Hamming It Up, As Usual

This blog is suddenly not so entertaining…

It’s all about the whining and the complaining and I know at this point, you’re just begging for mercy.

I can actually hear you over the Internet:  Please Watson, for the love of all that is HOLY, please just tell us a story about your Mother’s latest healer or something even slightly amusing!

But alas, I am still in this God awful mood.

It really started last weekend with the whole Rotten Ham Episode. 

You see, BeBop carries this very nerdy practical insulated lunch bag thing to work every day.  And he often carries, back and forth from home to office, some sliced sandwich meat his tormentor lovely wife has purchased for him the previous weekend.

WHY does he do this?  you ask.  Why in the frackin’ HELL would he force his ham to commute with him instead of leaving it in the fridge at work?  I don’t know.  That’s a very good question and I wish I had a good answer for you.  But I don’t, save for:  he’s BEBOP for crissakes!!

Anyhoo, on Friday he brought home the nerd bag and the ham (Hey!  Wouldn’t that be a good title for a children’s book: The Nerd Bag And The Ham ?? Okay, moving on…) and left it on the stairs.  The STAIRS, people!  Not the kitchen, not the gee-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-FRIDGE, no, the stairs.

And like a typical husband (just guessing here, I’ve only had one…) he suddenly lost all power of observation and there it sat until Saturday afternoon.

I was so pissed off that by the end of the day, after several hours of looking at the offending lunch meat and sighing loudly, I decided to be mature spiteful, and put the bag and the ham in his office.  I figured it would take him another couple of days to either 1) need the bag for work on Monday or 2) notice a noxious, pig-like odor emanating from somewhere in his room.

I know, I could have just disposed of the ham and cleaned out the bag, but WHY would I do that?  Why, when I could punish myself by leaving rotting meat around the house?  Trust me, it seems stupid now but last weekend it made a whole lot of sense.

Later that afternoon I was practically crying in my Chai as my friend ‘tried’ to make me feel better, but as we all know, once an infertile starts down the poor me trail precious little can rescue her, and with good reason.

So just to review: the day started with me hiding a bag of meat in BeBop’s office and continued on with me feeling so bitter.  Bit.  Ter.

You can see where this is going, right? Our anniversary dinner was NOT getting off to a good start.

The short version is this:  the place was so loud I literally had to scream over our tiny table to be heard, and there were couples on both sides, less than an arm’s length away.

So of course it wasn’t exactly conducive to a private conversation about what was bothering me, since yelling, "you and your fuckin’ HAM!" or "I can’t believe I ovulated late AGAIN this cycle, my ovaries are ASSHATS"  or "that stuff I took twice a day didn’t thin out my cervical mucus AT ALL" just didn’t seem appropriate.

(I could have yelled the cervical mucus comment and then leaned ever so slightly to my right and asked my neighbor how his french onion soup was, but that seemed cruel,  even for me.)

I was starving, and let’s just say that when I’m hungry you really should stay far, far away because there’s a high likelihood I will lose my shit.

Did I mention I was starving??

BeBop’s meal arrived a full ten minutes before mine, and then when my burger finally did arrive it was rare.  And since I’m still a relatively new carnivore (after being a vegetarian for many years) I need that bad boy cooked well done.  And this was a nice restaurant, so I assumed that cooking a freaking hamburger would be fairly easy.

So as BeBop’s dish got colder by the minute, I tried to mutter under my breath but due to the noise level ended up shrieking, "I swear to fucking God I will go carnival freak on her ass if that burger isn’t cooked well enough!"

And of course, when they brought it back it was still rare.

After I sent it back for the second time, the hostess came over to apologize. I pretended to start crying and gave her a sob story about how this was our 5th anniversary dinner and how my husband had wanted to try the restaurant for months and how I was trying to have a special evening to celebrate.

I knew all of those acting lessons would pay off one day! My performance was convincing, and yet not over the top, with just the perfect amount of tearing up and dabbing the corner of the eye with the napkin.

After the histrionics, they comped our entire dinner including the wine, which was the only bright spot in the whole disaster.

After dinner, we were walking the dog and I was complaining bitterly about the cold.

”I’m wearing a skirt and this wind is blowing straight up my ASS!" or something like that was probably what I was yelling, still accustomed to the loud restaurant.  The neighbors loooove me.

BeBop countered with his typical, I grew up on the East Coast and 68 degrees is NOT cold refrain.

I smartly responded, "But I can see my BREATH, look here…" I said as I over-dramatically blew out a deep breath and sure enough, you could see it.

"Well that’s what happens," BeBop snickered, "when you’re breathing fire."

He was very proud of himself for comparing me to a fire-breathing dragon. 

And sadly, he was not far off.

I’m thinking I should have a self-imposed moratorium on blogging until I have something interesting or positive to say.

HA!

Like that would ever happen.