Himself.

Another day, another "why did I bother to get out of bed?" moment.

I know why I get out of bed though. I get bored if I don't, and there's more things to do out of bed. If I had a computer and television in the bedroom, there would be no need to move, except for the necessities of food and the loo. That's why there are neither in my bedroom.

Mind you, staying in bed means that I can quietly avoid himself in the mornings. He's on lates this week, so he will probably get home somewhere round half ten tonight and he left a couple of hours ago.

(Note to readers: I live in GMT and I'm not sure what timezone this thing works on, and as a noob, I have no clue how to change it. I'll investigate another time. Suffice to say, it's just gone midday here *edited in note: I finished writing at just gone 2PM*)

I've been very kind about himself up till now. I suppose that's because I understand some of his frustrations with me being just a little bit useless sometimes, and forgetting that he's asked me to do stuff like feed his fish at night. He asks me just as I'm getting out of bed, all bleary-eyed and whatnot, and then gets frustrated when my memory does a big "yeah right, like I'm going to remember to do that for you" later in the day. I feed mine as I wander past them, and there isn't a specific time to feed them. They just know that when I come near the tank, food is liable to get thrown at them. They're so well trained. His are an entirely different matter however. They have to be fed in the evenings, no exceptions. They're not even specialist fish either. I wanted phirranas (sp?) but he got an eclectic mix of now spoiled fish. They get nice food. Mine get whatever's thrown in the tank that they will eat. His get frozen live food. I daren't touch it for my fish, because he complains that it's his fish food. If I ask him to feed my fish while he's down doing his, I get the rolled eyes, and the "Why cant you feed your fish? They're your fish after all. You should feed them." Pfft... men...

Anyway, the fish are just one of my niggles with himself. I'm having a very "miffed with himself" day, so I thought I'd share. It might help me not be so niggled at the end, but we shall see...

He has this problem that the vast majority of men do: Laundry-basket blindness. He can't see or find one, so his laundry goes on the floor. He only mentions his lack of clean when he's just about to run out of socks, or when he comes home in his last pair of work trousers asking if any are clean, because he needs a clean pair for the next day. Admittedly he did the last load of washing, but only because he was running out of things to wear, nothing having made it to the laundry basket. So he does a load, asks me to take it all out the washing machine and hang it up, because he will be at work. I dutifully do so. His trousers, his work shirts, his socks, his underwear, a few more of his t-shirts.... and one sock of mine. This is the other form of laundry blindness: Washing needs done because he's running out of things, so only his things make it to the machine. Admittedly he came unglued with this type of washing recently. I had organised the laundry to be done into piles before heading off to see a couple of friends for a weekend. I come back to find that he's done a load. His washing of course. He washed his nice wool jumper too...

You can see this coming, can't you?

It came out the washing machine along with his t-shirts, socks and so on... and it was probably the size of jumper he was wearing when he was 3. I laughed. Lots. I tried to resurect it, but it was a lost cause. His favourite jumper's next trip was to the bin. I even phoned my mum to tell her so she could laugh lots too. She did.

OK, I know I'm stuck home all day and should be turning into a Stepford Wife by now, but it's just sometimes too hard to do all the housework. My house could be a lot cleaner, I know that for a fact, but it comes down to the fact that I end up doing it all the time and only when I can. Dishes pile up in the kitchen sometimes. Laundry lurks and makes me feel guilty for not doing it. I sit watching television, or sit in front of the computer feeling like a fraud, because I feel fine... Then I stand up and the world goes sideways.

It's not till you can't do something that you break down the simple tasks into what you actually have to do. Lets take the washing for a good example. You fetch it, stuff it in the machine, take it out, hang it up, fold it when it's dry and put it away. All good till you break it down even further. To fetch it, you have to bend into the laundry basket, or to pick it up off the floor, and you maybe bend a few times to do that. I have to go downstairs at that point with an armful of laundry and no hand for the banister or wall to balance, so I go down with my shoulder on the wall, or bounce off the wall all the way down. Then you have to put it in the machine: More bending as you stuff it all in there. Straighten up, shut the door of the machine. Bend to get the washing tablets from under the sink, put them in, turn the machine on. When it's done, you go to the machine, and put the basket in front of it, open machine, bend to get all the washing out, pick up the loaded basket, then go to wherever you have your airer, line, dryer, whatever. (I had a washing line till we redid the garden and he accidentally leaned some slabs against my line which was propped against the shed and bent it, so no more washing line...) So... you bend to the basket, straighten the clothing, hang it up, bend for the next bit... repeat till you have an empty basket, then when it's dry, repeat in reverse, folding the stuff as you go, then it has to go back upstairs and into the cupboards and drawers.

All of that is a lot of bending, turning, moving about with no free hand to steady myself, and frankly is a lot more of a chore than normal. I don't mind doing it on good days. On bad days, all the movement makes me want to throw up. On really bad days, the washing can go do itself for all I care.

I honestly have no idea how much of this himself actually understands. Sure, he's patient sometimes, but if I get frustrated, he has a nasty habit of snapping and getting arguentative instead of trying to diffuse the situation, or understanding where I'm coming from. I get the feeling that sometimes he doesn't even want to try understanding. He seems to be very busy getting sympathy because his wife is unwell, unable to do things, but not a lot of that sympathy actually comes my way.

OK, I said I don't want pity, but there's a difference. Sometimes I just want a hug and to be told it will be OK. He's not a huggy person. He used to be, but now he isn't. That fizzled out some years ago, but I suppose I thought the occasional hug while I'm quietly going nuts here would help things for both of us. Is a hug too much to ask for? It's as much as he can do sometimes to remember to give me a kiss on his way out the house.

I'm a very tactile person. I like the hugs and touches, the gestures, the hand-holding. I get to hold his hand in town, but only if my balance is really playing up, or it's not too hot/cold/rainy/whatever. We sit on opposite ends of the sofa, or worse, on different ones. In bed, there's enough space for the cat to curl up between us, which he does quite happily and purrs at me as I pet him while himself lies with his back to me and the cat. His bed habits do have one advantage though: I know for a fact that if I go to bed after him (normal) and he's hogging the bed, I just slide in my side, and he automatically turns over to face the wall, leaving me enough room to sleep. Sometimes he will even scooch over so far to his side that he's damn near falling out of bed. He blames me for this, but I blame the cat, because there's usually that space between us when he does it.

I've got so many complaints about himself, most of which I've already aired with him, sometimes quite loudly when the frustration takes over. He's just as loud though, and half the time, he shouts first, but in usual female style, I drag up all the issues while we are shouting anyway. Might as well get it all over with at the same time.

He's unlikely to read this, even if I do get round to giving him the link. I sometimes feel that whatever I do isn't important or woth his attention. I make christening gowns for fun, but I'm going to try to go into the business of making them for people and selling them. I tried discussing it with himself. "Have you thought this through properly?" was the only response I got out of him. Of course I have. I've been contemplating it for months. It was the family friend who finally gave me the push to do it. He's never seen any of my work, but he still has the faith in me that I will be able to do it. I've asked himself what he thought of the gowns. "It's a dress" was the best I got out of him.

I, on the other hand, have to be interested when he taks bout his work, what he does, who he's seen, spoken to, what he's been doing to his car... Foolishly perhaps, I decided to get my revenge one day. "What do you think?" he asked as he finished poking about at something in his car. "It's an engine" I replied. Ooooh, I should have taken a picture of the look on his face! You could see it written all over there "But you're not supposed to say that. You're supposed to be interested in what I've done! Look, I've done a good job. Tell me I've done a good job!" I didn't. I wandered off and giggled in private.

I would also like to mention the "Three special words" himself uses a lot. I ask a question, and now I'm just waiting for the reply. I told a friend about it, and she didn't believe me, so I proved it. She came over for dinner. I made something really nice, probably a roast or something with all the trimmings. I asked the obvious question: "How's your dinner?" Right on cue came the response from himself: "Very nice dear". Well, I tell you. My friend nearly spat her dinner across the table as she dissolved into a fit of the giggles. I just smiled and carried on eating as himself sat there with a bemused look on his face wondering what our friend was not very quietly dissolving into hysterics over.

It's the same all the time. "How's your dinner?"... "Very nice dear." What do you think of my new blouse? "Very nice dear." What do you think of the garden? "Very nice dear."

I watched Shirley Valentine the other night on my own and I thought "That's me". It was depressing. If you don't know what I'm on about, get the film and watch it. In one part, she talks about her husband saying "I love you" and how she sees it now as not being anything more than a quick fix solution from him. There's a problem, so saying "I love you" fixes it. It's just words with no meaning. That's how I feel. I know he loves me in his own little way, but he doesn't show it. Not very often anyway. He says "I love you" but it feels more like just something he says now, like a catchphrase or something. What happened? When did it all change from the cuddles and kisses, handholding and affection to the two individuals who now live in this house?

OK, so I'm not well, but does that mean he has to avoid me? Stay away in case... in case of what? I don't know. It's not infectious. I'm not a leper. I don't have the plague. OK, so I'm a little overweight, but to be honest, he doesn't encourage me to do anything about it. My neighbour has been the one to give me the boot in the arse to get going and get motivated. Himself wouldn't come swimming or to the gym with me before I was unwell. I used to play squash with a mate who would drive 50 miles to come over for a visit, play squash, have dinner, stay the night and go home the next day. The same friend who used to take me out to the beach or off to go see the ducks at some village about ten miles away. Himself and I barely make it into town together about once a month.

I go to see friends in Wales too occasionally (I'm overdue a visit) and I have fun playing with the kids or just talking to them and their friends who come round, who are now my friends too. I do that on my own. He's too "busy" or he says he's going to do something round the house while I'm not there. Sometimes he's working, so he definitely couldn't come anyway, but I can forgive him those times. One time I went off to Wales, he was off (but refused to go to Wales untill England beat them at Rugby) and he said he was going to do some housework and some tidying while I was away. I came back a couple of days later to find one load of washing done, and that was it.

So what's the answer? I do love him a lot, and I know somewhere inside him there's someone who loves me back, but I'm lost for answers on how to get him to understand that just because he works, doesn't mean I do everything in the house. I physically can't sometimes. I look at my parents for inspiration in my life. Dad worked, mum was a housewife bringing up two daughters. Even after we left school, she didn't go back to work. She continued to be the same housewife she always had been. Despite that, dad still did housework. He'd do the dinner dishes or the lunch dishes. At weekends, he'd happily push the hoover round occasionally. I never saw him do the washing though, but then again, with the example of earlier, that's probably a good thing. He did his own ironing though sometimes. If he had a wedding to do (he was a registrar) he would come home, iron his suit and shirt and polish his shoes so he was always smart. Himself tried ironing once. After about five minutes on one shirt, I couldn't stand it any more and took over.

We are off to a military vehicle show next month, himself and I. It's a big event and we go as part of a group who do some of the marshalling on the site and run the off-road course. This means that I won't see himself except at meal times and at night. The rest of the time he will be off doing other things. No change there I feel. I will pootle about, do some marshalling when it's my turn on the rota, cook for whoever turns up to eat, and wander round the stalls looking at bits and pieces with whomever I can get to go with me. He will then complain that he's not been round the stalls or done anything, or seen any of the show. If he stopped trying to be the dependable, always there, helpful, indispensable person and actually took the time out, maybe said "Oh, can someone else do the marshalling for a bit while I go look at the stalls?" once in a while, he wouldn't have to complain that I've been out doing things and he hasn't. Mind you, last year he went to the stalls. I found out about it after he came back. I'm too slow for him or something. I don't know.

Ah well, while in on a roll, I'll explain why this particular topic today. This morning he was up and about before me, but only just. I made a pot of tea when he got in the other night when he asked for one. Last night I was in bed by the time he got home for a change, so no tea. This morning, I asked him to go make a pot of tea. It felt like I was dealing with a teenager. We had all the dramatics of him shoving his chair back and sighing loudly before he took his elephants downstairs to clatter round the kitchen (Invisible elephants. Teenagers have them when they stamp round the house. My sister and I had a herd each when we lived at home with our poor, long-suffering parents) and he eventually returned with a pot of tea which was very noisilly deposited on my desk. When I make it (and sometimes, very rarely when he makes it) I have to pour his tea, put the milk in, sugar it... I sometimes feel like doing the "Yeth Marthter" bit with the Igor inflection... I once asked if he wanted me to drink it for him too, and got such a look, I didn't bother asking again.

I wonder: Am I hs wife or his Mother? I cook and clean for him when I can, make his tea, make the bed, fold his clothes, usually end up puting them away for him too, feed his precious fish (His die, it's a tragedy. Mine die and it's just another dead fish. They're getting old some of them. Death is natural) and generally be a good little mother to my husband.

Woman! Know thy place!

It's getting a little old...