Tag Archives: Egomania

Who’s Wearing the Smarty-Pants in this House?

For years, I’ve assumed I’m smarter than Paul. There’s no proof. It’s just nice to believe that. In fact, he has a master’s degree, and I have two associate degrees (which adds up to a bachelor’s degree, right?). So he’s a bit farther along in education.

At the very least, though, I’ve assumed I’m cleverer than he is, but I’m beginning to wonder.

Trying to get my handyman to do something (that doesn’t involve food) can be difficult. For twenty-two years, I’ve tried asking, sweet-talking, nagging, begging, and bribing, but if he’s not interested, the project will remain a theory. Possibly forever.

So recently when I decided to order parts, with permanent adhesive, to take care of something, I told him, “I got this stuff, and I’ll go ahead and take care of it.”

After two decades of watching me park the car at an angle between straight lines and put clothes on inside-out, Paul seemed a little worried, but I could see his look of amusement, and I could read his mind:

“She’ll never do it. She’s too scared she’ll get it wrong. And she will. She’s going to bug me to do it, but I’ll get around to it sometime. Maybe.” I paraphrase.

So he didn’t seem too worried as he said, “Great!

Game on.

Every couple of weeks, I announced, “I’m gonna take care of that today.”

Paul smiled, all patient and wise, and said—with a homicide-inspiring amount of patronizing in his tone—“Okay. Sounds good.”

The other night I’d had it with both of us. I grabbed the stuff I needed—including the permanent adhesive—and I asked, “Do you have something called ‘mineral spirits,’ Sweetie?” (Mineral spirits, it seems, are something that help clean up what those in the construction trade call “boo-boos.”)

I said this as I clipped the tip of the adhesive tube and grabbed the item to be glued—to the wall and the bathtub simultaneously.

I noticed an entire lack of smirk on his face. He said, “Sure. Let me get it for you” as he trotted to a closet while frequently looking over his shoulder to see how the glue application was going.

He set the mineral spirits on the counter and stood frozen, watching me actually do this thing.

Suddenly it dawned on him all the times I’d said during the last few months, “I’m so nervous to do this. You know I’m not handy. I’m so afraid I’m going to mess it up.”

Then the would-be hero of the story asked—with lots of helpfulness in his tone—“Would you like me to do that?”

I handed over the items so quickly I think I knocked the wind out of him.

My only question is: Why did it take so many years for me to figure this out?

Paul’s had it sorted for years: “If I prove that I can’t do something the way she wants me to, I don’t ever have to do it.”

His equation for working around me:

1 + 1 = 2

(Can’t argue with elegance.)

 

My equation for working around him:

 

complex logic_public domain
I’m confused, and I think Paul might be asking me for a threesome in this scenario.

I get who’s really the smart one.

 

Of Rodeo Clowns and Waterboarding

Acceptance

I accept that:

I’ve aged enough to become invisible, which I agree is a superpower.

I’ll never understand someone else’s delusions because I’m busy with my own.

When I sing, I hear a blend of Amy Winehouse and Billie Holiday, and everyone else hears cats being waterboarded.

When I dance, I see the love child of Gene Kelly and Martha Graham, but everyone else sees a rodeo clown who’s amped on cocaine while doing interpretive dance and running from a bull.

I’m on fire!

Confessions of a Stat Slut

There. I’ve revealed my sin in the title, and I feel reborn. Life is new again!

Or I’m just sleepy and grumpy because I haven’t finished my morning coffee, and I should work instead of blog.

I do write for my own gratification, but as you’re reading this (she says with uncharacteristic confidence that anyone is interested), you know that’s not completely true. Otherwise why would I inflict share my thoughts with the universe?

On that first day of blogging, lo those many weeks ago, I announced with deceptive confidence, “I’m writing for me!”

“Good for you, Sweetie,” Paul said, checking the horizon for shark fins.

“I don’t care if I ever become popular. Or publish my memoirs. Or Oprah interviews me because she’s fascinated by my life.”

Paul tossed “That’s the spirit!” over his shoulder as he checked his watch and bolted from the house.

And ever since that day, I’ve written and posted without worrying about whether or not anyone’s reading my stuff.

Or I’ve checked my blog stats every. single. day. How many views? How many visitors? How many views per visitor? I’ve had visitors from Ireland, Australia, and the United Kingdom today! There’s been drool.

I stunned Paul out of his office chair by blurting “I got another visitor from India again! It’s probably the same person, right?!”

As he ponders the laws of probability coupled with the population of India, he’s still kind enough not to cast doubt on my hopes.

Paul does try to find this as thrilling as I do, and I appreciate that. Although I would like my popularity to rise with him just a bit.

Yesterday I chirped, “Did you see I posted a haiku today?”

He smiled through his exhaustion and whimpered, “I sure did.”

“What did you think?” Big eyes, wagging tail, piddle on the floor.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t had time to read it.”

Maybe I need to get into pornographic limericks. Or politics. Wait. Maybe I can combine the general concepts:

Clinton’s Cottontails

Got your attention now, Paul? How about the rest of you? May I go viral now, please?