Wine softens the blow.

I love this girl; you know? I love her dearly and think she’s the best girlfriend I’ve ever had the delight of sharing life with. …but sometimes she is just so god-damned unbearable! I can’t even put my finger completely on it. I can’t identify it. I think part of it has to do with the fact that she’s 20, and acts like a 20 year old. (…and will never admit when she’s wrong [unless you smash your head against the wall and bleed a little. or just jump off the building. she might admit it then; when you're half way down.] …and thinks it’s cute to say “I love you, frustrated.” instead of addressing the real issue [read: continue the conversation])

…but I don’t really know what that means. It could be more character than anything, but I think she has amazing character. Sometimes I just think she does things (nope… I know) that are just, well, dumb. …I suppose. …or immature. …or, maybe, just plain stubborn!

Two glasses of wine (okay, three) at dinner last night, and I look right past it ;) I just don’t care. …I wasn’t really too keen on that solution though. And briefly mentioning it (damn that wine!), I know that she understands. Being in a relationship where all conflict has ceased is not a good thing at all. Someone has quit. They just don’t care anymore. Deep down inside, they really want to throw you out of the window or go drinking with their boys, and that’s not really healthy. (the throwing you out the window part. …not so healthy for you at least.)

I love her and I know this because sometimes I want to run circles around the room in frustration, waving my arms, and blowing steam out of my ears. …because I love you so much that it drives me nuts the way this conversation (or lack there of) is going.

The wine sure as hell helped last night though! Wow.

 

Quit eating on the bed! (there be cursin’ in this one)

Oh my god!  Quit!  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Quit eating on the bed.  Please quit eating on the bed!

I’ve asked you like 17 fucking times!  I hate it.  I have like ONE thing that I hate, and that is it.  Don’t eat there.  I never asked you not to eat in the room; not even not to eat near the bed.  …Just don’t eat on the fucking bed!  PLEASE!!

You have like a dozen things that you hate, and I damn well (close as I can) comply with your wishes on that.  But you…

I came in this afternoon, from work, to find Harmony sitting Indian style on our bed, chowing down on chuletas, arroz, y habicuelas.  …on the bed.  On the Bed!  Just last night she plopped down with a bowel of cereal before I looked at her like, “Jesus, please!”.

“But I don’t spill anything!” She protests.  “You do…”

Like that makes it any better.

Don’t eat there! 

…I flipped out a little bit.  I didn’t curse.  I didn’t really yell (that much).  But this is like the 4th time she’s done it right in front of me.

If you’re going to do something behind my back (like I write on this blog behind your back) at least be smart enough to not get caught.  Getting caught says that you don’t give a fuck what I think about it.  Quit eating on the bed! 

 

She’s ridiculous…

Really!  It’s 11:30 at night.  My first alarm goes off at 5:40 am.  My oh-shit-your-ass-should-be-in-the-shower-already alarm goes off at 6:00 am.  I don’t want to go out to eat.  …again.

But that’s not even where the real frustration is, darling!  Let’s skip through some context and fast forward a bit.

-break-

Her face was flushed, with that stupid squirmy look in her eye, “What are you doing?  …Don’t do that.” She said, dragging out the that; trailing off on guilty pleasure.

“You put my hand there!” I said, astonished.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to get hot.”

This back and forth went on for a bit.  The word hot carries a few extra translations for her.  I’m still perplexed.  “…you put my hand there!” I re-emphasized.  “Alright.  Let me go.”

“No.” She replied, without skipping a beat.

“What?”  I must be stupid.  My guy-ness just must not be able to see the logic in this.  “Let me go, babe.  I need to roll over on this thing.”

“No.  I want you hear.”

“But you told me not to touch you.”

“So…”

“What?”  Again, I’ve just realized that being guy just means you can’t understand them.  With much effort, I found away to break free of her clench.

“Baby!” She said, protesting.

“Oh my God!  Good night.”

 

Horrifying weight!

Harmony stood on the 50 cent scale, outside of a shopping store, staring at it with near tears of horror about to run down her elegant, flush cheeks. “Oh my God…” she said, hiding the printout from me so that I couldn’t see the weight.

“How much?”

“I’m not showing you! No…” She said, clenching the small receipt as if squeezing the mass out of it would have the same effect on her’s. The paper read *edited* (I’m smarter than that! Any girl would murder me if I really posted it!); Harmony weighs all of some minuscule weight that looks fantastic on women even though 89.7% of them hate it.

…then she ordered a pizza today. …and begged me to bake the brownies we have in the cabinet.

I swear, logic and women just don’t go together when you mix in chocolate, fudge, or convenience.

I can’t entertain gripes about weight when you’re ordering pizza and going for the cookie dough anytime a movie comes on! What’s really baffling is how guys are “assholes” when we break it down like that. Go figure.

“Mirra cariño; ingesting more calories than you can burn in a day results in excess energy stored in the form of ass, thighs, and love handles.”

…and then one day she’s going to figure it all out and “fill me in” on one of life’s secrets. Guys just have to be pros at making their girlfriends feel like they’re the coolest people on the planet. She’s damn close, so it’s not so hard. But, Jesus, either eat the brownies and be happy with a couple extra pounds on top of the nothing-heavy you were before or quit eating them and do something about it! I’m tired of kicking every mirror’s ass for you.

-Frustrated.

 

I bet you liked what was under that dress…

I looked over at Harmony while we were waiting for our smoothies, “I hate it when fat people wear tiny skirts.” I said, twisting my face with a small look of gross.

“That’s too small.” She replied. “Too, too, small.”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you liked what was under that skimpy little dress though.”

“Say what?!”

“Don’t play stupid, Frustrated!” Harmony said, giving me the eye that indicated that she saw me glance over at the girl that walked in with the form fitting, light cotton, colorful pattern, summer dress on. …about thigh high. Not that I really noticed though.

You could tell that the girl was wearing a thong (Yeah, she was hot. So what. I see hot girls all over the place in Puerto Rico. I just thought she looked nice!) due to the lack of panty lines on her nicely shaped ass. (again, not that I really noticed.) And when she stood in front of the glass display case, with the florescent lights within, you could see the silhouette of her legs, running all the way up to her hips, through the dress. But who was looking?

Obviously my girlfriend ;)

For the record, Harmony would have looked ten times better in the same dress. It just happened to catch my eye. It was much better than looking at the fat lady in the mini-skirt!