaky and hit the “mark as unread” button and pray that He didn’t realize that she’d snooped.

You know that old saying? The one where they say “eavesdroppers hear nothing good about themselves”? Let me paraphrase that; “email snoopers read nothing good about themselves.” Now that MG had seen the ring in pictures, she wasn’t sure if she liked it. It was not a typical engagement ring style and the rock itself seemed to have a flat shape that she couldn’t get her Harry Winston loving head around.

Stop gasping already, it gets better.

But having a night to sleep over it, MG stalked through the email again, and realized, stupidly, that she’d only really looked at the first picture.  As she looked through the other pictures she realized, slowly, that she kinda, actually, sorta liked it. But she wasn’t sure. And so she closed the email and tried to erase the guilty images in her head, and tried to forget that she’d sent him an email, long long ago, of the sort of design she’d like. And she did tell Him to surprise her. It would probably look awesome on her finger. Manicured and lotioned or not.

3) At the airport last week, MG gave up on trying not to be a silly bride-to-be, stifled her guilt at selling out, and bought a copy…of Brides. Yes. Brides. That cream-puff publication filled with pages and pages and pages of gowns and make up and jewelery.  The entire wedding industry in one glossy 700 (seven! hundred!) page package. She girded her loins, gave her chest a much needed upward push, and prepared herself to become none other than the Bride of Zilla herself, and opened the damn thing.

Surely, she reasoned, that reading so much about frills and fripperies and something old and something blue, would turn her into a controlling freak of nature.  “YOUR IDEA BOOK” screamed the cover. “CELEB MARRIAGES” screamed another. (“Oh yeah, RIGHT!” she chuckled to herself. “What normal person would take that story seriously?!”).

Alas, about 5 pages in, MG wearied of the ivory white dressed apple cheeked maidens, and fell asleep (remember, she had had a SHIT week at work), and forgot the thing in the airplane. What a waste of $6.

4) MG was talking to one of her unofficial bridesmaids last night, a lady that just joined grad school, when she got the earth-shattering news. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make the wedding.”

When MG replied with…utter silence, the UoBM went on hurriedly. “I will make this up to you. I will be there, for your anniversaries. For the birth of your children.”

MG, struck dumb by spasms of upset, replied in her best impression of fifteen-year-old-high-school-girl dramatic fashion. “I can’t pretend that I’m not upset. But I realize that you can’t help it.”

And then came on here to write an anguished blog about friends and being the Bride of Zilla. And the moment she took a deep breath between feverish typing, she realized there might be another way.

“You could…maybe..miss a week of class?”

And MG was delighted to learn that the UoBM had actually not thought about that at all and would be willing to try that out.

Compromise, MG decided, is something that needs to be the first reaction, not emotional angst. It is a wedding, for chrissakes, not a…shoot, there seems to be no comparable analogy…oh! A Life/Death situation.

And MG realized also, that just because the UoBM wouldn’t be attending the wedding, maybe, didn’t make her any less of a friend, or that she wouldn’t be a part of the wedding either, because ten IMs later, UoBM said…”so, we’ve been talking about your bachelorette party. Where do you want to go?”

And that reduced MG to happy excitement again. Silly, she knew, that such a little thing could be such a big deal to her, but it made her feel like someone cared…cared enough to plan something for her. In Mexico.

5). MEXICO! That is all.

And Isn’t It Ironic? Don’tcha Think?

In Getting Married, Main, Random Fantasy Land, Relationship on December 17, 2008 at 10:49 pm

There is something highly ironic about getting an international phone call about the color of the ring I want.

White gold or yellow. Over a $1/minute phone line.  Couldn’t an email have sufficed?

While we’re in a fight

While I have a high pressure, high intensity deliverable due in a half an hour. While I’m in one of the worst moods I’ve been in since June.

Again…ma-r-iage is a celebration>?!

And I still, after a minute of monosyllabic replies, said, “white”.While wondering to myself in a Sex and the City-esque manner; “if he really loved me, he’d already know I don’t want yellow gold!”

And then I promptly kicked myself, hard, as my feminist/logician leanings kicked in. “Why on earth would you expect him to know what color ring you want. He’s not telepathic. Don’t be one of those girls, Bride of Zilla!”

The now-chastened princess-fairy-queen still managed to get in a small-voiced whine. “But we’ve been dating five years. You would think he would know by now!

The now softening F/L said gently, “clearly, he doesn’t, are you really going to make a Big Deal about this? Is it worth it? Especially after all you two have been through?”

Well. It was hard to argue with that. And so, I went about my way, trying to get my work done, while trying not to be hurt, while trying not to bitchy and self-righteous about it.

And then he called. Again. And it was very hard to be the silent stoic type when he was going on about saying what he did because he was angry.

And so I let loose. With the worst possible thing I could think of.

I compared him to the Ex.

And that’s when he said good night. You see, selfish as I am, I wanted him to feel as bad as I did for his particular low blow. A little part of me was even exultant. Now he would realize how much he had hurt my feelings.

But then I promptly wanted to strangle myself. It was one of the lowest blows I could’ve come up with.  The Ex is a sensitive subject in our relationship, like most people.   So I said it. And now what? Quid pro quo? I felt, cliche of all cliches, worse than I did before.

He called back an hour later. And said “let’s forget about it”. And so we did, and tried to ease our way back into a semi-normal conversation, and ended on a happier note. “Would you prefer a bigger ring, or a ring with more color? Although I couldn’t really tell the coloring difference until they were under a microscope, honestly.”

*Chuckle*

Rock n’ Rolla Part I

In Getting Married, Main, Random Fantasy Land, Relationship on December 16, 2008 at 6:21 pm

So, I have yet to actually get a formal, knee bended, deep tender look into the eyes proposal of marriage, where once I whisper my frustrated horny love-filled “yes“,   he slips on the twenty-thousand carat sparkling platinum Harry Winston non-princess-cut* solitaire that fits oh so very perfectly on to my perfectly manicured finger, as I breathe out my dew like breath in tiny gasps, as my perfectly glossy pink lips form an ‘o’ of surprise, pleasure, and orgasm delight, while my gorgeous lotioned hand droops under the weight of said ring. “Oh” I will purr. “It’s so very heavy,” as I suck face kiss him passionately. “My new husband-to-be,” I will think to myself. “My other half.  My God. My Milky Way. My Universe. My Moment. My Dove. My… New…Everything.” And the violins swell, the Vienna Boys Choir hits a high note, and the pink clouds in front of the setting sun high on this warm plateau in this impossibly beautiful mountain top, under a vivid starry sky-to-be, turn even pinker with our combined joy as we begin our holy journey to becoming a whole and sacred Union. A Marriage. A Two Become One. A…what.the.fuck?!

There are many, many things wrong about this scenario.

Firstly, because He is in grad school and can’t, theoretically at least, afford a ring yet,there shall be no proposal, because there shall be no ring. At least until He receives his signing bonus. And then at least, there is a slight hope of a piece of diamond to give a home to on my caring, loving hand. But that, it seems, is a ways off right now. And Harry Winston? Twenty-thousand carats?  When hell freezes over.

In the movies, the heroine spends all her time up to the proposal guessing, and waiting, and wringing her hands in despair until the hapless hero gets his act together and finally, finally!, Proposes. And there is excitement and kissing and cries of “He Went to JARED!”. But that’s not the case here! There will be no surprise in this affair. We already know we’re getting married! Being proposed to now is like tube-icing on a pre-baked-from-the-grocery-store-cake. The cake is frosted already, folks! Icing is just extra, useless, calories now!

And what is with the girl being a wringer-of-hands and Scarlet O’ Hara incarnate? I’m no Genteel Lady. I know what I want and He’s got it. Dangling between his legs. That’s what she said. And we both went into this relationship with a long-term view. No starry-eyed-maiden I, I have never been the kind that treats marriage as a sacred anything. Except, perhaps, the sacred duty of making him do the damn laundry, for once.

Numberly, He and I have made a career out of being the goofy, loud-mouthed,  hormone-crazed couple. How does one go from Public Grope-Fest central to passionate, romantic, and something out of a early nineteenth-century novel set in Elizabethan England? Simple answer? You don’t! Else you’d both burst out laughing, and sacrilege of all sacrileges, ruin the moment. He, of course, takes it to a whole other level. “Baby, rings in glasses of champagne are so idiotic”. (I know!). “I’m just going to give you the ring in front of two hundred other people at a party or something.” (Gak!)

And I bite my nails! There will be no manicured lotioned hands . Knowing Him, he’ll roll over in bed one morning while I have peeling cuticles and dried saliva on the corners of my mouth, and ask me, whether I want my ring, finally. Honey-dew breaths?! More like, omg, get your mouth out of my face, dude.

Ok, so perhaps he wouldn’t be as bad as all that. In fact, He imagines himself as quite the romantic. I know there will be soft voices and tender looks, bended knees, and kisses for the books. But that.will.be.so.very.cliched. And me? I don’t do cliched! While I would pretend to be as awe-struck by the import of the moment, underneath it all, a very small part of me would be like, oh God, this is way too cliched. Yuck. What will I blog about now?!

In summary, being proposed to, I suppose, is one of the most overhyped, overrated, overcommercialized things out there. But underneath it all, the material-girl I-am-a-princess-fairy-queen/the-Wedding-Industry-Got-To-Me part of me does want a proposal, a ring, and a happy ending, (who doesn’t?), and He has been known to blow my mind occasionally, so perhaps my misgivings are, well, misguided. And the proposal will be Us.  And we will live hornily-ever-after. Perhaps. But I’m warning you. If it turns into that set of mush up above, well, God help me, you’ll never hear about it here!

The End.

But, but, but, you sputter. You’re missing the point here! How are you getting married without a proposal? How do you even know that He wants to get married??! You even started this blog with a name like Married Girl, and yet, you aren’t getting married? Or at least don’t have a formal declaration of ma-r-iage! Are you crazy?

Rock n’ Rolla Part II (Coming Soon): How it is that I’m getting married, without aforementioned proposal.
* Don’t even get me started on the American jewelery industry and the perfect princess cut ring. That may have to be an encore piece all by itself to this mini-series.

PS: Tiffany’s is for poor people. Yuck!

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