Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I've Moved On
It's not you... it's me. This blog has been relocated to giveyourwifeacookie.wordpress.com. Change your bookmarks. The site will have all of these blogs as you see them and will have many more added with a much nicer look and feel.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Floor Cleaning Experiment
There are many days when I come home after work and don't take notice of the great effort my wife put in to cleaning the house. Most days that this happens I am just to exhausted to notice. We keep our home pretty well organized and clean on a regular basis. She still likes to go through and do a thorough job while I'm gone and can't get in the way. Still, with the house never in terrible shape it can be easy to overlook the detailed cleanliness that results from her hard work (I'm not a detail oriented person by nature, anyway).
Being told, "You didn't say how clean the house looks" is almost a ritual at this point. Now the tables are turned. I prepared a little experiment. staying at home while she was at work and I had a few things I needed to clean up while she was away. It was the typical honey-do list. The big project was the floor. (It really only needed to be Swiffered.) I cleaned the floor, as was the plan, and waited for her to come home. It looked decent at the end, but then I tracked all kinds of loose junk all over it when I came in the house from being outside (I didn't care enough to do anything about it).
I was playing video games when she got home, just to make it appear as though I was my usual self who hadn't done anything all day. (Not because I just love playing video games.) She comes back to see me and I say hello and she says nothing about the floor. Hours go by while she plays Zelda (Success!!!) without a word. Finally, while I'm getting dinner ready she asks if I cleaned the floor.
First of all, she didn't mention that the floor looked clean. To me, it looked much the same as it always does, but if she couldn't tell the difference then I needed to play along with it for a while. I told her I had forgotten the floor. I cleaned the bathroom, but not the floor. She looked irritated at this. Why did I not tell her the truth? I wanted to see if she would notice!
Almost twenty minutes passed and she did not say anything outside of the usual lecture about how lazy I can be. Being terrible at keeping secrets from her, I couldn't keep it in much longer. Slowly, I walked up to her, put my arm around her shoulders and as we looked out across the nearly spotless floors (remember my tracking filth in) she started to sense something was up. Bursting into laughter I told her that I had cleaned the floors and I just wanted to see if she would say anything when she got home. She had failed my test.
Apparently, I had failed hers too. After dinner I asked her on a scale of 1-10 how disappointed she was with me. She said 4. She wasn't disappointed at all. That is when I realized she had lower expectations of me than I had thought. The even further disappointment came later that night. (Not that you sicko!) She was brushing her teeth and called me into the bathroom and saw the major areas I had missed cleaning. Not least of which was the fully clouded mirror or the soap scum on the sink. All that planning on pulling one over on her failed because I couldn't escape my nature and overlooked the easy targets.
Maybe next time.
Being told, "You didn't say how clean the house looks" is almost a ritual at this point. Now the tables are turned. I prepared a little experiment. staying at home while she was at work and I had a few things I needed to clean up while she was away. It was the typical honey-do list. The big project was the floor. (It really only needed to be Swiffered.) I cleaned the floor, as was the plan, and waited for her to come home. It looked decent at the end, but then I tracked all kinds of loose junk all over it when I came in the house from being outside (I didn't care enough to do anything about it).
I was playing video games when she got home, just to make it appear as though I was my usual self who hadn't done anything all day. (Not because I just love playing video games.) She comes back to see me and I say hello and she says nothing about the floor. Hours go by while she plays Zelda (Success!!!) without a word. Finally, while I'm getting dinner ready she asks if I cleaned the floor.
First of all, she didn't mention that the floor looked clean. To me, it looked much the same as it always does, but if she couldn't tell the difference then I needed to play along with it for a while. I told her I had forgotten the floor. I cleaned the bathroom, but not the floor. She looked irritated at this. Why did I not tell her the truth? I wanted to see if she would notice!
Almost twenty minutes passed and she did not say anything outside of the usual lecture about how lazy I can be. Being terrible at keeping secrets from her, I couldn't keep it in much longer. Slowly, I walked up to her, put my arm around her shoulders and as we looked out across the nearly spotless floors (remember my tracking filth in) she started to sense something was up. Bursting into laughter I told her that I had cleaned the floors and I just wanted to see if she would say anything when she got home. She had failed my test.
Apparently, I had failed hers too. After dinner I asked her on a scale of 1-10 how disappointed she was with me. She said 4. She wasn't disappointed at all. That is when I realized she had lower expectations of me than I had thought. The even further disappointment came later that night. (Not that you sicko!) She was brushing her teeth and called me into the bathroom and saw the major areas I had missed cleaning. Not least of which was the fully clouded mirror or the soap scum on the sink. All that planning on pulling one over on her failed because I couldn't escape my nature and overlooked the easy targets.
Maybe next time.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wife, meet mistress...
My habitual gaming has always been a divisive subject between my wife and I. Another blog I write along with my friends is called Redcoat Gamers. My most recent entry talks about what it is like for the two of us while she copes with my alleged "addiction" and I come to terms with her lack of understanding. Well, hopefully, all that is in the past. See my story for Redcoat Gamers about our most recent development.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
She's Gonna' Want A Damn Foot Massage!
The idea for this blog came from my wife's own mind. There are moments that she realizes just how crazy or unreasonable she can be. When she doesn't I will sometimes chuckle to myself, or maybe loud enough for her to hear (that can be a big mistake depending on her mood). Since I don't want to alienate any female readers I may appeal to, men seem crazy to you, I understand. For the ladies there should be another blog "If You Want To See Pigs Fly Strap A Rocket To My Man". But that's not what this is.
I work on the weekends while my wife cleans around the house (very modern, I know). I come home and am usually too exhausted to function in any meaningful capacity. Most Saturday afternoons I just want to sit on the couch and turn on the Playstation or lay in bed and relax. My wife is usually prepared for these desires to just unwind. However, on some occasions there is still work to be done around the house or she is sick of talking to the cats and wants real conversation.
Last Saturday she wanted a bit more. She worked very hard getting the house ready for some friends that were coming to town and spending the night with us. I worked very hard on my feet all day in sweaty socks and just wanted that cool down time. My wife came into bed and lay next to me. We started talking about our days and all of a sudden she decides she wants something to drink. Ah, the proverbial cookie. I roll out of bed and get her her cool beverage, take it upstairs and leave it next to her to drink. I get back into bed and put my pillows at the foot of the bed so my wife and I can face each other as we talk. I lean back into the soft embrace of fluffy goodness. My eyes closed I begin to feel the hectic day fall away from the shores of my sanity, like the slow receding ocean tide.
Suddenly, I felt her foot pressed into my sternum strong enough to send the air in my lungs shooting out like a pinched balloon let loose to fly. I open my eyes and I see her gaze. Her eyes soft to appeal to my sympathetic nature and head tilted to the side like a kitten desperate to be held. Between having your breath ripped form the grasp of your lungs and her pathetic stare I couldn't help but let out a sigh of exasperation. She says, "What?" in such a way that for you to test her wishes would mean certain death. Now she has her glass of milk. Vocalizing my analogy for her she then says, "That sounds like a great title for a blog."
"Well, babe," I reply. "This will have to be something where I talk about just how crazy women are to men."
We have come to an agreement. I will write about all the absolutely ridiculous antics I put up with in the most biased way possible and in exchange she will always get her glass of milk to go with that cookie baked from hallucinogenic mushrooms that make her so damn nuts.
This should be fun.
I work on the weekends while my wife cleans around the house (very modern, I know). I come home and am usually too exhausted to function in any meaningful capacity. Most Saturday afternoons I just want to sit on the couch and turn on the Playstation or lay in bed and relax. My wife is usually prepared for these desires to just unwind. However, on some occasions there is still work to be done around the house or she is sick of talking to the cats and wants real conversation.
Last Saturday she wanted a bit more. She worked very hard getting the house ready for some friends that were coming to town and spending the night with us. I worked very hard on my feet all day in sweaty socks and just wanted that cool down time. My wife came into bed and lay next to me. We started talking about our days and all of a sudden she decides she wants something to drink. Ah, the proverbial cookie. I roll out of bed and get her her cool beverage, take it upstairs and leave it next to her to drink. I get back into bed and put my pillows at the foot of the bed so my wife and I can face each other as we talk. I lean back into the soft embrace of fluffy goodness. My eyes closed I begin to feel the hectic day fall away from the shores of my sanity, like the slow receding ocean tide.
Suddenly, I felt her foot pressed into my sternum strong enough to send the air in my lungs shooting out like a pinched balloon let loose to fly. I open my eyes and I see her gaze. Her eyes soft to appeal to my sympathetic nature and head tilted to the side like a kitten desperate to be held. Between having your breath ripped form the grasp of your lungs and her pathetic stare I couldn't help but let out a sigh of exasperation. She says, "What?" in such a way that for you to test her wishes would mean certain death. Now she has her glass of milk. Vocalizing my analogy for her she then says, "That sounds like a great title for a blog."
"Well, babe," I reply. "This will have to be something where I talk about just how crazy women are to men."
We have come to an agreement. I will write about all the absolutely ridiculous antics I put up with in the most biased way possible and in exchange she will always get her glass of milk to go with that cookie baked from hallucinogenic mushrooms that make her so damn nuts.
This should be fun.
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