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Read the blog here:- Diary of A Crap Wife

AmeriCymru: Hi and many thanks for agreeing to be interviewed by AmeriCymru. I suppose the first question on many of our readers minds is:- What inspired Crap Wife? What is the story behind the blog?

Crap Wife: Thanks for having me, the site is marvellous- such a strong sense of community! Im sorry to say that CrapWife is me- its how I act and behave for the most part- the label CrapWife is just a way of filling my various shortcomings under one title and conning myself into thinking theres less wrong with me than there actually is.

Theres no real story to the blog, except that i love to write and struggle to find topics that flow easily, a friend had suggested writing about the battles at home, and being as Im no closer to breaking Husband, the blogs proving to be a great outlet. Its nice to know that even if my actions arent having the desired effect at home, theyre at least making people laugh online.

AmeriCymru: 'Husband' is of course a key character in your blog. May we ask how he feels about the project?

Crap Wife: He knows Im up to something- theres been a more sustained attack on him recently and Im nicer to him when I want peace to write the blog. At the moment, he thinks that I play a lot of online scrabble and am perhaps writing a Childrens book for my neice. Daily CrapWife on facebook has sent him a friend request which I have accepted on his behalf... he never logs in, and if he tried, Ive changed his password.

AmeriCymru: We learn from your bio that:- "The main objective of the blog is to make people laugh and break away from the Bridget Jones/Sex and the City ideas of relationship ideals." Care to expand on this a little?

Crap Wife: Im convinced that in 40 years time therell be Old Peoples homes full of spinsters wearing knock off Jimmy Choos still waiting for Mr Big- if I had a pound for every female Ive heard slagging off their significant other because theyre not comparable to someone from Sex and the City, then Id have eleven pounds, probably more if I had more friends. Bridget Jones the same, its just not my cup of tea. I dont really like the whole chickflick culture, not to say that there isnt a place for it, just that it doesnt appeal to me- also, I think Bridget Jones looks a bit like what would happen if someone left a waxwork of Cameron Diaz next to a radiator.

AmeriCymru: Humorous writing is not easy, yet you seem to have a natural talent for it. Have you written before?

Crap Wife: Thank you very much! I have written bits and bobs over the years, Im told as a child I showed promise, but I never really followed anything up. Before CrapWife there was CrapTeen. My family have a lot to answer for- theyre all very funny; my Father is very dry and quick witted- he doesnt say much, but when he does, its gold. My Mother has her own special brand of humour and my sister is able to floor me with a look. My grandparents are a fabulous comedy act, and after spending years with them, you learn to have an answer for everything! If I could get one of my Uncles to start blogging, I would- hes in a league of his own. Unfortunately, hes too old to see the keyboard now and the home only lets him out for an hour at weekends.

AmeriCymru: The choir sang Elvis at your wedding. Whose idea was this and which numbers did they perform?

Crap Wife: My mother arranged the Choir, they were absolutely wonderful, I have a great passion for Male Voice Choir music- especially when they sing the Welsh rugby songs (which they did, as a special treat for my extended English family ;-) The Elvis idea was Husbands, I love Elvis we had them singing Cant help falling in love with you, an highlight for me was Ar Hyd Y Nos.

AmeriCymru: What's next for Crap Wife?

Crap Wife: I intend to keep blogging, I am finding it immensely rewarding, and am having so much fun with it. The Husband-torture has gone on long before the blog, and itll go on long after no doubt, but its lovely to think that there are people out there enjoying reading about it.

AmeriCymru: Any final message for the members and readers of AmeriCymru?

Crap Wife: Of course! Thanks for reading and please support a local wife on the verge of braining her Husband- I would love to be able to reach more readers, so anyway you can pass on the blog would be appreciated greatly, also, if anyone of you has a suggestion for a torture method Ive not yet thought of then please, please let me know.

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Reprinted with permission from David Western's blog , all material 2011, David Western --


Recently I was asked why we carve a lovespoon each year for the West Coast Eisteddfod. This wasn't a cheeky 'what-the-hell-do-you-want-to- go-and-do-that-for' question, but a genuine question from a non-Welsh viewer who had stumbled across the blog by accident and was curious about the custom.
So for those who aren't really familiar with the tradition and those who have been bullshitted by all the website souvenir sites, here's the lovespoon story in a very brief nutshell.

Lovespoons are but one of several wooden romantic tokens which enjoyed their heyday during the period of approximately 1650-1900. Each was carved as a gift by a lovestruck young man and would have been presented to the girl (or in some cases, girls) who had captured their hearts. The craft flourished throughout Europe but today, is only practiced in a meaningful way by the Welsh.

Nobody knows for sure where lovespoon carving originated, but strong traditions developed in Wales, Sweden and Norway and examples have been collected from most European countries. The oldest Welsh spoon was created in 1667 and is housed in the collection of the National History Museum of Wales at St Fagans near Cardiff. A German spoon dated 1664 is housed in the collections of the German National Museum in Nuremburg, and as far as I have been able to tell, is the oldest dated lovespoon currently known. It is unlikely that the custom dates back much further than the early 1600's despite wonderfully romantic theories of the custom having a direct link with the Celts of yore. Most of the romantic wood tokens originated around the same period and both the social and economic situation of earlier times make it unlikely they date back much before 1600.

In Scandinavia the custom seemed to be for the spoons to be a bit more conservative in design than the Welsh spoons. Many were quite simply carved and were given as 'feeler gifts' by young men who wanted to check the lay of the land and see what the reaction would be from one or more girl. These spoons were often less elaborately carved than spoons given when the young man was more certain of his passion and expected a more positive response from the young lady of his fancy.

It has been suggested that acceptance of a lovespoon was a betrothal promise, but this has never been proven and it is far more likely that acceptance of the spoon merely indicated mutual interest and a 'green light' for a courtship to begin.

Unlike the Welsh, the Scandinavian tradition also embraced the idea of 'Wedding spoons.' Strictly speaking, these are not lovespoons in the tightest definition of the tradition as they were only brought out once the romance had been finalized by the wedding. In Norway, an elaborate double bowled spoon connected by a long length of chain link was used when the Wedding Couple ate their first meal together, symbolizing the wife's new status as married woman and housewife.
In Sweden, the wedding spoon's purpose was often much less serious and a number of 'joke spoons' were developed for use by the couple at their festivities. The reversed bowls found on many of the spoons would have made it difficult for the couple to eat together and would have made for a comical spectacle....especially with the wedding party likely being well fuelled by alcoholic beverages!

The Welsh lovespoon has always been the more exuberant cousin to the European spoons though. Generally the Welsh spoons were much less conservative in design and embraced a much wider variety of symbols. Although it is unlikely that the spoons could have been 'read like a book' by the mostly illiterate rural folk who gave and received them, it is likely that many symbols would have been well known and would have had meaning. Hearts for love, diamonds for prosperity, keys and locks to indicate security or a heart held captive were all easily understood and as spoon carving developed, more symbols would have likely been created. Modern Welsh lovespoon carving has added a variety of 'traditional' symbols which were unknown on historical examples.....but that is tradition....always in change!




Today, handcarved lovespoons are heirloom quality gifts which are given at engagements, weddings, anniversaries and a host of other occasions where a gift of deep sentiment is required. Although the symbolism may have changed throughout the years, the relevance of alovingly carved spoon given with sentimental or romantic intent is as strong as ever. As a symbol of Wales and the warmth and passion of the Welsh people, it would be pretty hard to find a more iconic tradition than the lovespoon.

So THAT is why we carve one each year.



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The Power of a Badge. . .


By Ian Price2, 2011-03-17

Another example of how the government thinks!

A DEA officer stops at a ranch in Texas , and talks with an old rancher. He tells the rancher, "I need to inspect your ranch for illegally grown drugs." The rancher says, "Okay, but don't go in that field over there," as he points out the location.

The DEA officer verbally explodes saying, " Mister, I have the authority of the Federal Government with me!" Reaching into his rear pants pocket, he removes his badge and proudly displays it to the rancher. "See this badge? This badge means I am allowed to go wherever I wish . . . On any land. No questions asked or answers given. Have I made myself clear? Do you understand?"

The rancher nods politely, apologizes, and goes about his chores.

A short time later, the old rancher hears loud screams and sees the DEA officer running for his life chased by the rancher's big Santa Gertrudis bull . . . . .

With every step the bull is gaining ground on the officer, and it seems likely that he'll get gored before he reaches safety. The officer is clearly terrified. The rancher throws down his tools, runs to the fence and yells at the top of his lungs . . . .

"Your badge. Show him your BADGE!"

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Threat Level Raised


By Ian Price2, 2011-03-17

ANNOUNCEMENT

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved."

Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.

The Scots have raised their threat level from "Pissed Off" to "Let's get the Bastards." They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.

Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Australia , meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be right, Mate." Three more escalation levels remain: "Crikey,!" "I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend" and "The barbie is cancelled." So far no situation has ever warranted use of the final escalation level.

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Exquisite British humour!!


By Ian Price2, 2011-03-17
The train was quite crowded, and a U.S. marine walked the entire length
looking for a seat, but the only seat left was taken by a well dressed,
middle-aged, French woman's poodle.

The war-weary Marine asked, 'Ma'am, may I have that seat?'

The French woman just sniffed and said to no one in particular
' Americans are so rude. My little Fifi is using that seat.'

The Marine walked the entire train again, but the only seat left was under
that dog.

'Please, ma'am. May I sit down? I'm very tired..'

She snorted, 'Not only are you Americans rude, you are also arrogant!'

This time the Marine didn't say a word; he just picked up the little dog,
tossed it out the train window, and sat down.

The woman shrieked, 'Someone must defend my honour! This American should be
put in his place!'

An English gentleman sitting nearby spoke up, 'Sir, you Americans seem to
have a penchant for doing the wrong thing.

You hold the fork in the wrong hand.

You drive your cars on the wrong side of the road.

And now, sir, you seem to have thrown the wrong bitch out the window'
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Happy St Patrick's Day from AmeriCymru! Someday I'm going to get around to doing a new one, maybe.

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Carlos The Mexican Lodger


By Crap Wife, 2011-03-16
I was asked today if Husband had realised that I would be systematically humiliating him by blog when he said I do. After some thought I concluded that since he was unable to decipher my dulcet Welsh tones until a week last Monday, probably not. Its going to be an interesting day in the CrapWife household when he realises that what he assumed to be a traditional Welsh greeting was actually me telling him I used to be a man, in a broad Swansea accent.
My mood was utterly buoyant this morning, I found it easy to be happy when Husband unwittingly left fo

r work with a DVD stuffed with ham salad and a quid glued to a lemon (to buy Doritos with in case the DVD didnt fill him up.)
The mood however, was short lived. My animals are ruining my life. I know Ive already mentioned the dog
, but I dont think Ive brought up the cats- thats because 2 out of 3 of them hate me. All three cats are second hand,
we inherited two from friends, and the other one just turned up and never left. As per usual circle of life rules, the cats hate the dog, and the dog (being French) is terrified of the cats. This wasnt really a problem, until Carlo came to stay. Were now cat sitting and its the diplomatic equivalent of arranging a seating plan at a Welsh/English wedding during Six Nations Season.
I found a balance around midday where the cats had the conservatory and the dog stayed in the living room with me. About an hour in to this treaty, I notice that there is a lot less light in the conservatory than there used to be. The reason for this appears to be four large tom cats, previously unknown to my garden, sitting on its roof.
I now suspect that Carlos, the greasy Mexican lodger, is pimping out the girl cats. I cant say Im bothered, as long as I get a cut.Atext from the cats owner confirmed that yes; Carlos has been known to dabble in the gutter trades. Its obvious to me that his Bordello attitude is symptomatic of a traumatic early life experience. Im going to ring my mother and see if she can run a risk review and perhaps recommend a counsellingservice.
As if my day hadnt been frustrating enough, I am now 100% sure that Husband is toying with me.
This afternoon, while drinking a premixed Margarita that tasted like sweat,I received a text:
Deconstructed sandwich was a great idea, thanks babe. Cheers as well for putting a DVD in- managed to swap it with Dai for Paranormal Activity 2- we can watch it later? X :-)
He didnt mention the lemon.
YOU CAN ADD CRAPWIFE ON FACEBOOK BY SEARCHING FOR Daily CrapWife OR FOLLOW ON TWITTER @CrapWife
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American vistors to South Wales


By Jeff Phillips, 2011-03-16

Hi all, can I say it has been my pleasure and privilage to have been part of the welcoming party to host travel representatives from the USA this week, on a flying visit. The event was organized by Visit Wales and The British Connection inc, who approached Alan Maggs and myself as partners of the Dylan Thomas Experienceto organize guidesfor the visit. The party were fromNew York,Sausalito CA, Washington DC, Baltimore and Atanta Georgia.On Monday evening after arrival we took them to The Dylan ThomasCentre Swanseawhere we were greeted by Jo Furber the centres manager and historian Who gave them a guided tour of the Dylan Thomas Exhibition. We then went for a superbreception andevening mealat the Morgans Hotel next to the DT Centre.

On Tuesday we gave them a tour of Mumbles and 5 Cwmdokin Drive DT's birth place,and then on to Dylan's grave in Llagharne, where we had arrainged for Peter Read (actor, writer) to recite some of DT's poems in character 'very atmospheric'. We then took them to the Sea View Hotel, Llagharne where Dylan once lived for luch andthenon to the Boat House tour, before returning to Swansea's Dragon Hotel where they were staying. On Tuesday evening we took them for another superb meal at Patrick's Mumbles. A good time was had by all and we are sure that we have made good friends and created an opportunity to show a little of what we can offer visitors to our beautiful region.

Jeff Phillips

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Follow CrapWife at www.crapwifeblog.co.uk

Husband thought the post-it notes were funny. Instead of being annoyed, or even mildly irritated, he laughed and complimented my creativity. Hes driving me mad. Never before have I met one with such a high threshold for torment. Im starting to suspect that hes a robot- maybe it was my broken gearbox that attracted him and not my winning smile.

I didnt sleep particularly well last night, my knee was really giving me some gipp and Husband, in an effort to help me, offered to fetch a heat pad and sleep in the spare room to give me more space. He did this because he feels guilty about the knee.

About six months ago, he slammed the car door on it and it really bloody hurt. Thing is, it didnt hurt for long, but I played on it and as such was treated to some serious guilt pampering from the poor, concerned Husband.
Its what happened after the car door debacle that has caused the long term aches and pains I experience to this day. And Husband knows fuck all about it.

You see I made the mistake of watching Dancing on Ice. I dont normally bother with this sort of thing; it makes me bitter. I have all the grace of an epileptic pool table and if I were to (heaven forbid) don one of the outfits, I'm sure Id look like a lilo stuffed into a condom.
I dont know what came over me on thisoccasion, maybe it was the music, or perhaps I was hypnotised by how Phillip Schofield has blossomed into a Triple F ( fit for fifty.) In truth, it would have been partly due to boredom and as Im sure Ive mentioned, being bored drives me to do stupid things. Stupid things like putting furniture polish on my socks in an effort to recreate the magic of Dancing on Ice on a laminate floor.
Needless to say, Phillip Schofield is the reason the knee still hurts.

Youd think that Id be feeling a little guilty at having misled my husband for personal gain. I can honestly say (as I sit here enjoying a foot massage) I dont. I do however feel a tad guilty about the blog, especially since my mothers read it. She phoned me this evening to advise me that she came across it through Americymru.netwho have posted it for me over the pond.Some how, the thought of the Husband being laughed at in America guilted me into an attempt to restore the karmic balance. After giving myself a talking to, I made him a lasagne and phoned him at work to ask what he wanted in tomorrow's lunchbox.
Anything, babe, I dont mind, make whatever you want.
I get the impression he thinks that this is trivial, how dare he not appreciate me when I'm trying not to be Crap?
Husband, just say what you want... do you want ham, or corn beef, or ham? Tuna and cucumber? Or ham? Have ham, there's loads of ham here. White, brown or pitta?

I dont care babe, ham's fine, I enjoyed it all last week- a ham sandwich is a ham sandwich, I dont care what its in.

As I sit here now, dog at my feet, Husband watching The Magnificent Seven, it occurs to me that yes,putting ham and mustard in a DVD box probably was childish.

I wonder if tomorrow is the day he will break?



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Follow the 'Crap Wife' blog here Diary of A Crap Wife


I had another crap night's sleep last night- it's become apparent to me that our memory foam mattress has either remembered my positioning from my last crap night's sleep, or hasAlzheimers. I fear the latter. Couple this with the fact my husband has taken to sleeping like awing-nut, and you'll begin to understand why I'm in such a shit mood. After of a night of tossing and turning on a bed of knittedflumpsnext to a man who is at least 68% elbow, I'm ready to kill someone.
Unlike most mornings, when I come downstairs to relative silence, this is a weekend day, and as such, hubby is home- making coffee with thefinesseand grace of a Tetleychimp playing the spoons. I muster a smile and try and ignore the dog who looks like something Paris Hilton rejected, in theTescovalue cardigan we've been forced to dress her in since her coat got sheared by an over zealous vet.
I have plans for the day- it's going to be productive, I'm going to organise everything and show Anthea Turner and Martha Stewart that fat Welsh birds can be goddesses too. I'm going to designate drawers forlightbulbs, plant seeds, bake a cake and do some washing- I'm going to put the washing on the line and then iron it, instead of convincing myself that ironing on a need to wear basis is my contribution towards feminism. I'm going to be nice to my husband all day, and show him how much I love him by not demanding a foot massage and cup of tea before I make dinner. In short, I'm going to do everything a crap housewife doesn't do, but first, as a final goodbye to the crap housewife in me, I'm going to sit, watch the news (watch Jeremy Kyle and read the bits of the news that are of interest to me on the Internet,) drink coffee and smoke like the last cake I made.
The dog by now isn't falling for 'where's the cat' 'who's there' 'daddy's got chicken' and 'piss off and let me come round you needy, child substituting ratbag' and as such is demanding a morningcwtch(pronouncedcootch. This, for those who don't know is what the Welsh call a cuddle, it can also mean a small cupboard, whichincidentallyis where the dog will end up if she doesn't stop licking my eyeball.)
The dog (a french breedbichonfrisewho eats shit and backs down in a fight) happens to have the cutest face known to man and has managed to melt me. My mood is improving slowly as thenicotinesoothes my frazzled nerves and the coffee starts the engine, which by the way has failed it's MOT on so many different counts in the last 12 months I'm surprised theDVLAhasn't clamped my slippers. I don't think I'd be surprised if while walking roundSainsbury'smy gearbox fell out in the exotic fruit aisle- take gearbox to mean what you like.
This blog isn't going to mention current affairs or World events often, it's my escape from monotony and the horrors of real life I see unfolding daily, however, I'd be hard pushed not to mention the terrible quake that has hit Japan, and the destruction caused by the resulting tsunami. My thoughts are with the victims and theirfamily'sand I hope that the rescue operation is swift and effective. I'm not going to write much more about the event for fear of becoming maudlin and preachy about the changing face of the planet, but I am going to draw attention to one of my (numerous and likely ridiculous) questions about the effects of a tsunami:
What happens to thesea life? Specifically the sea life with large teeth, poisonous spikes and/or a killer instinct. When the last major tsunami hit in 2004 I couldn't help but wonder if there may be sharks forced inland on the crest of the wave as it were. My husband, who studied marine biology treats this question with that special expression he uses to indicate he thinks I have a mental illness and am cute. I hate this expression, and if I didn't want to know the answer to the question that caused it, I would punch him in the throat.
My husband is convinced that sharks roaming the streets on a surging tsunami is bothunlikelyand stupid, so imagine my delight when I log on tofacebookand see that an old school friend has posted a link to a video titled 'whale flung into building in tsunami'- now obviously, I'm not delighted that such a thing has happened, but I am delighted to be able to wipe the smirk of husband's face (which is sporting it's usual gingery weekend stubble, I may add.)


'In your (ginger) face' I announce. 'In the nearly four years we've been together, when have you been right? I'm always right- just because it didn't occur to you doesn't mean I'm wrong.'
My mood has elevated as there is nothing I enjoy more than being right, especially when I'm right about something the that the husband is considered an expert. He looks sheepish and laughs, being the good loser he is- another something I hate- a good loser is just a loser to me.
My joy is short lived however, as I click on the link and realise that it's been posted to something calledFouTube, and a quick google of the video title reveals that many people have reported this link to be a virus- something I manage to disguise from the husband by telling him the dog's peeing on the carpet (she isn't, but I need to save face.) I've not mentioned the evidence again, I'm hoping he thinks I'm being the bigger person by not rubbing it in his (ginger) face. I think he'll find out though when the laptop dies of Aids.
I manage the chores in record time. I have designated drawers to items I thought I would never own, napkin rings, seeds, little food flags to warn veggies of disguised ham... I have also managed two loads of washing, no mean feat considering that the washing machine is in the bathroom and the line and tumble dryer are in the garden and garage- my hip is especially bad today and I'm known for an innate inability to carry things down stairs without falling over.
I have made good on my bake-a-cake-promise, and what started as ashepherdspie is now a bubblingchilifor the husband. I have filled, emptied and refilled the dishwasher, watered my seedlings and begged them not to die before my sickeningly green fingered mother in law visits- I've also managed to somehow throw make-up at the correct areas of my face without looking like something sponsored byDisney. If I'd managed to shave my legs this morning, I could pass as a decent wife, however that challenge was beyond me and if he's not shaving the autumnal smattering on his chin and upper lip, I'll be buggered if I'm tackling the splintered mess on my shins.
The rest of the day is uneventful and relaxing, exactly how weekends should be. I mean, on the the face of it, I'm not a crap wife at all, I've done the house stuff, made dinner, baked, made myself half decent to the eye, if not the touch.
It's as we enter the evening time that mycrapwifenessnessreally comes out to play, when normal people are starting to breathe, settle and nod off on the sofa, I'm just waking up. And I hate being bored. I have countered this boredom with a series of little games and demands that keep me sane while driving my dear husband into madness. It's a small price to pay. He has the patience of a bulimic with a slow cooker, and I'm constantly impressed with his ability to 'take it on the (ginger) chin.' They're not major things, I don't dress up as Rambo and jump out of cupboards to scare him (anymore.) They're little things, little acts ofdeviancedesigned to wind him up- you see, I can't just accept that he's amazingly laid back and easy going, I have to break him.
It'll start with something simple, like waiting for him to sit down and open a beer and then pretending to loudly die of thirst. He'll try and ignore me and I'll flail around like MichaelHutchenceclutching my parched throat until he gets me a glass of wine. Today though, I've gone straight for the 'silent witness game.' He's trying to watch Top Gear, I've muted it and hidden the remote and he can't have it until he's guessed which kind of horrific death I've suffered as I lay on the morticians block/rug (I've spread my hair out and am rigid, holding my hands claw likein frontof my like a mad woman buried alive.)
We muddle on for ten minutes, him desperately trying to guess the cause of my demise, me corpse like on the floor and bingo-
'electrocuted' he shouts. His relief is palpable. 'By what?' I counter.
Fifteen minutes in he realises it was the electric whisk and rewinds Top Gear. Thank God for V+.
It'd be something if it stopped there. It won't though. There'llbe a hundred little annoyances between Corrie and bedtime, whether it be refusing to say anything other than 'Tuesday' or 'Honalulu' when he speaks to me, or developing a life threatening and noisy ailment only curable with a 45 minute foot massage. By the time we get to bed the poor sod is knackered. But still fucking cheerful. Another day has passed, and as much as I love him, and I really, really do. I will break him.
Bed time is usually my last bid attempt to tip him over the edge. We have lived in this house for four months now and there has not been a single night yet that he's been able to get into bed without fulfilling a challenge. I usually get an attack of the 'can't walks' just before bed, meaning that husband has to coax me into mobility and put me to bed before coming back downstairs to check windows, doors, pets and plants. In this short time I will have arranged myself star-like over both sides of the bed and created a challenge or two that he must complete before he's allowed in. Tonight is no different.
The first is easy, he's to write me a head poem (as in notcommittedto paper) while he showers. He's breathing a sigh of relief at the simplicity of the task and I have to make a lightening quick rewrite to the second challenge for fear of it being too easy...
'You have to shave a lightening bolt into your pubes and make your cock look like a member of Kiss.'
In hindsight, the lightening bolt is more Bowie-esq, but the gauntlet has been set. 'I have to make my cock be in Kiss?' he asks- poor wording poor husband. I'm like a dog with a bone when it comes to calling him gay-
'I didn't say that! You want to put your cock in Kiss! You're gay for Gene Simmons- you want to bum him'
Poor husband is back peddling to no avail, I'm not letting this one go and I'm laughing so much he's now unable to keep a straight face and the challenge has been revised to:
'You don't have to shave you pubes if you can look me straight in the face and say 'I ##### ######, do not want to put my man meat into the ageing arse of Gene Simmons and/or feel hisRockGodtresses tickling my balls or stomach.'
You may be wondering, as I do every single night why he doesn't just say no. This has never happened,admittedlythere is some negotiation about the challenges once in a while, but he has never just refused to do it. I once asked him why this was and he said that it's quicker to do the challenge than listen to me telling him why he should do the challenge- I think that he's playing me, and as long as he doesn't break orjibout then I'm still constantly annoyed by him and his unbreakable resolve. I suppose on some level this gives him the upper hand.


The straight faced Gene Simmons renouncement takes 35 minutes by which time it's too late for him to have a shower- I think I'll attack his personal hygiene tomorrow
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