Sunday, 25 October 2009

Women make it complicated......... (but it's kinda ok.) :o)

I wrote this a while ago………. Took it out of an email I was writing at the time, and made it stand up on it’s own. Go on……… tell me I’m wrong. :o)

Women make it complicated

That's the one thing that worries me about getting the love of my life.......... women have a gift for making things real complicated......... for example, you fancy something to eat, and they start insisting you heat your beans in a saucepan, transfer them to a clean plate, add lettuce, cabbage, cucumber and stuff like that, and lord knows what else. Most of it has to be bloody opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans, casserole dishes, you-name-it, too.

Then you gotta make up some gravy / sauces / dressings and things called ‘garnishes’; I ask you, what’s a bleddy garnish? All this makes a helluva mess, and so then you’ve gotta wipe up all the clutter, clean the damn chopping board(s) (just the one will never do!), and all the stuff you used to mutilate, sorry ‘prepare’ the food.

Even though you’ve been up to your elbows in soap and water for half the day, you have to wash your hands for the tenth time, get out knives / forks / spoons / chopsticks and other things you never knew existed before you met her, and lay the damn table, using a nice white Irish linen cloth. That’s the one that has to be washed every time you as much as look at it, and not to mention ironed as well afterwards.

I mean…… IRONING a table cloth??? Jees!

Then, because it’s now fast becoming a ‘romantic’ meal, when you thought it was just ‘fancy something to eat’ you gotta turn the telly off, find the candles, fix them in the holder, and light the soddin' things. Bugger, burnt your fingers. Now you gotta run your hand under the cold tap, and suffer the indignity of being told you're “such a baby” into the bargain, and not to make a fuss 'cos it can't hurt THAT much, (It bleddy well DID!) as she holds your hand under the tap with all the grip of a hairy-assed Sumo wrestler. Strength mysteriously absent when she didn't have the strength to carry the four-tons of shopping she made you bloody buy yesterday, and on your day off too.

Then you gotta dry your hand in a clean towel, get told off for getting garage grease and stuff under your nails, then get a real bollicking for being vulgar, when you nuzzle up close to her scented long neck and suggest to her that dipping them in some fresh, warm, Pussy Juice would get it off it real easy. Her sensitivity is pretty rich considering she spent half of last night with her legs over your shoulders, shouting “FUCK ME!! FUCK ME!!” to the neighbours.

There were you, thinking that it was what you were doing all along, surprised and dismayed that she hadn't noticed you were doing your bloody best! She shouted “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”, so you’d tried to get a few more revs up, without falling out and missing a stroke, despite the cramp in your left calf and splitting a couple of toenails scrabbling for some grip with the other leg on the damn slippery black silk sheets. The ones she suggestively mentioned would be soooo sexy. The ones you knew bloody well were going to be trouble the second you looked at the price tag, as you coolly flourished the plastic to impress her with your New Man Spares No Expense style.

Anyway, by the time she's got the Burneeze cream out, and struggled with the plasters that won't stick because of the overzealous application of the cream plastered on your fingers, everything has gone all to pot, quite literally. The gravy's gone all weird, the stuff you opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans/ casserole dishes/ you-name-it, has gone all to hell too, and the candles have dripped wax all over the bloody Irish linen white thing you'd been forced to spread on the table.

She’s started to knock up something else, to replace the burnt stuff, and for sure-certain you can feel a good few more laps of kitchen-based domesticity coming up. You resign yourself, and start to scrape the burnt pans, after being told not to "just-stand-there-looking-at-it-if-you-hadn't-made-all-that-fuss-and-been-more-careful-in-the-first-place-it-wouldn't-have-burnt". Your helpful suggestion that maybe if you could “sort-of-just-stir-it-all-together-and-see-what-it-tastes-like, babe”, meets with a disgusted “Don’t be stupid; you can’t do that!”.

“Actually you can”, you think to yourself, but know full well that such thoughts won’t overwhelm her powerful Girl-Logic software systems, and so you strategically keep the thought secreted well away from the Brain-to-Mouth short circuit, that has dropped you right in it so often before.
At long last, after a repeat of the whole performance, you finally sit down to eat. You find yourself thinking “What a bleddy price to pay for a regular shag”, and just in time shut the thought down in blind panic, only too aware of her sensitive telepathic and intuitive skills. The ones have seen right into your thoughts so many times in the past. HOW does she do that?
Then there’s trying to see what you're doing in the soft, dimpsy candlelight, whilst attempting to look into her eyes romantically, and not spoil it by being a wuss, and wincing at the pain of the damn fork pressing into your burnt fingers. When you see how she is looking back at you, you realise, with the fixed grin that you desperately try to warm up, that lovemaking that night is going to call on every ounce of proficiency you have at your disposal.

Too late, she’s triggered your simple and hair-triggered Primary Man Circuits. The Member for Bathpool is stirring, albeit pretty half heartedly like mortally wounded old soldier making one last effort to rise up and salute the distant call of the Bugle; loyal to a fault, and willing to fling himself into the breech one last time for Honour and Valour. You find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you’d avoided introducing the Ferret again that morning, close thing though it was, after climbing aboard twice last night. Doesn’t she realise the damn Well isn’t bottomless? “Not really” is the obvious answer, by that look of “You’re going to be a Lucky Boy tonight!” in her Make-Sure-He-Notices furtive glances at you.

Then she goes and reaches up and does that thing with her hair. The thing she does without knowing how it leaves you helpless, and at her mercy every single time. With an inward sigh of contented resignation you smile at her, knowing she’s always going to have her way without even trying.

Still, you remembered dreaming of one day meeting a gorgeous nymphomaniac just like her, but sometimes realise it’s resulted in life being much more complicated, and an awfully long way off the simple life you once enjoyed. For instance; Getting up out of the armchair when the adverts start, opening a tin of beans, shoving a spoon into the tin, and back to sit down again before the film kicks in again.


Done in a jiffy,………..and if you lick the spoon clean, absolutely no washing up.



No Wucking Forries! :-)

© Kevin Udy.

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