Now I shouldn’t complain, but you know I’m going to because when a guy says you smell good you should be able to count on that, right? I mean, most women work hard to smell good. I know I do. And that’s why I’m a little… no, scratch that. A lot steamed! And The Boy? Well, he’d be right at the heart of my boiling point. Check this out.
The other night when I slipped between the sheets and sidled up next to him, doing the sexy rawrr and working all my feminine wiles on him, I was happy. My efforts seemed to be paying off. Yes, he pulled me up close, rubbed his cheek against the side of my hair and I’m thinking, damn, I’m good. I’ve still got it after all these years. He breathes in deep and sighs like he’s in heaven or something. Geez, I must be better than I thought.
“God you smell good.”
I’m mentally agreeing with him thinking yes, and you would too if you spent as much on perfume as I did. But then he growls low in his throat and hugs me tighter and I’m ready to stop thinking altogether until he says:
“Mmm…really good. You smell like pot-roast.”
Pot roast! WTF? I push away from him and sit straight-up.
His arm drops to his side hard enough it makes a noise, and he falls back against the mattress. And even though it’s dark I know he has that face. The annoying one that says: Oh boy, here we go again. (You gotta know I call him on certain things. It’s my job, right?) But hey, this time? Pot roast? COME ON!
I try to keep my tone even. “I smell like roasted meat?”
He sighs. It’s not a regular old sigh, either. Nope it’s one that has the undercurrent of a grumble that says, great she’s going to make a federal case here. I better turn on the charm or come up with a good excuse.
“I meant it as a compliment.” <-See? He chose the latter.
Compliment? I shake my head. Here I’ve spent sixty bucks on a bottle of perfume, I washed-up, brushed my teeth, fluffed my hair – and put on some great looking lingerie before I climbed in bed with him – and who knew? All I had to do was tie a freaking meat-bone around my neck and I’d have his undying affections for the duration of the night?
“Don’t be mad,” he says, like I have a choice. “I like the way you smell.”
And that would be the problem, but I didn’t dwell on those words. Nope, I was stuck back on, don’t be mad, and the realization I didn’t have a choice about it. I was angry, and just because he apologized and gave me a plausible excuse, (oh, it was an old one to fall-back on: men being stupid – but a good one, because how can you argue with that?) I couldn’t get past my emotions and simply accept the fact that he’d made a mistake.
On some level, I knew he didn’t say this to be hurtful and in his own weird way he probably did think it was a compliment. So what to do now? Turning and putting ‘the moves’ on him wasn’t going to happen, because, let’s face it, when a guy tells a woman she smells like a cooked cow’s ass, the last thing she’s feeling is sexy.
I flopped back down on my side of the bed and stewed (may as well, as I’m already halfway there, smelling like pot roast, right? ). Would an argument at this point make the situation any better? No. So, I did what I usually do in these instances. I try to reason out a scenario that’s going to show him why I feel as bad as I do. Oh, I could have bitched, complained, screamed and cried – but if I didn’t put this reasoning in terms he could relate to – he’d never get it and I’d be destined to smell like lemon in Dill sauce (that’s what I planned to make for dinner the next night) if he didn’t get it.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, here’s the thing. You telling me I smell like pot roast turns me off big-time. That would be like me telling you that you smelled like puppies breath and fresh picked daisies.”
Silence, I’d say *crickets here* , but there’s an energy between us as if he has something to say and he’s choosing not to. Normally I’d let it go, because it never winds up being a good thing when I push while he’s usually right on-cue with his self-auditing. Me? Meh, not so much. That would explain why I shifted my head and looked at him. “What?”
He turns and looks at me. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I can see that he’s debating. I wait and wait and just when I’m about to demand that he say something , he comes out with it.
“Honey, you could tell me I smell like the cow’s un-wiped asshole and providing you were still game, I’d be okay with it.”
And there it was. Another fundamental difference between the sexes that no argument, right or wrong could or would settle. And it occurred to me. Some things, between men and woman have to be accepted. No, tolerated, because there simply is no winning about it. No right or wrong. It just is what it is and there’s nothing wrong with that. Did this mean that I was going to cave and roll his way? Not on your life. But, did it then mean that I was going to go to sleep angry? Nope. What it meant was that I was going to fall asleep thinking what a strange creature man is and thank my lucky stars that I’m a woman.
There’s no easy way to put this – so I’ll just blurt it out. Even though I blog as Murphy, Murphy is not my real name. Oh, I’ll continue to blog as Murphy, but now that I’m ready to take on my writing career full-time? I figure it’s time I grew up and embraced the name I’ve spent my whole life running away from: Margeanne. I agree. What kind of name is that? For those of you still mentally tripping over it – it’s pronounced: MarJan. I know, right? Bizarre.
My own parents had a hard time explaining where they came up with this monstrosity. All through my younger years, I was told that I was named after my mother. But hey, eventually I caught on. And by the time I was twelve, it occurred to me that my mom’s name was Marjorie, so you know, I had to ask. Once again, those tricky little people sold me down the river. Apparently, I was named after a great aunt (whom I’d never met and who, suspiciously, was no longer with us). Convenient, huh?
Consequently, it wasn’t until I sat with mom and dad, discussing the prospective names I’d lined up for my first born child, that I learned the awful truth. On that afternoon a long, long time ago, when they’d officially named me, they were drunk. True. Some idiot friend of my dad’s brought the happy couple a bottle of bubble, and one empty decanter later, with the two of them facing a disapproving records nurse holding a clipboard, my name was forever Frankensteined. Instead of Marge-Anne (notice the hyphen and normalness of that moniker) I was now oleo’s distant cousin. Hmm…where was I going with all this?
Oh yeah, so this is how strange life is. Things are finally in place for me to write and my first decision? I’m going to claim a name for myself. Now, I knew I needed something catchy because I planned to design a website, start a blog, and set up appropriate email accounts for the career of my heart and the one I’ve always planned on. And there I was, disappointed at every turn because all the names I wanted were already taken. I’m literally sitting at my desk, racking my brains, thinking…thinking, when it hits me. I don’t need to make up an exotic name for myself. I already have one. (Okay, exotic might be stretch, how about grotesquely unique?)
Only one problem. I can’t remember how to spell it half the time. *insert finger snap here* Besides, who wants to sign that nine letter ‘good for scrabble’ name for the duration of their career? Not me. So, I made an executive decision. From now on, I may blog as Murphy, but around here? I’m simply M. It’s clean, neat, and easy to pronounce.
Good bye Murphy – so long Frankenmoniker – Hell-lew M.
Here’s a thought. Given my blogging and all this name changing stuff, I can’t refer to my honey as ‘honey’ around here. Well, actually I could, but I like the term ‘The Boy’ better because it’s in keeping with my theme, you know? Hey, I’m sure he’d be thrilled if I told him. *insert casual shrug and a hair flick, here* So I won’t. It will be our little secret. Much like all the other stuff I write about him. (heheheh) Hey, I need something entertaining to write about while I’m waiting for ‘The Call”, right?
Besides, the things I incorporate in my writing come directly from my real life experiences, and he’s a big part of that (um, mostly against his will), but it still counts. The way I see it? On any given day, there’s always potential for useful material. And what can I say? I like taking the normal day-to-day happenings around me and spinning them into something fun. After all, I’m an incurable optimist who loves to get, give, or create surprises. This is one of the things I love about my characters. Sometimes they’re predictable, but more often than not? They’re not. Who likes normal anyway? I mean, what is normal, and more importantly, who got to decide? That’s what I want to know…