Friday, 25 March 2011

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ORIGINAL BLOG FORMAT WITH PICTURES AT WWW.CRAPWIFEBLOG.CO.UK AND http://craphousewife.blogspot.com/2011/03/diary-of-crap-wife-yawn-poke-gag-scowl.html

Im having to be more covert in my attempt to break him.My mother in law arrived this afternoon and (although shes supportive of the campaign of torment I subject her only child to) it is difficult to get him to dunk his cock in a mug of ice-cold water (in return for access to the bed) when shes asleep in the next room.

Im not known for my subtlety (which is a shame because I wanted to be a spy) and the task is proving difficult.Im not really in a position at the moment to make him take his clothes off in the garden, and because of this Im having to break out the old faithfuls .

Old faithfuls like the yawn game.The yawn game is the simplest form of torture I have ever inflicted.Its so effective that he once told me that it was the most frustrating experience hes had in 30 years on the planet.

Then why did I stop doing it? I hear you ask.

Common sense.When I started the game we were dating, and if Id continued with it, Id never have got him down the aisle.This was around the same time Id started gaining weight, and torturing him before he needed a solicitor to leave me was simply not in my best interests.

I made the decision to retire the game and save it for another day.Like today.

Im going to share with you the genius that is the yawn game.Its a simple case of patience and perseverance.

First, you must ensure that you wake your victim about three times.There are many ways of doing this- I think I heard a burglar is by far the most effective.

When your victim is awake, you allow them to drop off to sleep... and then wake them again. Repeat this process 3 times and then engage them in a conversation about your feelings.

When they start yawning (which they will) poke your finger in their mouth thus making them gag and ensuring that they never complete a full yawn.

It sounds like nothing, but trust me, its the simplest, most effective ploy Ive found to date.

Husband tells anyone wholl listen that for the first year we were together I didnt let him yawn.This is true.Somewhere along the line though, hes forgotten how this made him feel.My previous hard work with the yawn game has become nothing more than an anecdote he tells our friends, hes forgotten the frustration.There was no burglar and he remembers now though.

Youre not starting this crap again, are you? he asked.

What crap? I dont know what you mean? What would you do if I died? Would you ever love again?

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

The not letting me yawn crap, you know what Im talking about. Dont you fucking dare.And Id be crushed if you died. You know that.

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

I tell him, If I died, I dont want you to be happy, mind.I want you to walk round with my ashes in yourmanbagcrying at strangers.

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

Seriously, dont start with the yawn shit again.I know what youre doing. He says .

I want to be buried when I die; I want Living in A Box played at my funeral. I want half the people to be told my last wishes were for everyone to dress in party gear, and the other half to be told to dress in black- that way half will think the other half have been disrespectful and therell be fights. I want fights at my funeral.

Yawn-BollockGrab (you cant be predictable)-Gag-Scowl.

If you start this crap up again then youll be put in a cardboard box withBoyzoneplaying while they burn you with matches.

This is offensive to me; Im not a fan ofBoyzone.

That wont happen, Ill text my sister my wishes and jump off a bridge to spite you.She wouldnt let me down.

Yawn-Poke-Grab-Scowl.

You're scared of heights and anyway, Ill over rule her and then Ill remarry achavto spite you. He says.

Fine, Ill haunt you and stick my finger up your bum before I put it in your mouth when you yawn. Says she.

Husbands getting cross. Im not having this conversation, I had 4 hours sleep last night, its half one and were up at five tomorrow.

Ok, Im sorry, Im not really starting the yawn game again, I just didnt want to sleep-Im upset because Im so fat, I feel really crap babe, Im sure that woman inWyevalewas laughing at me today. I feel really down.

Aww baby, dont be stupid, I love you just the way you are, youre beautiful, youre being silly

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

Seriously, dont start with the fucking poking.

Shhhhhh, Husband, youll wake your mother.

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Original format at http://craphousewife.blogspot.com/2011/03/and-zen-there-were-none-shes-got-stress.html and www.crapwifeblog.co.uk

While packing upitems to take to the charity shop today, I came across a book called the Stress Factor. Beingknown for my ability to prioritise anything over the task in hand, I read it. According to this book I could be damaging my health, happiness and even my chi by being stressed. This needs to stop immediately.

Ive spent most of the day drinking green tea and not letting things bother me.

For example, I am not bothered that Husbands breakfast meeting was moved to lunchtime or that he informed me that hes outgrown his suit and bought another one which is mint (his word, not mine.)

Nor am I bothered that his glasses had discoloured in the sun or that he had enough time to collect new contacts from SpecSavers.

I am not bothered that hes not mentioned the porn mag. And Im not bothered that he didnt pay for lunch, thus avoiding the cocks on the banknotes.

I was not even bothered by getting 50% of the way through this blog before realising that the e button on the laptop is broken and that Ive dropped more es in 200 words than a 90s rave dealer in Ibeefa.

When Husband got home this afternoon, he looked gorgeous, which didnt bother me at all. His meeting had been a success and we drank green tea by the pond, him talking about his meeting, me about how relaxed and not stressed I am.

We discussed current affairs and what to do if a bear is chasing you. I, knowing the answer, told him that if a bear chases you that you must run downhill as bears have short legs and they fall over when running downhill.Oh! How we laughed when husband pointed out that there is nothing to verify this on the internet and that Ive probably been dreaming documentaries again. Clever Husband. Of course, none of his laughing bothered me, being the Zen-like entity I am, I was able to detach myself and rise above it.

Watching Husband in the garden, it became clear to me where I had gone wrong. The zen thing was too much too soon. Hooking me up to a lavender drip and shagging me with a panpipe wouldnt have worked, so a cuppa green tea and some humming was never going to do it.

I cant tell you the exact moment that caused me to snap and lock him out of the house and glue his house key to a plate, but I can tell you I feel better for it.

In short, Ive learned something today. Being a hippy sucks camel dick. It is far more satisfying to make your husband post every item of his new outfit through the cat-flap (in exchange for the use of a key that has not been glued to a plate) than it is to take the high road. Hows that for a fucking mantra?

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It would seem that the hole wasnt a great idea. The dog fell in it and tracked mud through the house. Still, the look on husbands face will make up for having to hoover for the umpteenth time today, wont it?

Youre the best he said as he came through the door You didnt have to hire someone to dig the hole, I was going to do it as a surprise for your birthday! Youve always wanted a pond.

I havent. I have never wanted a pond. Ever. We have three cats and a white dog that falls in holes.Its not practical.

And whos Gary Mole? The service was amazing, he even sent me a letter to tell me that the work was going ahead.

Its at times like these I wonder is it really worth it? I feel like nothing I do is having an effect. Im no closer to breaking him now than I was 3 years ago, yet somehow, hes about 16.4 miles nearer to breaking to me. CrapWife is growing disheartened. And Husbands a knob.

Somewhere during the course of this process weve turned into Wiley Coyote and Road-Runner. Im only ever one cheerful text message away from blowing myself up with some Acme dynamite or launching myself off a cliff.

Great. I say. I found him in the yellow pages.

Well youve been saying that we dont have room for the fish tank- we can put them in the pond now. Itll be lovely. You ruined thesurprisethough.

I am wondering if the holes big enough to bury him in.

Husband shows me the stuff hes bought for my birthday present The filtration system looks expensive, pond liners arent cheap and there are enough plants and gravel chippings to colonise the (super) moon.

Not only have I once again failed in breaking him, Ive probably done myself out of the handbag I actually wanted.

Husband took a half day from work to go and buy this stuff. Hes been out there for hours and has created a sickeningly attractive water feature. The fish wont be in there for another few weeks he tells me, the pond has to mature first. Hes really excited. Hes worked so hard.

You eyes look red, you need to take your contacts out for a while and give them a rest, youve got that meeting first thing and you look like a junkie- got to bed, Ive got a few bits to finish up here, I wont be long

Poor husband has terrible mole-like eye sight and I worry about his eyes. He usually sleeps in his contact lenses and on the rare occasions he takes them out, I have to help him in the morning as he cant see to switch the kettle on, let alone get himself dressed. This is why hiding his contact lenses may have been a tad cruel.

It is for this reason that he probably wont notice that Ive shortened the arms and legs on his suit by an inch. I figure if I also set his alarm for thirty minutes later than usual, hell probably not notice the Gay Porn magazines in his briefcase either.

In a rare attack of conscience, I decide to leave his emergency glasses available. I cant remember where Ive put them though, and I probably wont remember until about 3 minutes before hes leaving the house. I've painted the frames of his emergency glasses with opaque pink nail-varnish- to show my gratitude for all his hard work. As a final thank you (and acting on the innovative suggestion of one of the Crap Wife facebook followers) I draw large cocks on all the bank notes in his wallet. Oh to be a fly on the wall at tomorrow's breakfast meeting.

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A Sunday morning in bed is a beautiful thing. Its on Sunday mornings that Im most grateful that we went down the three cats, 1 dog and an indiscriminate amount as fish route as opposed to the lets have a baby one. For now anyway. This means that I have no stress on a Sunday, and am able to enjoy my day without distraction and be free from responsibility. Usually, anyway. This Sunday Im tamping, because of the mole.

I expected husband to be furious, instead, he was amused.

That moles getting shoddy, werent even proper mole hills he commented over breakfast.

I feigned disinterest and went in the bath.

We spent the rest of the day with my Grandparents. We went to a car-boot sale, had lunch and walked by the sea. Refreshed and calmed by the salty air I was a perfect Wife throughout; attentive, caring and affectionate.

In the evening, we talked, looked at old photos and shared a bottle of wine. We went to upstairs happy, and for once, I didnt subject Husband to a gruelling ritual of embarrassment in exchange for access to the bed. He kissed me good-bye this morning and told me that he loves me.

Monday 21th March, 2011

Dear Mr ######,
First let me introduce myself, I am a local mole, whos been providing subterranean ventilation for lawns in the area for a number of years. I pride myself on my work, and have been instrumental in such local projects as Grass Verge by Canal and Green number 1 at South West Wales Garden Bowls Emproium. I am proud of my work, have a strong family history in the field and have a proven record with my clients.

That is why this letter is so difficult for me to write.

Lately, I have been overloaded with contracts and as such have become shoddy with my work. Where I used to dig complex tunnels and truly ventilate gardens, the recession has meant downsizing my workforce, and I resorted to fraudulent mole hills to meet demands.

Im ashamed of my behaviour and am contacting my clients in the hope that they will understand that I was driven to this by the pressures associated with a wife and 38 children under the age of one.

In an effort to make amends and re-establish myself as the diligent lawn ventilation specialist you've come to respect, I have taken the liberty of digging a large hole in the centre of your lawn. I hope this goes some way towards rekindling the professional relationship I jeopardised.
Yours Sincerely,
Gary.

Ive sent this letter via courier to Husbands place of work. He should receive it within the hour. I'm not digging the hole myself, I have paid a Handy Man to do it, I'm going to paint my nails.

Noingnoingnoingnoingnoingnoingnoingnoingnoing.

Husband as usual is in unshakable mode.

Thats a nice song, did you write it?

Yeah I did actually, I wrote it for you because I love you so much. I also wrote Candle in the

Windregardless of what Elton John says. I sent it to him anonymously because I didnt want to be famous, you know, cause Im shy and stuff.

Youre very clever wife, what did I do to deserve someone like you?

Something really good probably, like winning a Peace prize or inventing Xbox.

Ive been really fancying chilli con carne for some reason and unfortunately the cupboards at home are as bare as the protective coating on my final nerve. After adding Tabasco sauce to toast, crisps and mashed potato I realise that Im going to have to bite the bullet and bring the weekly shop forward a day- I know, maverick behaviour. Being the ever considerate wife I am, I decide that I will do the shopping and time it so that all hubby has to do is meet me at the check out and help me pack.

Husband hates food shopping with me. This is because a month ago we argued over the merits of Welsh butter versus English, when he was off looking for a mango I told the store manager that husband was a stranger whod followed me in from the street. I also hide from him. You may ask how a fat bird with a trolley can do this is an open plan super market? The answer is... head for the tampons. Hell never go there voluntarily.

Husband is on a somewhat odd shift pattern at the moment, and as such, to coincide with him finishing work, I have become a late night shopper. For me, there used to be no greater pleasure than heading to Tescos after 10pm to find a store free from screaming kids and pensioners prodding the pork chops. I find in recent months though, this is no longer the case. The supermarkets are as busy at 10pm now as they would be on a Saturday morning after a half inch of snow. Its madness. This isnt my biggest peeve though, not even close. What really pisses me off about shopping in the late evening is the fact that youre made to feel like youve walked in on a staff party and asked the cabaret act to help you find the tinned peas.

Tonight was no exception. As I listened to Hardcore Bass Volume 4 (while squeezing avocados) I felt the familiar tingle that indicates that the protective film over my final nerve has dissipated. I imagine this to be how the ozone layer over Calcutta feels. Continuing the multi cultural comparisons, the Mayan pyramid of fucking boxes between me and the kidney beans is what finally snaps me.I no longer feel able to face anything as taxing as the weekly shop and so abandon my trolley in favour of a basket and revert to what i know best. Plotting to break the husband.

With 14 minutes to spare I make myself busy picking up items with the gay abandon of Lindsey Lohan in a Jewellers. I find a quiet spot (by the tampons) and begin to sabotage the barcodes on my items.

I spend the three minutes left watching to see which till is screeching unexpected item in bagging area with the most frequency.

One minute remaining to marvel at the familiar sight of half of South Wales police heading for the Hustlers Burger Fridge (if Husband does ever flip and stab me, I sincerely hope its in Llansamlet Tesco as it has the strongest police presence of anywhere Ive ever been before, including Nottinghill Carnival.)

Husband rings to ask where I am:

Just heading to the til, love- would you mind if I leave you with the shopping and go sit in the car- my knees killing me

No worries babe, see you in a second.

I arrange our bags for life onto the packing area and scan the scallops, lamb joint and bleach thus committing him to the transaction. As he walks in, I head towards him, pointing at the til and grabbing the car keys on my way .

See you in five, husband.

Of course I didnt go straight to the car, I instead watched through the window opposite his til. Hed scanned the second cucumber before he saw the three tubes of KY jelly, mansize box of Kleenex and Justin Bieber Teen Idol DVD. By this time assistance was already on its way.

I wish I could tell you what was said between him and Darren here-to-help but hes not spoken to me since.

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