Masochistic Human Furniture

I’m just the posting champ today.

Sitting on the deck at a friend’s pool party over the weekend, I lean back in my chair, stretch my legs out, lift them about 3 feet off the ground, and place them in Fiancé-Face’s lap.

He looks at my feet (clad in his least favorite of my footwear, my Birkenstock sandals) looks at my face, looks back at my feet, and says “I am not your personal foot stool”.

He’s delusional.  Oh yes you are my dear.  You are my personal foot stool, pillow, chair, arm rest…..or any other sort of human furniture I require at the time.  This goes with the title.

Sometimes he’s even other inanimate objects.  Like a wall, when he’s standing in front of the TV staring at it, like he’ll miss something if he moves OUT OF MY FREAKING WAY!!!

Sometimes he’s a carpet, when he puts his feet under mine right before I step in that very spot.  He doesn’t like this much.  It’s his own fault.

That’s something else he has yet to realize.  Everything is his own fault.  I do the things I do because he allows it.  I’ve determined he actually likes it.  Though he must think if I become aware of this fact, I’ll stop.

This leads me to believe that he’s actually a masochist.  He apparently likes it when I smack him in the head, or bite him, or pinch him.  I’ve determined this because these actions are all actually reactions.  He makes some joke at my expense to make the primates we live with laugh.  This action causes a predictable reaction.  I hit him.  He says “Ow!!! Why’d you do that?”  Like he’s surprised.  Like it hasn’t happened the last 50 or 60 times he’s done this. 

He tickles me.  I do not enjoy this.  So I bite him.  Again, the same response from him. 

So, he’s either mentally challenged to think that the same actions will bring about a different reaction, or he enjoys it. 

I don’t date the mentally challenged (anymore) as sort of a rule, so therefore he’s a masochist.

Hence my earlier conclusion that he must think that if I was aware of his enjoyment of pain, I would stop causing him pain.  To which I say, “Honey, I’ll hit you anytime you want”.

Adults??????

 Last night, I was asked to define the word “Adult”.

This, in and of itself, is the fucking problem.

Really?  You don’t know what I mean when I say, “I want to live with adults”?  This is confusing?

Well, ok then.  Let me refer to Webster’s Dictionary:

a·dult

 [uh-duhlt, ad-uhlt]

–adjective

1.  having attained full size and strength; grown up; mature: an adult person, animal, or plant.

2. of, pertaining to, or befitting adults.

3. intended for adults; not suitable for children: adult entertainment.

Oh, I see.  You thought I was referring to the 3^rd definition above?  That perhaps instead of living with people that have a maturity level of less than that of my 8 year old, I meant I wanted to live with porn stars?  Ok, maybe I should have clarified.  I don’t want to live in a frat house, where the possibility of grown humans walking around naked could exist.  I don’t want to feel like I’m the mother of people older than myself. 

Mostly, I just don’t want to live with these people anymore.

My house is more like a carnival than a house. 

The House’s Table of Contents:

Chapter 1 – Things that live in the house, or at least on the property:

-(1) 8 (soon to be 9) year old girl child

-(1) Fiancé-Face

-(2) Male roommates in their mid to late 20’s

-(8) –yes, I said 8—dogs

-(4) Horses

-(1) Pony

-(1) Barn cat

Chapter 2 – Things that can be found there at any given time:

-(4) more horses that don’t belong to me

-(4) people that belong to these horses

-(1) 20 something male that parks on my couch so often I’m considering asking for rent

-Random additional children, some of which I’m not sure where they came from or if their parents know  

  where they are

In addition to the things I can find at my house that live and breathe, there are a total of six vehicles that still run, at the moment two that do not (which don’t belong to any of the house’s inhabitants), random people’s furniture, clothing, dishes, tools, and pets.

I’m not sure how it got to be like this.  We have to warn people when they come to the house for the first time, so they don’t either faint from shock, or call some sort of authority.

The house also rejects any form of attempting to organize or clean it.  None of us are slobs.  We try to clean up after ourselves.  There are just so many people and pets trying to cohabitate in one space, and of course we all have stuff, that it’s impossible to stay on top of it.  My key phrase for new people is “Please don’t mind the house, I haven’t had a chance to clean”.

Like hell I haven’t.  They should’ve seen it before I ran around the house like a whirlwind on crack trying to make it seem just messy instead of slovenly.  I carefully construct the image that the house was likely cleaned a few days ago, by leaving things in strategic locations to appear they were just placed there moments ago.  Instead the reality is that these things live in that spot. 

We have two gigantic dog crates in the foyer, to contain the wild beasts that would otherwise destroy EVERYTHING during the night.  The variety of the items that haven’t moved from the top of the dog crate in months is just astonishing.  Children’s books, my shoes, reusable grocery bags, a pillow, a can of chicken noodle soup, a hairbrush…….you get the idea.

Every once in a while I get it in my head that I can fix this.  I can go through the house, one pile of crap at a time, and organize it so it will be efficient.  It will be better than new.  So I begin my arduous task……4, or 5, or 6 hours later, covered in dust, coated in sweat, probably bleeding, and panting like dog under the porch of a trailer in alabama in July, I haven’t gotten past the living room and I quit, because I realize that I will never conquer the mess. 

The house is attached to its clutter, and it will do all in its power to defeat any would-be conquerors. 

Fine house, have it your way.  For now........

Here's to Fiancé-Face

So I really love Fiancé-Face right now.  I’m going to leave out all of the details that make our house look like a horrible place to raise children, and just cut to the chase. 

Last night, Fiancé-Face did something I didn’t even kind of, a little bit, ever expect him to do.  He stuck up for me.  Ok, this sounds like a given trait in a man that says he likes you enough to put up with you until you can both afford divorce lawyers.  But I’ve never been the “I’ll sick my man on you!!” type of girl. 

I’m way more likely to just walk up to the offending party myself and punch him in the spleen. 

Let’s just say, last night someone was being…..well, disrespectful would be a dramatic understatement.  There was some offensive language, and some yelling, and even a few choice hand gestures.

Don’t get me wrong…..I returned all of the above.  I’m no pacifist.

Right about at the point where my next move was likely to be something violent, Fiancé-Face stepped up to the plate.

He was the bigger man about it.  (Bigger than the other man involved….I’m actually a girl.  Just thought I’d clarify.)  Here’s a paraphrased rundown of how this went:

Fiancé-Face:  Hey, you need to stop talking to the love of my life in such a manner.

Offending Party: Fuck you

FF: I’ll knock you the fuck out.

(ok, only the last part of what FF said was accurate, but you get the gist.)

And this is when the other person waved a knife at my daring protector.  He’s not stupid.  That was enough of that.  Someone else disarmed the Offender, and Fiancé-Face told him, rather creatively, to fuck off and die.

After all this was over, I say to my knight in shining armor, “thank you”.  He asks me what I’m thanking him for. 

Me: “For sticking up for me.  You didn’t have to, but you did.  And I really love you for it.” ::Bats big, adoring, sparkly eyes at him::

FF:  “It wasn’t a big deal”

Me:  “But you could’ve been STABBED!!”

FF:  “You’re definitely being dramatic.”

Me:  “My Hero!”

So, Fiancés are good for something besides being used as human furniture (more on this later)  He’s the best ever.  No, you can’t have him.  He’s mine.  Please note above reference to being punched in the spleen.

I'm sure there's still something worth living for....

Ugh….So I quit smoking today. 

I find this to be the way that most people make this statement.  With an “Ugh” or some other grunting, groaning noise.  That’s pretty much how I feel about it too.  I love smoking.  I love the taste of my menthol death stick.  I love the feeling of filling my lungs with smoke.  I love exhaling a cloud of second-hand cancer into the air.  Nothing in life is as satisfying.

But…..now I can’t breathe.  I’m even starting to wheeze.  Not good. 

Fiancé-Face says things like “you’re gonna die” when I start hacking.  I don’t like this.  Of course I’m going to die.  I’m not a freaking zombie.   I know he means sooner rather than later, but so what?  You don’t need to harp.  Boys….

I begin my day with the alarm clock blaring, “zzzzzzt, zzzzzzt, zzzzzt”, from across the room.  Fiancé-Face jabs me in the back to speed up the turning off of said obnoxious noise.  I slap the snooze button on the top of the alarm clock, as opposed to turning it off, to get revenge for the back jab, and stumble down the stairs to get some sort of caffeine.

Coffee in hand, now I being the process of attempting to expel the crap that sneaks into my lungs in the night.  It’s like the ninja of bodily fluids.  Methods include hot coffee, and of course a cigarette.  Usually by the time I’ve brushed my teeth I’m feeling cleared up. 

But not so much lately.

We’re lying in bed last night watching a movie, when my lungs start their fun little noises that indicate that maybe smoking just might kill me.  It sounds like a wet rattle snake has crawled its way into my lungs, and now something is pissing it off.

So I wheeze, and Fiancé-Face just slightly turns his head in my direction.  I cough, just a little (even though what I REALLY want to do is hack up a lung, but then he’ll have some comment, so I just clear my throat instead), and he looks back at the TV.  This happened exactly as described 4 or 5 more times before the movie was over. 

Now in my head I’m saying “ok You, time to quit.  Do you hear yourself?  This is getting serious and it’s time to think about your health”.  My little voice gave me a little pep talk and I was all set to quit this morning.

Then Fiancé-Face says “your lungs are rotting”.  This instantly has an effect exactly opposite of the one I can only assume he was hoping for, in that I became defensive.  When I’m defending myself, I can’t admit I’m wrong.  So now, instead of saying “I know honey, I really did intend to quit tomorrow, and it’s cute that you care enough to insult me”, I just remind him that his lower jaw is totally going to fall off from that crap he stuffs in his lip sooner than my lugs will give in from the crap I inhale through a filter.

Because now it’s not my idea…  Instead of being strong and deciding to quit for my health, I’d be quitting because he thinks I should.

And screw doing anything he thinks I should.  I’m a feminist, damn it.

But here I am anyway, with a patch on my left shoulder.  I haven’t had a cigarette in a whole….6 hours. 

Wait….that’s it?  6 freaking hours?  ::Sigh:: 

Well, I haven’t killed anyone yet.  Not yet…..