ShaunaGlenn.com » why tommy deserves a better wife

More proof that Tommy deserves a better wife

Shauna — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:32:13 +0000

It’s been a while since I prepared a meal. And when I say it’s *been a while* I mean I can’t remember the last time I did.

Because really? The kids don’t care. They would eat Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup every day or Kraft Mac and Cheese.

And I follow behind them and eat their leftovers.

It’s a great system.

But then there’s Tommy.

He grew up with a mother who prepared a home cooked meal every night–from scratch–and so the first few times I announced it was chili dog night he looked like he’d just been kicked in the man sack.

What? You no like chili dogs, Tommy G?

So. I’ve learned over the years how to prepare a home cooked meal–one that didn’t involve a can or a box.

It’s hard y’all.

Also? He likes a salad with dinner too. And most days I like a salad too. It makes me feel less dirty for eating a cheeseburger for lunch. Like I’m doing my body a favor by introducing it to green leafy non cheesy foods.

But the problem with lettuce and tomatoes and shit, is that you need to wash them.

Really? Who has the time?

So last night I might have skipped that step.

I was *sure* no one would notice. And when I say no one I mean Tommy.

But, he took the first bite and in mid chew, spit it back on his plate.

“This tastes like dirt.”

Oops.

“What do you mean?”

“The lettuce. It’s covered in dirt. Did you wash it?”

Me, acting offended. “Dude. You asked for a salad. You didn’t say *anything* about washing the lettuce.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think I’ll skip it tonight.”

You’re welcome.

Hey!! Find me over at Aiming Low today where I write about how eating is not for pussies.

Thanks for rubbing it in, Tampax

Shauna — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 03:19:00 +0000

Sometimes I hesitate about posting something. Mostly because my dad reads my blog. And I’m no expert but I’m quite sure no dad wants to read about certain things that go on in his daughter’s life. No matter her age. Like for reals.

But like most everything else where I’m concerned, I’m choosing once again to just put it out there. I’m going to throw my shit against the wall and see if it sticks.

It appears I had a meltdown.

During sex.

True Story. And yes, apparently I’m going to share it.

I’m having a rough time right now. You know when people say “it’s not you, it’s me,” but what they’re really saying is “it’s totally YOU?” Well, it totally is me.

I’m all over the place. I feel sad and I can’t put my finger on exactly why.

And it seems to come pouring out of me at inappropriate moments.

Like during sex.

So, we’re engaged in…you know…it…when all of the sudden I burst into tears. I’m talking full on ugly crying. It was quite unexpected. I didn’t even see it coming.

Tommy (for lack of a better word) stopped, and moved the hair out of my face and said, “What’s the matter?”

“I’m fortyyyyyy.”

He sat straight up then and laughed. “You’re not forty yet. You’ve got what–5 good months left in you?”

By now I was crying so hard I thought I might hyperventilate. BUT, it didn’t stop me from being irrational–which is a great combination and every man’s dream situation. “AND, I’m having a hyst…hyst…hysterectomyyyyyy.”

“Oh honey, you’re going to be fine.”

“No I’m NOT! I’m old and I’m ugly and will soon be missing partssssss.”

I buried my head in the pillow and started crying even louder.

“You’re not old, Shauna. I’m older than you. I’ll be 45 next month.”

“EXACTLY. YOU’RE OLD TOOOOOO.”

“I’m gonna let that slide since you’re obviously unstable. Look at me.”

“No. I’m ugly. And old. And useless after next Tuesday.”

“Next Tuesday? What’s next Tuesday?”

“MY SURGERY. YOU KNOW, THE DAY I BECOME AN IT? NO MORE CHECKING THE BOX MARKED *FEMALE.* DO THEY EVEN HAVE A BOX MARKED *NEITHER*?”

“Shauna, you’re still going to be a woman and you’re still young and you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that because you have tooooo. AND because you want to get laid.”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s true. And maybe a little bit because of that second thing too.”

His joke, which was intended to make me laugh, sent me into a second dimension ugly cry.

And I think at this point he was unsure what to do. I know this because he went to the well with, “You want me to get you some dark chocolate? That always seems to make you happy.”

I pulled my head out of the pillow then and stopped crying. “That actually sounds pretty awesome right now.”

His expression quickly changed when he saw my face. He looked like he’d just eaten something really sour.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your makeup. It’s a little smeared.”

He got out of bed and left the room. I walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. A little smeared? Holy shit. I was a mess. An ugly, mascara running, puffy-eyed mess.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a minute. Jiminy Crickets, was I hideous. And is that a ZIT on my chin? Crap. Can nothing go my way?

Tears started to fall again and I thought, what the hell is taking so long with the chocolate?

I forced the tears away and washed my face. When I walked back in the bedroom I was greeted with chocolate. Which made me very happy.

Until I looked up at the TV and saw a tampon commercial.

I burst into tears all over again.

“What is it now? I thought we were moving on?”

“There,” I pointed at the TV. “Right there. Tampons. I’ll never have to buy *those* againnnn.”

Tommy patted me on the back and said, “Won’t you have to buy them for the girls?”

The second he said that I stopped crying and started laughing.

He was right. I *would* still have to buy tampons. Just not for me.

The good news is I stopped crying. For now.

And I’m pretty sure Tommy wants a new wife. Which is totally understandable.

How to tell when the honeymoon is over

Shauna — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 15:45:00 +0000

Don’t you love the beginning of a relationship? Nothing replaces those feelings–the butterflies, the nervous laughter, the sweaty palms, the oh-my-God-I’ve-found-the-one-perfect-man-on-the-planet-and-he-wants-to-be-with-ME! It’s all kinds of awesome.

It lasts awhile. Long enough for you get hooked.

You love sitting and talking for hours, finding out all about your new love. His likes, dislikes, favorite foods, favorite songs, favorite colors…Do I need to keep going or do you get where I’m going?

Anyway, new relationship = Nirvana

After 6 months or so, the new car smell wears off a little. His morning breath DOES indeed smell like ass, the slurping noise he makes when he drinks coffee is not so adorable anymore, and you no longer find it cute when he takes a big dump in front of you–with the door open.

That’s when you first go, “hmm, maybe he’s NOT perfect. But look how he’s helping me by taking out the garbage. And he seems to really like me. I guess I can put up with his noxious gas.”

So you move on. And you put all those annoying habits aside. Well, actually you pack them away very neatly in a box and place them ever so gently on a shelf marked TO BE BROUGHT UP AT A LATER TIME. We’re women. This is what we do.

Years pass and you’re now married to the “perfect man.” And you have little “perfect children” with him. But if you didn’t know any better you’d swear you were a single parent–and he was just another kid you’re raising.

And you’re tired.

You’re tired of all the noises that come out of his mouth, nose and asshole. The sound that his feet makes as he shuffles across the hardwood floors has you drinking at a much earlier time than you used to. In fact, your old saying was AFTER 5 O’CLOCK (notice the header), but now, you’re throwing back margaritas with lunch–just to make it through the day without stabbing anyone.

Do you have a drinking problem? Hell no. You have a “perfect man” problem. Where’s the 12-step program for that?

To help you cope with life as the wife of the “perfect man,” you start a blog. It’s like therapy for you. You say on the blog what you wouldn’t dare say out loud for fear of retaliation (read: divorce). And you can’t believe how much better you feel after you let it all out. And then, you find out people like it–they want to read more! So you’re basically doing the public a service and you can’t stop now! People need you!

So then (when you run out of “perfect man” material) you venture out into unchartered territory and talk about smelly vaginas and good places to hide your vibrator(s), and your favorite topic–midget porn–which you’ve actually never seen but think sounds hilarious, and before you realize it, you’re considered inappropriate and Oh-My-God-Did-You-Read-Her-Blog-Today-Does-She-Have-ANY-Boundaries?

And your answer is always No. She doesn’t.

Miraculously, your husband doesn’t read your blog. You don’t know how you’ve been able to get away with it. But you love it! And people are astonished by this notion. They ask, “What do you mean he doesn’t read it?” And you’re like, “Don’t question it! Just go with it!” And they say, “So he doesn’t know about your fascination with MIDGET PORN?” And you’re like “SSHHH. He’ll hear you!”

And you figure all is right with the universe. You get to say what you want, when you want. You’re unstoppable, the Queen of the World.

Until…

One day you go to send your husband a message on Facebook only to discover HE’S UNFRIENDED YOU.

So you ask him, “Um, did you accidentally unfriend me on Facebook?”

And he furrows his brow, then softens, and lovingly grabs you by the hand and says, “It wasn’t an accident.”

Wha wha WHA?

“What do you mean it wasn’t an accident? You don’t want to be my friend?”

He pulls you closer into him, gives you a little squeeze and says, “It’s nothing personal. I just think it would be better if we weren’t Facebook friends. You’re a little embarrassing.”

Moi? Embarrassing?

He adds, “Well YOU’RE not embarrassing. But the stuff you write about is.”

So then you read back through some of your previous posts. And you realize “perfect man” may have a point.

And then you further realize this whole I-can-say-what-I-want is just a journal of evidenced proof of how “unperfect” YOU are. (Yes, I know “unperfect isn’t a real word—Shut Up) And your plan may have actually backfired.

So because of this, you’re one less friend on Facebook—and it’s the one person who is legally bound to BEING your friend. You conclude that you might be a total failure. And the feet shuffling and the noise making that drives you mad seem insignificant and petty in light of this new development.

And that’s when you realize YOU are the reason the honeymoon is over. (Runs to “perfect man” and cries “Hold me.”)

Of the non-human kind

Shauna — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 20:53:00 +0000

There’s this woman at the gym who annoys me.

On many levels.

She’s older, I’d say at least a hundred and eleven. And for a woman over a century old, she’s pretty spunky (read: Nerve Grating). And also? She might not be human. I mean, she has human qualities, but there’s some question as to whether or not she actually IS. But I’ll get to that later.

Most days, she saunters into the gym, stakes out her usual elliptical machine and then calls dibs on the television closest to that machine.

“Can somebody please change the channel to Fox News? (First clue she may not be of the human kind) I need to watch Fox News. It’s the most fair and balanced news program on television. It says so right there on the screen.” And then she waves her arms around like a lunatic until someone in charge changes the TV to Fox News.

After successfully hijacking the television, she climbs aboard the elliptical where she spends the next 30 minutes heaving, moaning and writhing like an out of control donkey (no offense to actual donkeys).

During this time I’m usually on a machine behind her. Unfortunately. My eyes twitch and burn if I stare too long, but dammit, I can’t turn away. What can I say, I’m easily entertained/horrified. I most enjoy the days when she dons her sparkly, silver, skin-tight leggings, which are 4 sizes too small and are probably intended for toddlers. Watching her ass jiggle from behind is like being on a field trip at a sausage factory and watching grown men stuff pig parts into intestinal casings. *This is actually not such a bad thing because after my work outs I’m usually too nauseated to eat.

She wears headphones and while the rest us cannot hear the television she is nice enough to add her own commentary and insightful opinions on everything from healthcare reform to the latest gossip about Jon and Kate. She tends to lean towards the side of Kate (The second clue she may not be human). It’s ALL kinds of awesome.

This morning, she walked in and made a beeline in my direction. I looked to my left and then to my right. Hopefully it wasn’t ME she was approaching.

“I saw something yesterday in a magazine,” she said.

Uh-oh. I think she might be talking to me after all.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“It was an article, apparently written by you.” And when she said, “you” she pointed her finger in my face just so that she almost poked me in the eye. Had I not backed up some, I might be wearing an eye patch today. Which, let’s be honest, would not be a good look for me. One-eyed Shauna does not have a nice easy ring to it, nor does it make me sound hot. Unless you’re into that kind of thing–not that there’s anything wrong with that.

“Well, if it said ‘By Shauna Glenn,’ then it probably was written by me.”

Her eyes lit up then (quick side: I’ve never seen red eyeballs before. And not like blood shot eyes. I’ve seen that. I’m talking the color of her actual eyeballs were red. So I’m thinking non-human, which explains a lot and is clue number three if you’re counting) and she laughed, squealing out a barely decipherable and eery, “Oh my God, that’s YOOOOOOU?”

Yeah. That me.

“Sooooo, it was cute–enough,” she said. “I mean, it’s not really my thing, the whole, you know, writing about husbands and life and what not, you know, but still, cute enough.”

Well. Thank YOU for that glowing review.

I smiled through gritted teeth. At this point, I tried not to make eye contact with her, afraid that doing such a thing might turn me to stone. You never know with century old, red eye-balled, non humans.

What? It could happen.

“Soooo,” she continues, “did your husband divorce you after he read the article?”

Yes. My husband divorced me after I wrote an article about how if marriage licenses expired I might not renew mine.

And then I listened to myself as I replayed that in my head.

Wait. I wrote an article about how I probably, most likely, wouldn’t renew my marriage license if it expired, and my husband is OK with that?

Hmm.

I looked at century old, red eye-balled, non human woman and said, “You know, that’s a good question. What man would be OK with his wife writing something like that?”

She looked into my eyes then (Please don’t turn me into stone, Please don’t turn me into stone) and said, “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s most likely not human and from another planet.”

Well. She would know.

If Tommy wrote me a letter

Shauna — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 23:02:00 +0000

So everyone knows I spend a lot of time dogging Tommy’s annoying habits and irritating noises–it’s just what I do. It’s one of the many things that makes me so adorable.

But recently I’ve heard from some people who feel like I’m too hard on him–that perhaps I’ve gone too far. In fact, one person sent me an email that said, and I quote,

“In reading your column last month I kept waiting for the part where you tell Tommy (or your fictional husband, as this is supposed to be satire) you love him, and despite it all you wouldn’t have anyone else. After reading the last sentence, however, I just felt kind of sad and disappointed. Your columns are always interesting and most always light hearted and funny. I just read your latest article and like last month I just felt sad for the man that would have his wife feel this way.”

Dude, seriously? You feel sorry for Tommy? Have you not been paying attention? I’M the one you should feel sorry for. For real.

But, because I’ve never *officially* said this, I’ll say it now. I don’t really find Tommy all that annoying. He doesn’t drive me nuts on a regular basis, nor do I wish he’d stop making guttural noises with his throat and shuffling his feet across the hardwood floors.

Ok, that’s a lie.

What I should say is, if Tommy doesn’t have a problem with what I write about him, neither should anyone else. Although I’m *sure* he appreciates people coming to his defense (not that he needs help–he’s a black belt in Karate for cryin out loud–he could kill me using only his thumb if he wanted to). Plus, he doesn’t read my blog or my articles or my Twitter streams or my Facebook page… and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? It’s the key to a happy marriage. The less you know about what the other person is saying about you, the better. *I should totally write a marriage book.*

But to be fair to those who think I’m the *evil, ungrateful, husband hating wife* I decided to write a letter to me from Tommy. It’s what I imagine he’d say if he had the balls, er, I mean, time.

Dear Shauna,

Why do you obsess about the toilet paper? It’s TOILET PAPER. It doesn’t matter how you put the roll on the holder–or if you do it at all. Toilet paper is for wiping your ass. Period. And despite what you think, I don’t “put it on the wrong way” to annoy you. Although, I will admit that is a bonus.

Also, this fascination you have with midget porn? I don’t get it. I’ve seen it (once on my laptop in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep because you were snoring so loudly–you really should see someone about that, by the way) and it’s just the same as regular porn (which I know for a fact you watch sometimes–don’t try and deny it) just the people are smaller.

And these videos you make? Oh my God, please stop already. Do you know how embarrassing it is to go to a meeting and the CEO of the company says, “so YOU’RE the lucky guy whose wife puts videos on Youtube of herself in her high school cheerleading uniform, drinking wine straight out of the bottle?” What am I supposed to say to that?

And while we’re talking about drinking, do you have to….. never mind. You do.

Other things that annoy me about you? You’re a water nazi. There, I said it. Don’t think I don’t see you across the bathroom glaring at me while I brush my teeth. Yes, I leave the water running. So what. I don’t appreciate when you walk over and turn it off WHILE I’M USING IT. Especially since you insisted we build a swimming pool. Hello? How much water did we waste doing THAT? Your inconsistency knows no limits.

And your obsessive need to be on time everywhere? Or even early? God, it’s too much to take. You pace and you check the clock and you pace some more and you sigh, heavily, and you start the car and you march back into the bedroom and yell, “AREN’T YOU READY YET?” Just so we’re clear, I was ready 30 minutes ago but because you pester me about being ready on time, I make us late on purpose.

I love you but seriously, you’ve GOT to loosen up. I’ve got two words for you. Un.Clench.

Also, you might want to consider growing up one of these days. Maturity is sexy despite what you’ve heard. Oh, but feel free to continue to flash your boobs at me. That’s also sexy.

There’s more, but I’d like to have sex with you again. Preferably today.

Love,

Tommy

PS. Wow. I can totally see why you do this. I feel SO much better.