Mr. Handsome And I Don't See Eye To Eye, Or Maybe We Do, But I Wouldn't Know Because I Rarely Know What He's Talking About
So, Mr. Handsome laughs at my blog. And I don't mean in a good way. As in, how you, my faithful readers, laugh at my blog.
Nay. I mean, the odd time he finds it somewhat amusing, but more often than not, his remark is almost -- shall we say -- condescending. And again, I don't mean that in a good way, if there is a good way with being condescending.
In simpler terms:
condescending = not good
For instance, in case you are doubting my statement above, saying, "Nay nay, sweet Mary, your husband would NEVER be condescending toward you and your blog," let me tell you this: he rolled his eyes at my last post, and said, "You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, aren't you?" But he really wasn't asking me a question. It was more of an absolute statement, like he was the ultimate god of funniness judgment or something equally as important and strangely unique.
Well, he may think he is, but he's not.
I mean, I probably don't even have to really talk about that at all. I could just tell you that he didn't even realize I had the garbage put on the other side of the driveway to irk the neighbours and test them UNTIL HE READ MY BLOG POST ABOUT IT. What does THAT tell you about his awareness and alertness? The man actually backed right by the garbage that morning on his way to work.
In fact, now that I think of it, perhaps his reaction to my blog post was, in reality, more of an immediate negative reaction to the fact that he suddenly realized he hadn't notice the garbage that morning, and felt really incompetent, or maybe he got very scared because he realized he had been sleep-driving again, or maybe only driving with his eyes closed (which he totally does).
He also didn't even realize the little tabby things on hot beverage lids that you get at McDonald's are made so that they stick to the top of the lid, creating an automatic hole from which to drink said hot beverage. I had to tell him. And when I did, his face blossomed like he had just seen God and the heavens above, or maybe just a really hot woman with big breasties (and that woman would not be me, obviously, because (a) I'm rarely hot and (b) I do not, never did, and never will have, big breasts).
All this to say, how am I supposed to even care what he says about my blog when he doesn't seem to even be conscious most of the time? But perhaps the better question is, WHY DO I care? Because I do, that's why.
Remember when he said he refused to read my blog any longer because he deemed it inappropriate? Well, that surely didn't last long, did it? Not even a week. Yeah, he said he started reading it again because he had hurt my feelings when he told me he wouldn't read it any longer, but that's a bald-faced lie if ever there was one. The truth is, he couldn't stand to be away from it any longer. Totally obvious.
Well, when he stopped reading my blog, I think I didn't mind as much as when he was all cynical about it the other day. So, because of this unforeseen and strange reaction of mine, I began to analyze things because that's what I do to try and understand the rather strange and awful world around me. And especially when it comes to trying to figure out my husband. He's a mystery at the best of times. Which is one of the reasons I married him, but we won't touch that topic at the moment.
"So," I say to myself, "poodle, why do you care if he thinks your blog is inane and full of crap? He's obviously wrong, because you have all sorts of people who compliment you on your blog, and tell you you should write a book, or a newspaper column, and he didn't even know not to wear white socks with dress shoes until he met you and you laughed at him."
And the answer I came up with is, I don't know. I just care. I guess it would be kind of cool if my husband actually thought that what I write is, if not awesome, than good enough. And maybe he does think it's good enough. Maybe not.
Hold on while I ask him. Go get a drink while you're waiting. Oh, and you've got some toilet paper hanging out of your pants. You're welcome.
I finally got his attention (he was very focused on taking raw skinless and boneless chicken breasts from their package and re-wrapping them in Saran wrap and foil, so I had to almost yell at him), and asked him. I said, "Is my blog any good?"
And Mr. Handsome said, "What?"
Me: Is my blog any good?
Him: What are you talking about?
Me: My blog.
Him: Uh huh?
Me: Do you like my blog? Is it any good?
Him: Yessss, it is. Most of the time.
Me: Am I a good writer?
Him: Yesssss, Haven't we been over this before?
Me: What's your point?
Him: We've talked about this before. You've asked me this before. Yes, you're a good writer. Sometimes, you're a very good writer. You just sometimes write about inane topics.
Me: So, why don't you like my blog?
By this point, Mr. Handsome is probably ready to throttle me. But instead, he sighs heavily and ignores me for the remainder of the hour.
So, I guess this means he likes my blog. Right?
P.S. The whole garbage thing was moot, guys. Moot. I didn't see hide nor hair of Her. No one even came near our bags of garbage. And then, I found out that it wasn't even green bin week, so Dee had to drag the damn thing all the way back in. The stars mustn't be aligned. I haven't given up yet.