My wonderful husband, Walter and I were having dinner a couple weeks ago when our conversation turned to the subject of sleep. I mentioned how relieved I was that I'd been sleeping like a baby since we'd returned from Savannah several days before. This was a much welcomed development, since I hadn't slept through the night for a number of months preceding.
After listening to me for a few seconds, Walt shrugged his shoulders and said quite innocently, "You must be going through menopause."
What?
The atmosphere suddenly became a little less than romantic.
I couldn't help but wonder where in the world Walt had been for the last few months.
In the time that has passed since shortly after last Thanksgiving I have:
1.Been forbidden to have any part in the lives of three of my precious grandchildren.
2.Watched my youngest daughter nearly die of pregnancy related complications.
3.Suffered through my fourteen year old son's emotional breakdown (to the point I had to remove him from school and put him in therapy)
4.Experienced an 80% loss in our electrical contracting business (and subsequent income).
5.Sat by the same daughter's bedside as the surgeon forcefully removed her pre-mature baby at 24 weeks 4 days gestation (that's a 5 month pregnancy if you do the math). Knowing it was the only possible chance for saving both of their lives was little consolation.
6.Helplessly stood by as the pre-mature baby died two weeks thereafter.
7.Grieved accordingly.
Need I go on?
Because those are just some of the reasons my brain had been too full to sleep!
Suffice to say I was a bit taken back by my husband's rather pat answer to the issue.
If I'd truly been "hormonal" I would have sprang across the table and strangled him on the spot. Don't tell ME about hormonal!
Within a New York minute of Walt's comment (and without the aid of strangulation) I believe I'd effectively set him straight on the matter. Never-the-less, the question remains ...why do men always seem to think that every negative emotional reaction we women experience is somehow related to our hormones?
Any one of the aforementioned situations would have merited a few sleepless nights, with or without hormonal interference. And yet Walt saw none of those things as significant in their own right?
Noooooooo .... the source of my insomniatic state had to be narrowed down to that one thing, and that one thing alone.
Hormones.
It's an age old question and I have no reason to believe that I will be the one to come up with an answer.
Maybe he was right. Maybe what I was experiencing was not a "natural" reaction to the truckload of unusually stressful situations that hit me without warning. If only I'd realized that possibility! Had it not been for my hormonal state of being, I probably would have been able to skip obliviously and happily through the entire ordeal!
Perhaps there is no such thing as "stress" aside from hormonal influence after all! Wow! What a revelation!
Of course, it would have to be a MAN who would come up with such a simple answer. We women are way too hormonal to ever think of such a thing.
Ladies, I think you will agree ... sometimes we just have to wonder what men are thinking and why they happen to be thinking it! My best guess is that their minds are over-saturated with testosterone thus rendering them incapable of grasping a true-er and more complex explanation.
I've come to this conclusion. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!
Just blame it on the hormones!
Showing posts with label husbandsand wives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husbandsand wives. Show all posts
Friday, May 8, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Man and His Garage
I believe I speak for both of us when I say my husband, Walt and I love our home. It's everything we could ask for, really. We love pretty much everything about it, including the neighbors who live in the houses nearby.
We do have a difference of opinion about one thing. You see, my husband seems particularly fond of "his" garage, even to the point of leaving the garage doors up most of the time during daylight hours if he can get by with it. Because of the approach to the house (one of the few things I would change about the house if I could) that means that people who drive up see right into the garage first thing.
I, on the other hand have a "thing" about first impressions and the first thing people see about my home is no exception. Walt likes to laugh at me because I insist that the garage doors be closed, and all our visitors be brought into the house through the front door. He thinks it would make more sense to walk them through the garage and into the house via the door that enters the hallway between the kitchen and the utility room.
Frankly, I don't see his point! The walk around the front of the house, past the flower beds and fountain is so much more pleasing to the eye! Not to mention the appearance of the entry hall vs. the boring wooden steps and kitchen trash can which welcomes visitors from the garage area.
Our garage is nice, as far as garages go. I'd even say it's the nicest garage I've ever owned, but a garage is not part of the living area of a home ... any home. It's a place to park the cars (or in our case, a car, a motorcycle and a truck.) Period! Our (or perhaps it would be better said Walt's) garage is different. The man actually has framed Harley Davidson photos hung on the walls!
Yeah.
I once went so far, as to insinuate that I had partial ownership in the garage by buying a sign to hang on the side where I park my car. I thought I was going to have to call the paramedics for my husband when he read the words written on my purchase ...
"Queen Parking Only ... you're not worthy!"
I thought it was pretty funny, but Walt came this close to losing consciousness when he learned I was serious about hanging it.
Needless to say, I won that battle and still snicker at my sign every time I pull my car into it's spot just below the metallic blue sign with it's blazing white letters. Most of my female friends also see the humor in it and laugh accordingly.
The men, well. They seem to sympathize with Walter. What else would you expect?
I suppose many men have a thing for their garages. It's probably deeply rooted in their DNA somewhere. It would be an act of futility to attempt to understand, much less fix it. For that reason, I've chosen to compromise on the matter. Walt can have the whole garage as his own, with the exception of spot supporting my "Queen Parking Only" sign.
Fair is fair, after all.
Unless of course, he decides to bring one of his Harley Davidson photos into my foyer.
We do have a difference of opinion about one thing. You see, my husband seems particularly fond of "his" garage, even to the point of leaving the garage doors up most of the time during daylight hours if he can get by with it. Because of the approach to the house (one of the few things I would change about the house if I could) that means that people who drive up see right into the garage first thing.
I, on the other hand have a "thing" about first impressions and the first thing people see about my home is no exception. Walt likes to laugh at me because I insist that the garage doors be closed, and all our visitors be brought into the house through the front door. He thinks it would make more sense to walk them through the garage and into the house via the door that enters the hallway between the kitchen and the utility room.
Frankly, I don't see his point! The walk around the front of the house, past the flower beds and fountain is so much more pleasing to the eye! Not to mention the appearance of the entry hall vs. the boring wooden steps and kitchen trash can which welcomes visitors from the garage area.
Our garage is nice, as far as garages go. I'd even say it's the nicest garage I've ever owned, but a garage is not part of the living area of a home ... any home. It's a place to park the cars (or in our case, a car, a motorcycle and a truck.) Period! Our (or perhaps it would be better said Walt's) garage is different. The man actually has framed Harley Davidson photos hung on the walls!
Yeah.
I once went so far, as to insinuate that I had partial ownership in the garage by buying a sign to hang on the side where I park my car. I thought I was going to have to call the paramedics for my husband when he read the words written on my purchase ...
"Queen Parking Only ... you're not worthy!"
I thought it was pretty funny, but Walt came this close to losing consciousness when he learned I was serious about hanging it.
Needless to say, I won that battle and still snicker at my sign every time I pull my car into it's spot just below the metallic blue sign with it's blazing white letters. Most of my female friends also see the humor in it and laugh accordingly.
The men, well. They seem to sympathize with Walter. What else would you expect?
I suppose many men have a thing for their garages. It's probably deeply rooted in their DNA somewhere. It would be an act of futility to attempt to understand, much less fix it. For that reason, I've chosen to compromise on the matter. Walt can have the whole garage as his own, with the exception of spot supporting my "Queen Parking Only" sign.
Fair is fair, after all.
Unless of course, he decides to bring one of his Harley Davidson photos into my foyer.
Friday, March 6, 2009
In The Dark
Help!
Mr. Taylor is out of town and I don't know how to operate the majority of our house lights.
You think I'm kidding? Well, I'm not.
Such occurrences are common in the Taylor household. My wonderful husband, having a tangent for all things electrical, likes to periodically re-program the automated lighting system in our home.
Apparently he grew bored with the way things were working sometime between the last time he went out of town without me, and yesterday when he left again.
I discovered that fact in the early evening when I realized it was growing dark outside and neither the lights in the keeping room or living room had turned themselves on yet.
For a good ten minutes I plundered around in the twilight looking for the magic box that dictates such matters. The last time I was in this position, both sets could be controlled by a gadget that sits on our bedside stand. Obviously that has changed and no one bothered to send me a memo.
I finally met with success when I recalled seeing a new magic box sitting on the end table in the keeping room. Feeling my way back through the house, I located it and repeatedly pressed buttons until Voila'!
There was light!
After that, all was well in my little corner of the world until 11:00 p.m. which happens to be the designated hour for "lights out". At that time I was sitting on the bed watching videos on my laptop computer when I heard the tell-tale click that accompanies the night-time darkness through out the house.
Except for the glow of my computer screen, I found myself once again sitting unwittingly alone in the dark.
Thank goodness the magic box that sits beside our bed still works for our master bedroom lights! Otherwise I would have been forced to go right to sleep.
Which probably would have been a good idea given the fact that at promptly 6:30 a.m. 365 days a year, our room lights up as bright as the noon day sun! There are no pesky, noise making alarm clocks for us! Instead it's wakey wakey, rise and shine via a bright light in my face ... whether I need it or not.
While, in time I usually manage to figure out how to work the rest of the lighting mechanisms, I've never mastered the "alarm lights" that faithfully announce the break of dawn. Because I was clueless as to how to turn the darn thing off, I use to unplug the clock before I went to bed if I didn't otherwise have to wake up at the 6:30 the next morning.
Eventually I succumbed to the powers that be and learned to deal with it.
Oddly enough I am not technically challenged. I do have a degree in science. Back in the days of working in the hospital lab, my job required a decent knowledge of instrumentation. I could dis-assemble a number of extravagantly expensive pieces of medical equipment, put them back together and calibrate them without blinking an eye.
And yet I am challenged by a matter so simple as turning my own house lights off and on.
I have to wonder if keeping me in the dark is my husband's way of making himself feel needed. With that in mind, I suppose it really is a small price to pay.
Mr. Taylor is out of town and I don't know how to operate the majority of our house lights.
You think I'm kidding? Well, I'm not.
Such occurrences are common in the Taylor household. My wonderful husband, having a tangent for all things electrical, likes to periodically re-program the automated lighting system in our home.
Apparently he grew bored with the way things were working sometime between the last time he went out of town without me, and yesterday when he left again.
I discovered that fact in the early evening when I realized it was growing dark outside and neither the lights in the keeping room or living room had turned themselves on yet.
For a good ten minutes I plundered around in the twilight looking for the magic box that dictates such matters. The last time I was in this position, both sets could be controlled by a gadget that sits on our bedside stand. Obviously that has changed and no one bothered to send me a memo.
I finally met with success when I recalled seeing a new magic box sitting on the end table in the keeping room. Feeling my way back through the house, I located it and repeatedly pressed buttons until Voila'!
There was light!
After that, all was well in my little corner of the world until 11:00 p.m. which happens to be the designated hour for "lights out". At that time I was sitting on the bed watching videos on my laptop computer when I heard the tell-tale click that accompanies the night-time darkness through out the house.
Except for the glow of my computer screen, I found myself once again sitting unwittingly alone in the dark.
Thank goodness the magic box that sits beside our bed still works for our master bedroom lights! Otherwise I would have been forced to go right to sleep.
Which probably would have been a good idea given the fact that at promptly 6:30 a.m. 365 days a year, our room lights up as bright as the noon day sun! There are no pesky, noise making alarm clocks for us! Instead it's wakey wakey, rise and shine via a bright light in my face ... whether I need it or not.
While, in time I usually manage to figure out how to work the rest of the lighting mechanisms, I've never mastered the "alarm lights" that faithfully announce the break of dawn. Because I was clueless as to how to turn the darn thing off, I use to unplug the clock before I went to bed if I didn't otherwise have to wake up at the 6:30 the next morning.
Eventually I succumbed to the powers that be and learned to deal with it.
Oddly enough I am not technically challenged. I do have a degree in science. Back in the days of working in the hospital lab, my job required a decent knowledge of instrumentation. I could dis-assemble a number of extravagantly expensive pieces of medical equipment, put them back together and calibrate them without blinking an eye.
And yet I am challenged by a matter so simple as turning my own house lights off and on.
I have to wonder if keeping me in the dark is my husband's way of making himself feel needed. With that in mind, I suppose it really is a small price to pay.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Third Rock and The King
It has become customary for Mr. Taylor and I to record episodes of "The King Of Queens" and watch one or two of them just before we retire every night. This started over a year ago and I fear at this point has become more of an addiction than a custom for my husband. To date, we have probably seen each episode no fewer than 10 times. I have most of them memorized word for word.
The show is still funny, but it began to grow a little old to me a month or so ago. This was only made worse by the fact that when particularly amusing scenes play, Walt will "rewind" and watch it over again several times in succession, laughing hysterically each and every time.
I suppose you could say the man is easily entertained. ( I don't know exactly how that reflects on me as his wife, but it's true)
When I watch t.v. I tend to choose shows that range from one extreme to the other. I either want to see something incredibly mindless and silly, or I want something that leans to the "dark" side. Once Mr. Taylor has laughed himself to sleep, I will normally flip channels until I locate something akin to "Forensic Files" or "Dr. G. Medical Examiner".
That was before I re-discovered a sitcom from the 90's called "Third Rock From The Sun". I use to love that show. It definitely falls into the "mindless, silly" category and is just what I've been needing a lot of lately. I happily set the DVR to record every episode.
Because I only watch it a couple times a week, this meant I had 10 or 12 episodes to choose from every time I got my turn at the remote.
Last night we came home from a Halloween party at our neighbors and began settling in for the night. Walt had a hunting trip planned for the wee hours of the morning, so he surrendered the remote to me after only two re-run, re-runs of "The King of Queens". I happily accepted his offer to watch a show of MY choosing and clicked on "recordings".
I noticed there were no new "Third Rock" episodes on the list. Hmm. I skimmed down through through the titles and saw lots and lots of "King", several old western movies (needless to say those were not mine either) "Deliverence" (oh please!) "The Godfather" (are you beginning to see a trend here?)
No "Third Rock" offerings at all, except for a few waaaay down towards the bottom that I'd already watched in recent weeks.
I looked at the snoozing man lying beside me in the bed, and then at the clock which read "12:05" I knew he had to get up at 4:30 to go hunting but really felt I had no choice but to awaken him. This was an emergency!
After several elbows to the ribs, he opened his eyes, and asked, "What is it?"
"What happened to all my "Third Rock From The Sun" recordings?" I asked.
He thought for a moment and finally responded .. "Oh ....."
Propped on both elbows, I glared at him in anticipation of the answer I knew would surely follow.
"I must have deleted them. I was going through the list the other day cleaning it up a little. I'm sorry. Just go ahead and reset it to record them again."
Within a milli-second he had fallen back into a peacefully state of slumber.
So much for the crisis at hand.
WHAT? "Just go ahead and set it to record them again?" To begin with, I don't even remember what channel the show was being aired on, or when it aired at all! Secondly, it was after midnight, and with the exception of the light from the television screen, it was dark in the room. Unlike my husband, I don't know how to blindly manipulate the remote.
Oh, believe me, it did cross my mind to turn on ALL the lights and blatantly search the programming schedule until I found my "Third Rock" but I resisted and found something morbid to watch instead. It wasn''t quite the same, but it had to do.
In the process, I couldn't help but stew just a little. How ironic that only MY shows got "cleaned" off the repeated recordings list and his did not.
I don't ask for much. For every chick flick Mr. Taylor and I watch together, we see at least 20 manly-man types of shows. And it wasn't like we were running out of room for recordings either. If I'm not mistaken, the last time I looked I noticed we had about 200 hours of recording space available.
Maybe there is a 300 hour "King of Queens" marathon coming up that I am unaware of and Walt is afraid he's going to miss it.
To make matters worse, first thing this morning I started scanning the program schedule so I could find out when MY show will be airing again, and correct the situation. I had no luck whatsoever. By all appearances, my beloved aliens from "Third Rock" have left the planet.
I won't give up. I can't! This is war and I WILL WIN!
King of Queens, you have no power over the alien forces of Third Rock!
And Mr. Taylor, you know me better than to think you have heard the last of this matter.
The show is still funny, but it began to grow a little old to me a month or so ago. This was only made worse by the fact that when particularly amusing scenes play, Walt will "rewind" and watch it over again several times in succession, laughing hysterically each and every time.
I suppose you could say the man is easily entertained. ( I don't know exactly how that reflects on me as his wife, but it's true)
When I watch t.v. I tend to choose shows that range from one extreme to the other. I either want to see something incredibly mindless and silly, or I want something that leans to the "dark" side. Once Mr. Taylor has laughed himself to sleep, I will normally flip channels until I locate something akin to "Forensic Files" or "Dr. G. Medical Examiner".
That was before I re-discovered a sitcom from the 90's called "Third Rock From The Sun". I use to love that show. It definitely falls into the "mindless, silly" category and is just what I've been needing a lot of lately. I happily set the DVR to record every episode.
Because I only watch it a couple times a week, this meant I had 10 or 12 episodes to choose from every time I got my turn at the remote.
Last night we came home from a Halloween party at our neighbors and began settling in for the night. Walt had a hunting trip planned for the wee hours of the morning, so he surrendered the remote to me after only two re-run, re-runs of "The King of Queens". I happily accepted his offer to watch a show of MY choosing and clicked on "recordings".
I noticed there were no new "Third Rock" episodes on the list. Hmm. I skimmed down through through the titles and saw lots and lots of "King", several old western movies (needless to say those were not mine either) "Deliverence" (oh please!) "The Godfather" (are you beginning to see a trend here?)
No "Third Rock" offerings at all, except for a few waaaay down towards the bottom that I'd already watched in recent weeks.
I looked at the snoozing man lying beside me in the bed, and then at the clock which read "12:05" I knew he had to get up at 4:30 to go hunting but really felt I had no choice but to awaken him. This was an emergency!
After several elbows to the ribs, he opened his eyes, and asked, "What is it?"
"What happened to all my "Third Rock From The Sun" recordings?" I asked.
He thought for a moment and finally responded .. "Oh ....."
Propped on both elbows, I glared at him in anticipation of the answer I knew would surely follow.
"I must have deleted them. I was going through the list the other day cleaning it up a little. I'm sorry. Just go ahead and reset it to record them again."
Within a milli-second he had fallen back into a peacefully state of slumber.
So much for the crisis at hand.
WHAT? "Just go ahead and set it to record them again?" To begin with, I don't even remember what channel the show was being aired on, or when it aired at all! Secondly, it was after midnight, and with the exception of the light from the television screen, it was dark in the room. Unlike my husband, I don't know how to blindly manipulate the remote.
Oh, believe me, it did cross my mind to turn on ALL the lights and blatantly search the programming schedule until I found my "Third Rock" but I resisted and found something morbid to watch instead. It wasn''t quite the same, but it had to do.
In the process, I couldn't help but stew just a little. How ironic that only MY shows got "cleaned" off the repeated recordings list and his did not.
I don't ask for much. For every chick flick Mr. Taylor and I watch together, we see at least 20 manly-man types of shows. And it wasn't like we were running out of room for recordings either. If I'm not mistaken, the last time I looked I noticed we had about 200 hours of recording space available.
Maybe there is a 300 hour "King of Queens" marathon coming up that I am unaware of and Walt is afraid he's going to miss it.
To make matters worse, first thing this morning I started scanning the program schedule so I could find out when MY show will be airing again, and correct the situation. I had no luck whatsoever. By all appearances, my beloved aliens from "Third Rock" have left the planet.
I won't give up. I can't! This is war and I WILL WIN!
King of Queens, you have no power over the alien forces of Third Rock!
And Mr. Taylor, you know me better than to think you have heard the last of this matter.
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