Category: My Lovely Man

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You read me wrong

I have dreadful handwriting. When my lovely man met me and witnesed me filling in a form, he gasped ‘diabolical’.

I once had my handwriting assessed, and the analyser (who I suspect changed careers or ended themselves thereafter), had no comment except that I was perhaps a pyschopath.

I suspect that algorithms can’t get a firm grip on me either.

I am continually hounded by people offering the perfect gift for an aviation enthusiast close to my heart. I know not one.

I am also plagued by some crowd who claim to be best suited to improve my goatmilking skills.

I mean,  what the actual… how is this even a market?

I am further bombarded by a group sharing their retirement challenges, concerns, experiences or advice.

This is of more interest, and is something, I understand, that should be thought through.

One suggested hobby that bears serious consideration….is ‘gator wrestling’.

Yes…this is a thing. Often suggested by the long suffering wife I suspect.

Is this why Florida is popular for retirement? A big saving on gym fees.

Something to think about if my lovely man gets under my feet.

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Do you want to know what I think…?

I am seldom without an opinion. And it’s not one I often keep to myself.

Adorable hey?

I wanted to make a trip to visit some family and friends recently. Miraculously… I persuaded my lovely man to come with me. He loves his home, he loves me, he’d like to keep us together at all times, but mostly if a separation is required, he chooses to stay at home.

So… This was big.

I booked us a little BnB. It was lovely… Within 3 minutes, I established 3 things that were problematic.

I politely asked them to get their shit together already.

I reminded myself ‘nobody likes a lecture… Keep your mouth shut’.

My lovely man looked at my face and said ‘nobody likes a lecture, keep your mouth shut’.

I do love to lecture and nag… I couldn’t help myself.

‘Do you check everything is working before a new guest arrives?’, I gently enquired.

They do, we were informed, they just don’t check these things.

Shut it, my lovely man reminded me.

‘Do you think a check list would help, I asked, I can draw one up if you like.’

We are, not surprisingly, never allowed at the same place twice.

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It’s a trial

My lovely man and I are on dental programmes to sort out our gnashers.

He has been eating like a rabbit for some time, so is getting some back teeth put in. I’m unsure where he misplaced the originals.

I have long admired nice teeth, so am trying to get a set of my own.

I didn’t actually realize how much was wrong until I started on this journey. As it turns out, my gums need repair, my teeth need alignment, and only then can they make a start on the pretty stuff.

Apart from being unpleasant, everything takes an age. With long periods of healing in between stages.

The poor souls who drew the short straw to take me on as a patient, are simply marvelous.

They do suffer me, no doubt.

They have marked on my file ‘Not brave, and inclined to whinge. Very inclined’.

Rude, but probably accurate.

I have now set a deadline, because I have a wedding to attend (not mine you’ll be relieved to know), and would like to have teeth for it.

In the most recent discussions with my dear, long suffering dentist, I reminded him…

I’d like to be fully sedated for the next stage please.

So would I, he replied.

Is it possible to get a proxy I asked

I’m going to, he announced

Is this something I could get a surrogate for, I continued

Please do, he agreed

I think he’s going to call in sick.

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Gangsta land

We have nine bird feeders. Yes, nine. I’m not quite sure how this has happened, but it is the state of things. In a very small yard.

My lovely man diligently fills these feeders up, and he has to do it every second day, because clearly we are hosting every bird within a 100km radius.

We go through A LOT of wild bird seed. It’s delivered by Takealot (of course), by the truckload.

We also have a beloved little rat mouse, Monty, to consider.

Sadly, in the last month, we have found two dead birds in the yard.

They were not emaciated, to be sure, but they were dead.

At least I hope they were, because I dispose of the poor little things in a zip lock bag. With a little blessing of course, but still.

I try not think about it.

Although, I do wonder, if this is going to continue, if Takealot sell little bells I can put in to the zip lock bag, so they can alert us if they awake within their zip lock bag in a panic. Maybe a mobile phone with my number programmed in.

I digress…

Why, I asked my lovely man, are these birds perishing?

We both regarded Ginger Nutless Max cat with some suspicion… But he reminded us that ‘he’s a really nice guy’ and also… If he caught Monty or any bird, he would present it to me via my pillow.

They are fighting…. My Lovely Man solemnly advised me.

Who are fighting I enquired? The birds?

Yes, he said, they are fighting each other to the death over the food. It’s obvious.

Are you saying, I clarified, they are shanking each other over the bird food?

I think so, he said, it’s a dog eat dog world out there.

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Let’s just do it

My lovely man LOVES his ice cream. Every day, after his lunch, there is always, always room for a bowl of ice cream.

The only exception to this habit, is if he has a chocolate milkshake.. Which is, mostly ice cream.

On any number of occasions, he has smacked his lips, sighed with contentment and advised me that he could quite happily live on ice cream and beer.

We all need something to live for hey?

Anyway… I bought him a box of six ‘Big Deal Mint Crunch’ ice cream on a stick. Like Magnums I guess.

He didn’t notice them for a few days, and then I asked him if he’d tried them yet and what were they like.

Well, apparently 5 star. Happiness.

So I tried one, and yes, very nice.

Some time later he said… Are these big deal ice creams more expensive than ice cream in a tub, because I don’t mind, if it’s easier, if you only get those.

I think they are more expensive I advised.

Well, he said, let’s do the maths, but I suppose we’ll have to factor it in if you are going to eat them too. How many a week do you think you’ll have?

Darling, I announced, they are 5 times more expensive per ml of ice cream.

Oh, he said, that’s not too bad then is it?

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Are you ready?

Does your lovely man have some pet frets? Mine does, bless him.

I have pet peeves, he has pet frets.

Top of mind, for him is AI.

Of all things.

Darling, he advised me, everything I read stresses that we need to be AI ready.

Are you AI ready he enquires of me.

I am not, I admit.

What is AI, he asks, I don’t feel I am in the least competent in it.

This is probably true as he refers to it, for starters, as A1.

You are retired, I reminded him, you don’t need to be AI competent, stop worrying about it.

Perhaps we should buy this book, he continued, or enroll on this six month course for a mere USD 2,000. It sounds critical.

That’s a hard no from me.

So, finally, I have come up with a cunning plan.

When you are competent with the TV remote, I tell him, I’ll teach you AI.

Every time he brings it up, we are going to have a TV Remote test. And then I’ll ask him to Google something.

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I’ll give you something to talk about

I’m a slippers and gown type of girl. It’s my favourite outfit really. I have, on a few occasions, noticed that I’m out, but still have my slippers on.

This means that, quite regularly, I have to throw my slippers in the wash. I’m quite good at hurling shoes into the washing machine. I have a friend who puts her trainers in the dishwasher. Also acceptable.

My lovely man is often in charge of emptying the washing machine and either hanging up the relevant, or putting it in the dryer. Shoes, for various reasons, are not for the dryer.

The last slipper load, somehow, slipped (did you see what I did there?) past his vigilance and some hours later I was presented with a much smaller version of my very adored sheepskin Uggs. They were dry and lovely and warm. And very little.

Luckily your feet are small he announced, these will be fine.

They are not fine, they are now baby slippers. Toddler size at best.

Well, he said, I’m waiting to read about this online, at least I give you good material.

Gotta love him. The knob.

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It’s a mouthful

My lovely man and I are each on a dental journey. Some of it through necessity, some of it through choice. Not much of it, as it turns out, fun.

It’s lengthy, laborious and largely painful. On the one hand, we are grateful we can get these things tended to, on the other hand we are somewhat regretting our choices.

And then we watch TV. American TV in particular. The Brits don’t seem to have any dentists. But… There is rarely an American actor without perfect teeth.

As my lovely man and I sit and watch, in our own various stages of trauma and healing… We discuss this a lot. Spooning ice cream and cold soup into our wounded gobs, the only diet we can manage these days.

Are Americans born with perfect teeth? Surely they can’t all endure major dental work?

Can anyone shed light on this phenomenon?

Sincerely bewildered.

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OK, I can probably sort that out

I’m no relationship expert. God knows I’ve enjoyed my share of failures…

But, I do love my lovely man, so I do try.

Every now and then I check in and ask the man..

‘Are you happy my darling? Is there anything you need, or would like changed?’

So, I asked recently and the man went into deep thought.

I waited, with some apprehension, gotta say.

Well, he said slowly… There is one thing..

My underpants are too tight, can you please get me some more?

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It all counts

We have four little fur babies that share our lives. We also feed the birds in the neighborhood. All of them I suspect. Who are ravenous. And two little mice, who come and go and at present are gone, possibly deceased.

The two cats, interestingly enough, are far less fussy eaters than the two little dogs. When it comes to little dogs, it is important to note that if you spoil them with all kinds of delicacies when they are pups, you are screwed forever and have no hope of changing the diet back to anything easy or reasonably priced.

I am in charge of the morning cuppa in our household and this involves feeding the ravenous cats. Lie ins are not permitted ever, they barely make it through the night from dinner to 5am feed. We have a very vocal Ginger, who screams in my face by 05h10. No need for an alarm.

My lovely man feeds the pups a bit later, who do enjoy a lie in, as long as there is a wee snack given to them as we enjoy a cuppa and a choccie bic. (This is not their snack, panic not).

My lovely man reports back as to how the breakfast he serves the pups is received. He is delighted if it is scoffed down and distressed if not. A discussion as to how we can tempt these fat, ungrateful and completely indulged creatures ensues.

I suspect, I suggested, the ratio of pellets to the other goodies, is too high.

How many pellets must I give them then, he asked unexpectedly. Twelve each I randomly suggested, in a panic.

Then, we were thrown a curved ball as the vet suggested we soften the pellets to help with aging teeth.

So, one of my 5am duties is soaking the pellets in advance of the feed in hot water.

Immediately, I received feedback… And criticism.

You are obviously not counting the pellets, I was advised, there were 13 and 15 in the bowl respectively this morning. And there was disdain and dissent at breakfast as a result. Will you count them please? We decided on twelve.

As it turns out, one cannot make and then break the rules here.