Showing posts with label wives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wives. Show all posts
Monday, 21 January 2008
Monday, 11 June 2007
My money is (not) my money
I read an article the other day that statistically, the most common argument in all marriages or relationships is about money. More specifically about who is in control of the money.
The Flea and I have just become a statistic.
Money is not normally something we argue about. The Flea regards the old saying of "my money is my money and your money is my money" as being part of our marriage vows. Not that I can remember anything like that being said, by me at least. Due to circumstances, I happen to earn about four times what the Flea earns. Technically speaking she does not have to work. But, being the independent woman she is, she insists on working. I have no problem with that. Her money is her money, to spend as she sees fit.
The argument amuses me. She called me and asked me to lend her a hundred bucks. I said "Ok, but since when do I lend you money? Or since when do you pay any loans back? In the five years we have been married, you have 'borrowed' thousands, without any repayment.You always say my money is my money, your mon-"
Was that the wrong thing to say! My ear is still ringing - The Flea let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of that statement.
I guess I am sleeping with the mutt in the dogbox tonight!
The Flea and I have just become a statistic.
Money is not normally something we argue about. The Flea regards the old saying of "my money is my money and your money is my money" as being part of our marriage vows. Not that I can remember anything like that being said, by me at least. Due to circumstances, I happen to earn about four times what the Flea earns. Technically speaking she does not have to work. But, being the independent woman she is, she insists on working. I have no problem with that. Her money is her money, to spend as she sees fit.
The argument amuses me. She called me and asked me to lend her a hundred bucks. I said "Ok, but since when do I lend you money? Or since when do you pay any loans back? In the five years we have been married, you have 'borrowed' thousands, without any repayment.You always say my money is my money, your mon-"
Was that the wrong thing to say! My ear is still ringing - The Flea let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of that statement.
I guess I am sleeping with the mutt in the dogbox tonight!
Monday, 21 May 2007
In two minds-
I had a dilemma on Saturday afternoon. One that I wish I had every year.
Both teams that I support were in the Super 14 rugby final at Kings Park Stadium in Durban. The Bulls vs the Sharks.
No matter which team I shouted for, my team was in front. A win-win situation
After 83 minutes of play my team won and my team lost.
The Flea calls me a 'twee-gat rooinek jakkals'.
I can live with that.
Both teams that I support were in the Super 14 rugby final at Kings Park Stadium in Durban. The Bulls vs the Sharks.
No matter which team I shouted for, my team was in front. A win-win situation
After 83 minutes of play my team won and my team lost.
The Flea calls me a 'twee-gat rooinek jakkals'.
I can live with that.
Monday, 07 May 2007
Marriage across the Boerewors Curtain
Growing up as a white English speaking kid in the ‘old South Africa” there was one group of people you did not associate with:
‘Dutchmen; Rockspiders; planks; hairybacks; crunchies’. The list of insults goes on and on. We were not left unscathed...'rooinek, soutpiel' are some of the names we were called.Nobody got away with be called something!
You played with your English buddies and had fistfights with the Dutchmen. You whistled at their sisters, but made sure you took a civilized chick to the Matric Dance.
You just did not date one of them. For fuck sakes, they didn’t even know how to dance! All they could do was go ‘sailing’, ‘langarm’ they call it! WTF? Who can dance like that? Stick your right arm out in the air and go whizzing clockwise round and round the room. Why could they not just be civilised and hop up and down in one spot in the middle of the dance floor, like normal people?
Time goes by…you grow up. You go to a party in Pretoria. And then…….
That dance style was their secret weapon. All the English speaking guys could see was these damn Dutchmen with their hands on the arses of some of the hottest chicks. Even more frustrating is watching the ‘’crunchies’ dance real closeup, in a style called ‘binneboud’. This is close to having sex standing up, but with your clothes on and in front of her mother/ father/ brother...
So you throw your years of prejudice away and go out with one of these chicks. Interesting. They feel soft in all the right places,( and make you hard in all the right places as well.)This could be fun! And so it goes. Before you know where you are, you have done the unmentionable. You married across that awful barrier.
The Boerewors Curtain! Your kids are gonna be little half-breeds! Shame on you.
But, as all men through the ages have discovered, a wife is a wife, no matter what language she speaks. You are a husband, a second class citizen in your own home. They all nag, they all bitch and they (nearly)all have a mother who thinks you are not worthy of their’ little angel.
‘Dutchmen; Rockspiders; planks; hairybacks; crunchies’. The list of insults goes on and on. We were not left unscathed...'rooinek, soutpiel' are some of the names we were called.Nobody got away with be called something!
You played with your English buddies and had fistfights with the Dutchmen. You whistled at their sisters, but made sure you took a civilized chick to the Matric Dance.
You just did not date one of them. For fuck sakes, they didn’t even know how to dance! All they could do was go ‘sailing’, ‘langarm’ they call it! WTF? Who can dance like that? Stick your right arm out in the air and go whizzing clockwise round and round the room. Why could they not just be civilised and hop up and down in one spot in the middle of the dance floor, like normal people?
Time goes by…you grow up. You go to a party in Pretoria. And then…….
That dance style was their secret weapon. All the English speaking guys could see was these damn Dutchmen with their hands on the arses of some of the hottest chicks. Even more frustrating is watching the ‘’crunchies’ dance real closeup, in a style called ‘binneboud’. This is close to having sex standing up, but with your clothes on and in front of her mother/ father/ brother...
So you throw your years of prejudice away and go out with one of these chicks. Interesting. They feel soft in all the right places,( and make you hard in all the right places as well.)This could be fun! And so it goes. Before you know where you are, you have done the unmentionable. You married across that awful barrier.
The Boerewors Curtain! Your kids are gonna be little half-breeds! Shame on you.
But, as all men through the ages have discovered, a wife is a wife, no matter what language she speaks. You are a husband, a second class citizen in your own home. They all nag, they all bitch and they (nearly)all have a mother who thinks you are not worthy of their’ little angel.
Sitting in the Waiting room, waiting
I have one of those wives. One who believes that a medical aid must be used up by April, before the winter colds have arrived to make life a misery for the entire household. (I call my better half the Flea , she is small, a redhead, and she always bites me shit). As she is Afrikaans, this translates to “Vlooi. The Flea is not one of those mothers that will doctor the kids with Granny’s magic remedies. Oh no, at the first sign of the sniffles, I am drafted into making appointments with the GP. I sometimes feel the Flea thinks we have shares in the Medical Centre, or the Pharmacy. Well, I wish that I had, I would be a bloody millionaire...
I digress,
Where do doctor’s and dentists and for that matter psychiatrists(yes I have seen one- I am married,dammit), get their magazines from? Reader's Digest from November 1987, or the National Geographic from 1978. They have all been read to shreds, with missing pages, which really pisses me off. Just when you are getting into the mysteries of the Andes, the last page is gone!
When the medical centre is part of a large group, a;ll you get in the in-house magazine with neverending interviews with a CEO, promising 'affordable healthcare, with a conscience', or something similar. Where is the CAR magazine, or Playboy or hell, the Huisgenoot? A new one?
I digress,
Where do doctor’s and dentists and for that matter psychiatrists(yes I have seen one- I am married,dammit), get their magazines from? Reader's Digest from November 1987, or the National Geographic from 1978. They have all been read to shreds, with missing pages, which really pisses me off. Just when you are getting into the mysteries of the Andes, the last page is gone!
When the medical centre is part of a large group, a;ll you get in the in-house magazine with neverending interviews with a CEO, promising 'affordable healthcare, with a conscience', or something similar. Where is the CAR magazine, or Playboy or hell, the Huisgenoot? A new one?
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