Being that it’s Mardi Gras, tonight’s the night for shaking the devil and raising some hell before tomorrow, when Ash Wednesday appears, and all good Catholics are suppose to become chaste for forty days and give up something of high value to them, as a ritualistic sacrifice.
This season, I decided to give up complaining. That’s going to be a tough one, so this evening’s rant will entail a little over six week’s worth of bitching in one post.
To accomplish this task, I’ll be using an entry from an old journal I found while cleaning my anxiety closet recently. This can serve as a benefit to those who might find themselves in the same boat as I was many moons ago.
Once upon a time, I had a tremendous argument with my live-in girlfriend, who was your typical whiner and complainer. Sorry, Ladies, if you take offense to this. I know there are many who keep their whining and complaining to an acceptable level, but Beatrice (not her real name) could have been called the Duchess of Bellyache and Maunder in a previous incarnation.
Not that I’m not guilty of complaining on occasion, but from listening to all of Beatrice’s bs that night and biting my tongue as usual, I became fed up and drafted these articles of cohabitation into my diary to blow off steam into the wee hours of the following morning, never showing them to her.
We split up eventually. Perhaps if I had given the following list to her, we may have remained together; but most likely not:
ARTICLES OF COHABITATION WITH A MALE
I – If you think you are fat, you probably are. Do not ask me. I refuse to answer.
II – Learn to work the toilet seat. You’re a big girl. If it’s up, put it down.
III – Do not cut your hair…, ever! Long hair is always more attractive than short hair. One of the big reasons I fear getting married is that married women always cut their hair, and by then, I am stuck with you.
IV – Birthdays, valentines, and anniversaries are not quests to see if I can find the perfect present yet again!
V – If you ask a question to which you don’t want an answer, expect an answer that you do not want to hear.
VI – Sometimes, I am not thinking about you. Live with it.
VII – Do not ask me what I am thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as navel lint, the shotgun formation, farts and breasts.
VIII – Sunday = sports. It’s like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
IX – Shopping is not a sport; and no, I am never going to think of it that way.
X – When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really!
XI – Crying is blackmail.
XII – Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot and a low-down scoundrel.
XIII – Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work. Strong hints do not work. Obvious hints do not work. Just say it.
XIV – I don’t remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on a calendar. Remind me frequently beforehand.
XV – Most guys own three pairs of shoes and five tops. What makes you think I’d be any good at choosing which pair out of thirty would look good with your dress?
XVI- Yes, and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
XVII – Come to me with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what I do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
XVIII – Check your oil. Please.
XIX – Do not fake it. I would rather be ineffective than deceived.
XX – If something I said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, I meant the other one.
XXI – Let me ogle. I am going to look anyway. It’s genetic.
XXII – You can either ask me to do something or tell me how you want it done, but not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
XXIII – Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
XXIV – Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do I.
XXV – This relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends, like their relationship is so much better.
XXVI – All men see in only sixteen colors, like old Window’s default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. I have no idea what mauve is.
XXVII- If it itches, it will be scratched. I do that.
XXVIII-I am not a mind reader and I will never will be. My lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little I care about you.
XXIX- If I ask what is wrong and you say “nothing,” I will act as if nothing’s wrong. I know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.
As a note in parting, I still can’t understand why the Super Bowl 50 spin doctors decided that using the Roman numeral for fifty—or L—was somehow inappropriate. Was it because “loser” starts with an L? Why didn’t they use the year spelt-out in letters instead of switching to Arabic numerals?
The ad men claimed the L is too unattractive to have been placed in this year’s logo. Why is that, I wonder? They used V and X. Reportedly the NFL will be going back to Roman numerals next year.
Better save any memorabilia from Super Bowl “50,” surely to become a collector’s items and probably will be worth a lot of money in the years to come.
Happy Mardi Gras!