I may have written about various differences of opinion between Mrs Ed and I before, but there is one topic that constantly confounds this obviously microscopic brain of mine.
“What!” you declare in surprised disbelief, “Are you actually admitting that you are not the super-intelligent creature you normally profess to be?”
No I'm not saying that at all. I'm inferring that my brain is small. Like an intricate, highly programmed, silicone chip. As opposed to LARGE , like a big, fluffy pillow, or a scatter cushion…..
Talking of which… Why? Yes, WHY?
Why do we need huge piles of extra big fluffy pillows … or scatter cushions…. on our beds? REALLY?
Ok the females amongst you (yes, be careful what you say, they are everywhere!) will undoubtedly give what they deem to be the obvious answer: To make it look nice. To make our bedroom pleasing to the eye, so that it appears as similar as possible to the photographs in the 'Housekeepers' Weekly' or the 'Husband Torturer's Digest' . But that leads me to my next question. For whom?
Who actually benefits from the apparent style and beauty of these meaningless, soft furnishings?
Let me give you a bit of background here, just so you don't think that I am as much of a raving lunatic as Mrs Ed has posted on facebook (I think it's linked to the Bricklayers' Guild page).
Every night she and I go to bed normally at quite different times, because I am in the habit of concentrating so intensely on the television that my eyes close, so I miss her mad dash upstairs.
Then of course I lose. Why?
Because “It is written”, in Rules Of The House volume something or other, chapter thingy, “That The First One to Bed should never, EVER make any attempt to turn off a single light in the house, or lock a door, or close the fridge, or any windows, or turn the oven off, or bring the car into the driveway, or put the dog out (even if it is her dog). Nay by order of all that is important, The First One to Bed MUST avoid doing ANYTHING except getting into said bed.” The resultant number of duties left for me to perform thus sets my bed time back by ¾ of a day or so, until I finally plod exhausted up the stairs… to go to bed?
Nay, to recieve The Instruction List.
The Instruction List? Yes, you know The Instruction List don't you? C'mon all you brave men, give me a knowing nod, an appreciative whistle, or if you aren't brave enough, a slight wink of confirmation will suffice. As you all know The Instruction List is what the First One to Bed blesses the Runner Up with, when he reaches the Halfway To The Bedroom mark.
It is a collection of questions and requests-for-goods which surely sews delight in the fabric of every 'second to bed' person's brain, especially if he has perhaps had a little snooze on the couch to cloud his thoughts somewhat. Of course The Instruction List may only be issued once the rest of the house is totally in darkness, and locked up as tight as a fish's bottom at twenty thousand fathoms:- This makes carrying out The Instruction List far more challenging, and entertaining, depending on what side of the bedroom door you are on.
For those who are still unsure, here is a typical sample of how The Instruction List is issued … (I have put the 'Second to bed' responses in italics so that you do not get mixed up)
1. “Have you put the dog out?”
“Yes,”“Did you check her leg, if there is anything wrong with it?”
“No,” “Well will you go and find her in the garden and have a look? She was limping earlier. She'll be doing her business down by the compost heap.” etc etc
2. “Oh please won't you bring up my glasses?”
“Where are they?” “Under the magazine on the table,”
“Ouch! No they're not” “Try on top of the fridge,”
“Einah! No, not there either,” “Oh, look on the verandah then,”
“No, (Darn! I just stepped in the dog's bowl) not here!” “In the car?”
“Uh…OWWW!!! WHO LEAVES A HAIRBRUSH ON THE CARPET… no, not in the car…” “Oh, actually, don't worry, they're right here next to my bed.”
3. “Please will you bring up the passports, they are in the safe, under the trapdoor, across the bridge, through the fiery hoops, past the bone-crunching ogre, just to the left of the horde of blood-thirsty Somalian Pirates. I just want to double check that they are still valid in case we win the lotto tomorrow.”
4. “Won't you quickly craft an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower out of Mohair goat droppings, before you come to bed ? I think it will look nice on the dressing table.” etc etc
And on an on it goes.
Then finally, once The Instruction List has been completed, and all the blood mopped up, I get into bed. I see, of course, that the twelve dozen scatter cushions and the three thousand extra fluffy pillows that our household has somehow accumulated over the years, are stacked in the corner of the room. Because there would be no room in the bed otherwise.
So once again I ask. Who are they for?
Visitors? Absolutely not. No way. I once had the misfortune of showing visitors our bedroom back in 2001
“And here's our bedroom,” I said to the nice couple who had popped in to fetch their child after a 'play afternoon' with our ankle-biters (They were new in town)
“Look at our lovely scatter cushions and the leaning tower of fluffy pillows.” I encouraged (it seemed the right thing to do). That would have been the end of it, if I hadn't slipped up and mentioned it to Mrs ED later that night, when she returned from her Sumo wrestling classes.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” she hissed
“Er… that the Smiths quite liked our house, and said our bedroom was nice and sunny ……” “HOW CAN YOU SHOW PEOPLE OUR BEDROOM? NEVER, EVER SHOW PEOPLE OUR BEDROOM, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? WHAT KIND OF A MORON SHOWS PEOPLE HIS BEDROOM? HOW EMBARASSING! THOSE PEOPLE SAW OUR BEDROOM! MY PYJAMAS! THE WASH BASKET! I DON'T BELIEVE IT!”
I have cut the dialogue short, somewhat, but you understand that it continued along those same lines for the next three months or so, and is still raised at her book club, or when she's standing with colleagues around the cauldron, or when I happen to be in an argument-winning position, say once every 18 months or so….
So…. the scatter cushions and countless extra fluffy cushions are not for the comfort of anyone lying on the bed, nor for the benefit of visitors…. Every night they are removed from the bed and stacked. Every morning they are replaced in their proud position back on the bed, just whilst the home is entirely devoid of human life, of course.
So what are they for? My microchip brain calculates that one or two pillows each is an eloquent sufficiency. And that, apart from being a handy little mind prop should one be lying in bed quietly envisaging the smothering of one's spouse, a ceiling-high stack of scatter cushions is of no use to man or beast.
Furthermore, they are totally obscuring the extremely useful, life size poster of Katie Meluah that I bought the family last Christmas!
So, let me conclude with a call to action of all men suffering Scatter Cushion Fatigue! Come on guys - be brave! Out the window they go - On my count: One… two… three........
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Giving up smoking?
Batten down the hatches, board up your windows, bolt the doors and grab your panic buttons folks, because things are going to get rough!
No, this isn't a warning that crime is on the increase, nor is there any (certified) truth in the rumour that the Sedgefield Macramé Guild members are embarking on a street collection. No, it is infinitely worse than even that. Something more terrifying than a tidal wave, more dangerous than a dagga-crazed Doberman, more blood-curdling than a Greatest Hits of Barry Manilow CD….
Mrs Ed is giving up smoking!
Yes I agree! Why was there no warning? Why was there no state of emergency declared? Why have the UN Peace-Keeping forces not landed?
Well if YOU feel scared, imagine how I feel! I realise I should be in hiding, but I shall soldier on bravely and try my hardest to get this column done. (You will have to excuse me, however, if I perhaps break into a whisper every now and then… And if I disappear for a while it means I've had to break into a gallop in an effort to escape…. And if I disappear permanently, well, get the authorities to 'drag' the lagoon like they do in CSI Miami, and I'm sure my body will eventually be recovered.)
But enough about my seemingly limitless courage (though I do thank you for the compliment);- let's get back to the story at hand.
In my opinion it is a sincerely dangerous time we are living in, and with hospital and health care costs as they are, looking after one's well-being is something I take very seriously, particularly with regard to the medical complications associated with smoking. In fact you may be pleased to hear that I am campaigning for cigarette manufacturers to start printing a health warning on each box….
What? No I am NOT behind the times, and yes, I understand that there are already warnings boldly emblazoned on each box, but those are, for the most part, aimed at the smokers themselves, aren't they? And let's face it, by now they must already be pretty aware of the risks.
So what am I talking about? (So kind of you to ask).
I am talking about the real dangers associated with smoking. ie:-
a) Being within a 400m radius of someone who is giving up
b) Suggesting to someone that she should give up (including the purchase-power of the potential R30 per box per day savings.)
c) Hiding cigarettes from someone who is in the process of giving up. (especially if she has access to sharp kitchen utensils)
d) Enjoying an innocent, no harm done, 'social smoke' whilst out having a beer, then returning home (along with your apparently disgusting 'ash-tray' breath) to someone who has recently given up.
Now those are the REAL dangers. I should know.
Some of you (those who are old enough) may remember me saying back in 1999 that Mrs ED and I had given up smoking at around the same time. Of course it was a time of great suffering and pain - mostly for me. Why? Was my addiction that much stronger? No, in fact just the opposite:- I managed to kick the habit reasonably easily.
Mrs Ed, on the other hand, crawled into bed for four days and sobbed. Honestly, I haven't seen her that emotional since The Village People split up.
But the real pain and suffering came once she had emerged from her pit, and realised that I wasn't… suffering that is.
“It's just not fair!” she would bellow, hurling a medium-sized piece of lounge furniture in my direction.
“You are doing that just to taunt me!” she would howl when I showed the slightest hint of a smile during the first post giving up months.
“I can hear you teasing me in Morse code!” she would scream if I so much as hummed a little ditty whilst picking up the regular pile of broken crockery.
But eventually it did get better. After a few months my son even started sleeping inside, though he did lock his bedroom door. Slowly but surely we returned to normal family life. Well, OUR normal family life. Of course Mrs Ed became the worst ever reformed smoker, especially when she was joined by her sister, also a recent smoke-stopper. Barely a day would go by when they weren't waving some sort of 'Give up now' banner in the face of their long suffering (and long puffing) father, one of the last bastions of the Smokers' League.
“It is so disgusting, don't you know that our children are in a 30km radius? And here's you lighting up like it's only your lungs that are being damaged!” They would observe whilst staring lustfully at his glowing Peter Stuyvesant. I think he suffered more from ear damage than anything else.
Of course I soon realised that my giving up smoking had been comparatively easy, so it stood to reason that I could do it any time - give up, that is. So I started social smoking.
No, it's not the same. For those of you who don't know, social smoking isn't really smoking at all, it's simply joining someone else for a smoke - like a tobacco companion - so he or she doesn't feel like a social outcast. You see us social smokers are a most kindly group of people who can't bear to think of anybody suffering alone. So we help share their burden. We'll generously smoke alongside normal smokers in a pub, at a braai, over breakfast, in a car, at the office, even standing next to their beds whilst they are sleeping:- we sacrifice ourselves to the smoking community.
It definitely isn't real smoking, because us social smokers don't buy our own cigarettes.
Honestly! Sometimes I feel so desperately sorry for someone walking on the road with a smoke hanging out his mouth, that I will stop him and ask for one, out of the goodness of my heart, just so he doesn't feel so alone. I'm just that kind of guy. Of course one has to be careful how you ask. The other night I found myself standing next to a particularly burly smoker at the pub, dressed in a blue Bulls supporter's jersey. I thought 'Shame, he must really feel like an outcast,” so I put my arm around his shoulders (in that camaraderie way us social smokers have), smiled sweetly up at him and said "Fag?".
He hit me.
But back to Mrs Ed. Unfortunately she doesn't have the willpower to social smoke. It's only us real strong people who can manage that. For the twelve years since she gave up, Mrs Ed wouldn't, and couldn't, go near a cigarette - she did not want to go through that ordeal again. The family, nay the entire neighbourhood, did not want her to go through that ordeal again.
And so for over a decade everything went smoothly…. until (cue eerie music) The Weekend Away! Just over a year ago, Mrs Ed and her sister embarked on a road trip. I think they were taking their broomsticks in to be serviced… or their pointed hats for a wax… or something. But when they returned? They smoked. It was as simple as that. Somewhere along the road one of them must have had a 'drag' and that was it. Hooked for life.
Again.
They left like Thelma and Louise - sucking in lungsfull of fresh air…. and returned in a car full of smoke, like Gorillas in the Mist.
I was totally thrown, of course. It put so much pressure on my social smoking campaign, I was up to twenty 'socials' a day in no time (I reiterate:- we social smokers cannot bear to see anyone smoking alone).
But now she's decided to give up. I think it's the hacking cough that's been the deciding factor - she says I'm keeping her awake. Of course I sat with her one evening - well actually it wasn't quite 'with her' … (it was more over the phone if the truth be told) and bravely pointed out that by saving R30 a day that would be R210 a week, R840 a month, R10 080 a year! She was quite taken.
“That's enough for a three week camping holiday,” she said thoughtfully.
“EXACTLY!” I answered.
So the giving up date is set for next Tuesday, and despite the impending vicious mood swings, violent tempers and threats of physical violence, I am not scared at all. Why should I be? I 'm pretty sure she will have recovered by the time I get home from my three week camping trip!
No, this isn't a warning that crime is on the increase, nor is there any (certified) truth in the rumour that the Sedgefield Macramé Guild members are embarking on a street collection. No, it is infinitely worse than even that. Something more terrifying than a tidal wave, more dangerous than a dagga-crazed Doberman, more blood-curdling than a Greatest Hits of Barry Manilow CD….
Mrs Ed is giving up smoking!
Yes I agree! Why was there no warning? Why was there no state of emergency declared? Why have the UN Peace-Keeping forces not landed?
Well if YOU feel scared, imagine how I feel! I realise I should be in hiding, but I shall soldier on bravely and try my hardest to get this column done. (You will have to excuse me, however, if I perhaps break into a whisper every now and then… And if I disappear for a while it means I've had to break into a gallop in an effort to escape…. And if I disappear permanently, well, get the authorities to 'drag' the lagoon like they do in CSI Miami, and I'm sure my body will eventually be recovered.)
But enough about my seemingly limitless courage (though I do thank you for the compliment);- let's get back to the story at hand.
In my opinion it is a sincerely dangerous time we are living in, and with hospital and health care costs as they are, looking after one's well-being is something I take very seriously, particularly with regard to the medical complications associated with smoking. In fact you may be pleased to hear that I am campaigning for cigarette manufacturers to start printing a health warning on each box….
What? No I am NOT behind the times, and yes, I understand that there are already warnings boldly emblazoned on each box, but those are, for the most part, aimed at the smokers themselves, aren't they? And let's face it, by now they must already be pretty aware of the risks.
So what am I talking about? (So kind of you to ask).
I am talking about the real dangers associated with smoking. ie:-
a) Being within a 400m radius of someone who is giving up
b) Suggesting to someone that she should give up (including the purchase-power of the potential R30 per box per day savings.)
c) Hiding cigarettes from someone who is in the process of giving up. (especially if she has access to sharp kitchen utensils)
d) Enjoying an innocent, no harm done, 'social smoke' whilst out having a beer, then returning home (along with your apparently disgusting 'ash-tray' breath) to someone who has recently given up.
Now those are the REAL dangers. I should know.
Some of you (those who are old enough) may remember me saying back in 1999 that Mrs ED and I had given up smoking at around the same time. Of course it was a time of great suffering and pain - mostly for me. Why? Was my addiction that much stronger? No, in fact just the opposite:- I managed to kick the habit reasonably easily.
Mrs Ed, on the other hand, crawled into bed for four days and sobbed. Honestly, I haven't seen her that emotional since The Village People split up.
But the real pain and suffering came once she had emerged from her pit, and realised that I wasn't… suffering that is.
“It's just not fair!” she would bellow, hurling a medium-sized piece of lounge furniture in my direction.
“You are doing that just to taunt me!” she would howl when I showed the slightest hint of a smile during the first post giving up months.
“I can hear you teasing me in Morse code!” she would scream if I so much as hummed a little ditty whilst picking up the regular pile of broken crockery.
But eventually it did get better. After a few months my son even started sleeping inside, though he did lock his bedroom door. Slowly but surely we returned to normal family life. Well, OUR normal family life. Of course Mrs Ed became the worst ever reformed smoker, especially when she was joined by her sister, also a recent smoke-stopper. Barely a day would go by when they weren't waving some sort of 'Give up now' banner in the face of their long suffering (and long puffing) father, one of the last bastions of the Smokers' League.
“It is so disgusting, don't you know that our children are in a 30km radius? And here's you lighting up like it's only your lungs that are being damaged!” They would observe whilst staring lustfully at his glowing Peter Stuyvesant. I think he suffered more from ear damage than anything else.
Of course I soon realised that my giving up smoking had been comparatively easy, so it stood to reason that I could do it any time - give up, that is. So I started social smoking.
No, it's not the same. For those of you who don't know, social smoking isn't really smoking at all, it's simply joining someone else for a smoke - like a tobacco companion - so he or she doesn't feel like a social outcast. You see us social smokers are a most kindly group of people who can't bear to think of anybody suffering alone. So we help share their burden. We'll generously smoke alongside normal smokers in a pub, at a braai, over breakfast, in a car, at the office, even standing next to their beds whilst they are sleeping:- we sacrifice ourselves to the smoking community.
It definitely isn't real smoking, because us social smokers don't buy our own cigarettes.
Honestly! Sometimes I feel so desperately sorry for someone walking on the road with a smoke hanging out his mouth, that I will stop him and ask for one, out of the goodness of my heart, just so he doesn't feel so alone. I'm just that kind of guy. Of course one has to be careful how you ask. The other night I found myself standing next to a particularly burly smoker at the pub, dressed in a blue Bulls supporter's jersey. I thought 'Shame, he must really feel like an outcast,” so I put my arm around his shoulders (in that camaraderie way us social smokers have), smiled sweetly up at him and said "Fag?".
He hit me.
But back to Mrs Ed. Unfortunately she doesn't have the willpower to social smoke. It's only us real strong people who can manage that. For the twelve years since she gave up, Mrs Ed wouldn't, and couldn't, go near a cigarette - she did not want to go through that ordeal again. The family, nay the entire neighbourhood, did not want her to go through that ordeal again.
And so for over a decade everything went smoothly…. until (cue eerie music) The Weekend Away! Just over a year ago, Mrs Ed and her sister embarked on a road trip. I think they were taking their broomsticks in to be serviced… or their pointed hats for a wax… or something. But when they returned? They smoked. It was as simple as that. Somewhere along the road one of them must have had a 'drag' and that was it. Hooked for life.
Again.
They left like Thelma and Louise - sucking in lungsfull of fresh air…. and returned in a car full of smoke, like Gorillas in the Mist.
I was totally thrown, of course. It put so much pressure on my social smoking campaign, I was up to twenty 'socials' a day in no time (I reiterate:- we social smokers cannot bear to see anyone smoking alone).
But now she's decided to give up. I think it's the hacking cough that's been the deciding factor - she says I'm keeping her awake. Of course I sat with her one evening - well actually it wasn't quite 'with her' … (it was more over the phone if the truth be told) and bravely pointed out that by saving R30 a day that would be R210 a week, R840 a month, R10 080 a year! She was quite taken.
“That's enough for a three week camping holiday,” she said thoughtfully.
“EXACTLY!” I answered.
So the giving up date is set for next Tuesday, and despite the impending vicious mood swings, violent tempers and threats of physical violence, I am not scared at all. Why should I be? I 'm pretty sure she will have recovered by the time I get home from my three week camping trip!
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