Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My husband constantly hates his jobs — he's had several in our time together. He has had some miserable experiences. I work part time and carry some of our benefits.
Ninety percent of our time together is consumed with his looking for a job, threatening to quit his job and talking about money.
I've tried to threaten him — and we've gone to counseling.
Alas, I'm sick of him.
We can't put down roots. We can't renovate houses. We can barely commit to a dinner party six weeks out because we might be moving, we might be divorcing or we might be fighting.
We need to be happy where we are, because we have two happy, healthy wonderful kids and a lot of really good stuff going on.
How do you get out of the "grass is always greener" phase, and how can I make my husband shut up and enjoy his life?
Thank you for the 345th reason not to get married.
I, too, cannot stand when people just bitch and moan about their job. It goes farther than that. My cunt of an ex-girlfriend that I spent some of my glory years with would always make it a point to call me after work. In other relationships this was a nice and welcomed gesture. But my ex would just talk about her day as if I knew what the hell she was saying. I don't know who Steve in accounting is and I sure as hell don't know what an FGH file is. It got to a point where I couldn't take it. I would either press the 'fuck you' button when she called or I would make an excuse to get off the phone. Unless you are an astronaut or a foxy-boxer, I don't want to hear more than two minutes of your day.
For some reason I imagine your husband to be a bald chubby guy that watches a lot of CBS and outright hates his life. There is no easy way out of this "I hate my job" phase. Have you ever worked at the State? You will enter a bright young person looking to seize every opportunity and leaving that job thinking about all the paths you could have gone and wondering why you are paying for this shitty health insurance. Usually my answer to all these things are more sex. But really, you just married an asshole who also looks back at all the paths he could have taken. You're screwed.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
My first husband bought me tea and chocolates as Christmas and special-occasion gifts.
My second husband bought dishes and kitchen appliances, and for my birthday one year he bought and installed a pair of windshield wipers on my car. For Mother's Day he bought and installed a muffler on my car. These were things I needed and appreciated.
Neither husband ever bought me flowers — not once!
Here is my problem.
Here I am, nearly 80 years old, and I have met a widower. Let me call him "Mr. Romantic."
He is sending me roses. What do I do with them? Do I just put them in a vase? Other than writing him a thank-you note, how do I reciprocate?
I feel like a 16-year-old girl again, but I don't want to ruin this relationship or embarrass him.
We are having the time of our lives making lemonade from the lemons life dealt us.
I'm a widowed great-great-grandmother, starting over!
Ugh. Please do not compare your 80-year-old self to your 16-year-old self. I am pretty sure "Mr. Romantic" will not finger you in a movie theater and steal beer from his Dad after.
First off, what is so romantic about chocolate and flowers? It's a cliche that has gone on for way too long only to be egged on by shitty romantic comedies, where the guy shows up at the airport just in time to profess his love. What's wrong with guys getting you something you need? Is a state of the art microwave and two orgasms not enough romance, Grandma? Romance isn't material things, it's saying and doing things because you genuinely care for the other person.
In the grand scheme of things, you should be so lucky to have met somebody so late in life. There are only so many VFW halls, so I'm not sure how you swung a romantic moron that buys you candy. And you say your problem is not knowing how to reciprocate?! Your problem is, you are fucking 80-years-old. If I was a betting man, I'd put you in my death pool every year I knew you, because let's face it...you're going to eat it hard, and soon.
You talk about romance, yet you don't know how to reciprocate? Maybe you were the one that isn't romantic. I hate to be such a "guy" but the best reciprocation is lady ass. With every north and south movement, we know we have made you as happy as you are making us feel right now. Now, I'm not sure if this guy wants to see your wrinkly, hefty-bag-of-laundry body on his twin bed at Hospice, but it's worth a try. Take out your dentures and go downtown (if you're hip and back will let you.) Other than that, just appreciate that somebody is keeping you company before you die relatively alone.