There are just some things that I don’t want to talk about and that happens to be the way things are as far as I go. I also have a mumble that would make most Cajuns deep in the bayou jealous so obviously talking is not my thing. Never has been and never will. When it comes to my wife and the things she wishes to talk about I often try to pay attention, but its rare. There is a great chance that I haven’t heard/listened/understood more than fifteen percent of what she’s ever said to me. It’s probably why I’m in this predicament of fatherhood and marriage in my mid-forties rather than gallivanting around the globe pouring more of myself into a liquid grave every day.
When she asked me if I was ever going to ask her to marry me by saying, “hey ya wanna get hitched?”
I’m pretty sure I mistook what she said as, “hey, ya want to get schiltzed?”
I, of course said, “hell ya I wanna get drunk, what are we drinking."
Then about four days later we got on the same page and I went, "oh, you wanna get married, but I thought what we had going on was perfect.”
She said, “yeah, for you.”
Then she proceeded to turn into Marisa Tomei’s character in the movie My Cousin Vinny only much quieter and reserved. This was our very first, very awkward ultimatum that actually meant something. I’d received many ultimatums before but this was the first asshole puckering moment of choice in our, up-till-then, excellent time together. This discussion also brought about the ultimate ultimatum of having children.
To which I answered, “but we’ve got my older boys and we’re good to go, trust me babies are so blah/needy/work/life consuming”.
Well you know how those two real as a heart attack ultimatums went if you’ve been keeping up via my blog. If not I’ll fill you in, I’m Al Bundy. I plead, in my defense, that it’s all been a big misunderstanding because there’re things I just don’t want to talk about no matter what the consequences might be.
Marriage and children were most definitely two of the millions of things I do not want to talk about. It looks like I should’ve paid better attention during those heavy conversations. Since I can’t go back in time or say I learned my lesson, here are some things I don’t ever wish to talk about.
I do not want to talk about anything baby related that is superfluous to ensuring the child remains alive and healthy. This includes, but is not limited to the following, baby poop/vomit/pee/drool. I don’t wish to talk about diapers, breast milk, baby proofing, baby equipment (car seats, strollers, carriers, clothes), other people’s babies, or our kid’s medical issues (non-emergency stuff, or after the fact stuff about an emergency incident). I don’t wish to talk about having more children, careers, future plans beyond this afternoon, extended families, the holidays, getting in shape, eating better, finances, or anything at all if I’m writing. I’m almost always writing if I’m not watching the child or doing household chores. I honestly believe I could go six days before having the urge to talk to someone and that would merely be to do a sound check. Testing 1, 2, 3, is this thing on…is it still working? Ah good, everything still works, so continue to go fuck yourselves (you/them/those/the world). I’ll check back in a week or two thanks for the sound board.
I’ve heard, read, and know firsthand that women talk more than men, a lot more than men. Bad news for most marriages; detrimental to ours? I don’t know. Only time will tell. I also know beyond any doubt that I speak way less than the average words per day in regards to my sex and we’re already a quiet group compared to the blabbermouth sex. It’s something like 20,000 words for women and 7000 words for men. A recent study may change these stats, but even if it does, I fucking know better. Even when I was in the mix and working as a regular old Joe in military service I never came close to my sexes’ average of words said in a day. There were exceptions for rare cases like giving a presentation or training, endless phone calls, and bitching about the command/job/uncle Sugar. Now that I’m a stay at home DAD and the only people around are the dog and baby I must be somewhere close to two thousand words or less per 24hours. Most of my words are spoken to the boy to ensure he doesn’t grow up stunted or unable to speak until he’s ten. The rest are saved up to try and match my wife’s remaining words of that huge women’s average when she gets home. Since I consider my words to be more valuable to me than gold (purely in a I-don’t-want-to-talk sense and not like EF Hutton) then I don’t want to squander any on nonessential conversations. I truly believe that if I could get my words said below one thousand a day then my life would be more than sublime. That was a dumb movie by the way Eddie Murphy, thanks for wasting more of my life. Please give me/us/red box users more of Trading Places, 48 HRS., and Shrek.
In more of my defense which I don’t truly care about other than to speak for the other people out there that are like me and they absolutely, positively hate to talk as much as I do. From what I’ve seen in today’s world there are fewer and fewer of us out there but let’s assume there’s at least ten. Ten seems like a strong enough number to warrant an outcry in this lifelog and a therapy group or alliance. For those people just like me that hate to say a god damned word unless it is beyond question that it is truly necessary, this bitch session is for you. It’s not that I don’t care to talk about baby shit it’s just that we’ve talked ad nausea about it. I get sick of what did it look like, how much was there, was it runny, and trying to keep track of that crap (pun intended). I can promise you/my wife/Dr. Spock that if I notice blood in his shit I’ll probably mention it, that is if by five o’clock when my wife gets home I still remembered to do so. My memory seems to be directly proportional to my spoken word count in that they are both very, very short.
I love talking to my wife, I really do, but to me that means she talks while I shake my head, smile, and try to look up from my laptop more than normal. I add a few grunts, uh huh, and oh no kidding, which seems to be plenty fine to me, but I guess that’s not exactly what she wants or deserves. Well, all I can say is I’m an asshole, there’s no doubt about that, but I’m a very quiet one, that must be worth something. Shouldn’t it? Nah, probably not and it isn’t worth a hill of beans in the wonderful world of wordy women and solemnly silent men.
There seems to be a huge shift in this Country and any other place that matters, for people to speak as much as possible and to anybody that will listen even if it’s not very important. YouTube, Twitter, Pinterest, and Facebook are the silent internet domains that clearly show this is true. Facebook’s ‘What’s on your mind?’ and Twitter’s ‘compose new tweet’ indicate to me that people want to speak, even when there’s going to be zero value from what they’re going to say. Do I realize that’s exactly what I’m doing by writing this lifelog? Yes, and I also know that I do it for me and only me. I graciously give it out to the world as a look as the stupid shit I can say from the stupid shit I do. Yes, it’s exactly what everyone else is doing except I know better than anyone that it’s all a bunch of gobbledygook that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Is it funny? Perhaps. Is it worth reading? Fucked if I know.
I still believe that if I was in that parallel universe where there are two of me. Remember, they are separate and independent from each other but think, act, and behave in exactly the same way/manner/nature. Confusing I know, but go with me…it might make sense by the end of this rant. The poor schmuck version of me that has to read what the lucky fuck bastard gets to write probably hates his life. Is there a chance that he sits back drinking a couple nice cold Laguinta’s Lil Sumpin Sumpin ales and laughs his ass off? Yes. Do I think the odds of that are exceptionally high? No. Do I want to blabber on about complete drivel to an audience of one or more? You betcha your ass I do because that guaranteed one is me and I need my muh’ fuhkin’ therapy. If this column makes at least one other single pathetic soul out in the vast wasteland of life laugh/chuckle/ponder/hate, then it’s worth more than any tweet I’ve ever read. In fact, that one little shelled in human sitting in a small penitentiary cell being everyone’s little bitch reading my drivel in-between sessions should give me a shout out. Once I hear from you I’ll be posting that shit to FB, tweeting it back to you—my only follower, I assume—aand pinning it on my Pinterest wall. Is that correct to say? Hell, I couldn’t even be bothered to log onto that site and figure if the spelling or saying is correct.
I’ll leave you with one thought, if what most things people are saying isn’t unessential, superfluous, or as I eloquently put it, gobbledygook, then why does the news repeat, repeat, repeat? Because the news of the hour, day, or week only needs to be fifteen minutes long and quickly done by the town crier. Anyone else wish we still had town criers besides me? I bet there are at least ten of us. Anyway, news than lasts longer than fifteen minutes is not pertinent until the next real news item comes along. I for one can find out about it tomorrow or next week or if it’s really terrible and horrible news then I’m okay with never. Just give the news to me straight and in as few as words as possible and if that causes the news to be one-half hour long every other day, even better.
Until next time,