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My lovely man… Bless him… gave me a little squeeze today.
Thank you darling, I said, love you, be careful to not squash the boobies. (This is never welcome just by the by, unless it’s your thing… In which case, you do you).
Oh, he said, sorry, I thought they were higher up.
I have entered that phase of my life, sadly, where a whole lot of work on my teeth is happening.
The Springboks endure their mouth guards for however long a rugby game lasts… Mine are a permanent fixture.
On the positive, I’m eating less, because it’s actually just a pain to eat. At the end of this ordeal, I expect to be a perfect set of gnashers, in a skull.
I have become quite creative about keeping everything now housed in my mouth clean, and have ventured into the world of, not just steradent, but dental tablets. Useful when you have to rinse and brush 15 times a day.
When my online order of dental tablets arrived, (I am not one to darken the door of an actual shop), they arrived with a bag of ‘mouth tapes’.
What have we here I pondered.
Well, for the ignorant, as I was, a mouth tape is something you wear over your mouth at night to ensure that you breath through your nose while you sleep.
All kinds of wondrous benefits to this apparently… Stops snoring, helps you avoid ‘dry mouth’.
So I slapped one over my mouth and went to bed.
Unfortunately, before explaining to my lovely man what was going on.
What’s this new kink he probably thought, and will it hurt?
I had generously decided to try it myself first rather than experimenting on him.
After explaining to him the concept… I watched his face.
I am quite expert at reading his mind.
‘Wonder if I could get her to wear one during the day’, I could see him thinking.
It is advised, that once a month or so, you clean your dishwasher or washing machine or whatever appliance you can thank for doing the shit stuff and saving you doing it by hand.
I am the early morning tea maker in our household. This involves making the tea/coffee, feeding the near to death starving cats who have barely made it through the night, making my lovely man’s much loved ‘breakfast bowl’ and also putting on a load of washing so that it can finish while we languish in bed for a bit.
Recently, I threw the required detergent that cleans said washing machine into the drum, set it to a programme over 60 degrees C and allowed it to clean itself. This, of course, you do when the machine is empty. Those marketing twits promise you it’s necessary to keep the machine clean.
Our washing machine plays a delightful little jingle when it’s done.
My lovely man, when he is within hearing range of the cheerful little jingle, is programmed to go and empty the machine and put the clothes in the dryer. Bless him.
I am, by now, in my epsom salts bath and I hear the jingle and then hear him heading to the machine to do the necessary. Like Pavlov’s pup. Isn’t he the best?
I wait and listen.
I hear him muttering, imagine him sticking his head into the empty drum, hear him slamming the door and then his determined steps to come and establish just what the hell is going on.
‘Darling, he says, you haven’t actually put any clothes……’
I was very tempted, of course, to say… ‘you must be mistaken, go and look again’
Love him… one day he’s going to murder me in my sleep.
Darling, my lovely man asked, holding a handful of berries, what are these?
They look like gooseberries, I said, where did you find them?
There’s loads of them in the flower bed at the back, he replied.
Is there a gooseberry bush there, I asked. Apparently not.
They are nice, I said, popping one in my mouth, I’ll add them to your breakfast bowl (I’m always on the lookout for bright coloured fruit and veg my lovely man should be eating).
He looked at me horrified…. You don’t really know what they are… You could die.
Tastes like a gooseberry, I replied, but yes, we should wash them.
He watched me carefully the rest of the day… I knew he was concerned when he began with the questions..
How do I buy electricity?
What are the cake ladies details?
Can you please write down how exactly you make my breakfast bowl?
And then, as a bit of an afterthought…
How do I call the ambulance people?
So now… We have mysterious… Or as I like to call them.. Immaculate gooseberries.
About a year ago we splurged and upgraded my lovely man’s hearing aid.
The first set he had was not cheap, this one eye watering.
But… Necessary for his well being and my sanity really.
A few months later, we came back from walking the pups and he announced that one was missing.
The angels were watching over us, because we retraced our steps and found it lying in the road.
Darling… He announced earlier today… My left hearing aid is not in my ear.
Someone else take the wheel for a bit I thought to myself.
We started to look for it.
Do you think the app on my phone can track it he asked.
I looked at him… Astounded at the brilliance.
I actually had to sit down and take a wee sip of wine.
Where’s your phone?
I don’t know.
(Another sip).
Phone found…. The hearing aid is in the house!
And there we start…. Very Far…. Far.. Near.. The clever app guided us.
It’s in the kitchen!
15 minutes of searching the floor and counters. Realizing we have the worst tiles ever that could camouflage a lost rhinoceros if it fell on the floor.
Very near… It’s in the bin.
Of course.
Perhaps it’s time to give them a good clean my lovely man murmured.
Perhaps it’s time for wine.
We have bathroom scales. Not recommended, but we do. We hate ourselves like that.
My lovely man announced that his was no longer working. Of course I checked and yes, it appeared to have given up on life.
Do you want to just use mine I enquired.
No, he firmly responded, yours is not very friendly.
I knew it! Arsehole thing.
So, I bought him a new scale.
There’s two here, he advised.
Yes, I said, it was a good price if I bought two.
He looked at me quietly.
You’re going to put the arsehole scale in the guest room aren’t you?
There’s a fat mirror in there too I told him.
No wonder nobody visits us twice.
I am the morning tea /coffee maker in our household…. My lovely man used to spoil me with a cuppa in bed… But I am the less sore one first thing these days… So it only seems right..
Of course my day starts off a visit to the bathroom, while the cats remind me that they are close to starvation and can I move it up.
As I peered at myself in the mirror the other morning, it looked like I had a shiner over my right eyelid.
Must be make up I thought.
It happened to be our first date anniversary… Is this some way of my lovely man displaying his seven year itch I thought?
Then I looked over at him drinking his tea and munching on his choccie bic and remembered that he is, in fact, the loveliest.
A little later, in the bath, post face wash, my lovely man popped in to ask re. his chore list for the day, so I took the opportunity… darling, I said, can you see the bruise on my eye? No, he said, looks fine.
Great, I thought, make up… Washed off, all good.
Looked in the mirror… Shiner, definitely
Are we even seen ladies? Let alone heard?
This itself is a crime, surely?
So… I called the cops
‘Darling’ , my lovely man advised, ‘I’m not getting much of a froth on your cappacino of late, do you think there is something wrong with the milk?’
I had noticed this deterioration in quality, but I’m not one to complain as you well know.
Maybe, the frother is not being rinsed out properly I suggested. Perhaps there are remnants of sunlight liquid left, which are affecting the milk.
Unlikely he advised, I don’t use sunlight liquid, I just give it a little twirl under the cold tap, it’s only milk. Sometimes I use that little sponge, but it’s become a bit mingy.
Dear God, clearly I’ve got the constitution of a shire horse that I’ve not yet perished.
Anyway, if we invite you around for cappacino, perhaps bring your own.
My lovely man did himself an injury. He is back home, after a few days in hospital. Where, truth be told, he was wonderfully looked after and.. surprise, the food was fabulous. I was concerned, at some point, that he may opt to stay in hospital because the food standard exceeds what he gets at home.
But, he chose home, or they instructed him to leave… and for that I am grateful.
He now has some weeks/months of recovery ahead of him and will require help for quite a lot of things. Cue Old Flo Nightingale.
He’s a real toughie my lovely man. Not at all a whinger. High pain threshold. I am the complete opposite. Whinger supreme and I skipped the pain threshold handout queue.
Of course, unless it’s me doing the whinging, it’s not allowed.
There has been much banter between us where he is insisting he is not going to need help , he’ll be OK, (he does need help), and me telling him that he must ask and not over do things or he is going to take longer to heal.
So, back from the hospital I helped him to bed (hospitals are not restful places, what’s with that?)
Just as I was about to emphasise again that he must PLEASE not do anything that he needs help with he said…
“You know what you should bring me… that little brass dinner bell.. then I can just ring it if I need you”
Guess he’s getting the hang of this.
We had cause, recently, to spend some time in a hospital emergency area. (All is well).
They were very busy.. We had quite a wait.. I may, or may not have got a bit sassy in my negotiations for assistance.
A nurse popped in and said ‘I’m so sorry that your dad is having to wait so long, we are doing the best we can’
My lovely man didn’t hear her, we left the house in a hurry and his ears were not attached. Not a priority at the time.
I didn’t correct her, yaaay for me and my youthful glow and my lovely man was in pain and not looking his best.
Time passed.. I went looking for help.. Again.
When I came back my lovely man said…. ‘A lady just came in and apologized that she thought you were my doctor, why would she think you were my doctor, must be because you are bossing everyone around’
Love him the most.