In which I argue that princesses are a bunch of flangiprop.
Fairy tale Princesses are bad enough (looking at you Snow White) but their male counterparts are just as terrible.
Tall, dark, Handsome? What is needed is a word to sum this all up, I propose that word to be ‘flangiprop’.
These are the real reason that princesses fall in ‘love’. It’s not like Snow White, Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty had long conversations before they decided Prince Cute-but-Stupid demonstrated his GSOH that princesses apparently “look for”.
In which I gave up the chance to watch the cricket for New York.
I surprised Mrs G last night with the announcement that I was going to take her to see the stage version of that Les Miseryables movie. She is very excited to see this for the 35th time (and I’m not kidding, she has seen it that many times…or maybe more). As well as being excited she was also a little sad because, in her words:
I never remember to do this kind of thing for you. (Or something along these lines…it was late).
She does though, it’s just the last time she made such a gesture we weren’t able to follow through on it. For Christmas she got me tickets to watch the cricket in Birmingham, it would have been my first time at an Ashes test but in the end I didn’t go. It was within reach, and I took it away.
In which I convince someone to move from New York for a ring.
I know the exact distance I would go for love, it’s 3364.9 miles. This was the gap between me and Mrs G when we first got to know each other. I was living in a flat in Birmingham (UK) and she was sitting in her apartment in Briarwood (NY). The distance may have been large but all that separated us was one body of water.
Well one significant body of water and the bureaucracy that involves trying to begin a relationship with someone living in a different country. From the rantings of the more right-leaning media you would think the immigration system in the United States or Kingdom was as easy to get into as Republican race for President (*Boom* Satire).
In fact the question isn’t how far I would go for love but how hard will I work for it.
It began at Christmas Dinner when a throwaway comment started something in motion. I had been an item with Mrs G since the August after she had come over and spent a month with me. We had discussed spending our lives together and I was preparing to surprise her when she came over in Easter 2012. I had all kinds of plans to fly to New York and get on her flight to the UK and propose as a surprise mid-flight. Maybe even upgrade her to First Class.
Then as I left to catch my flight my Mum said to me:
Now if you are going to do anything silly I don’t want to know from Facebook.
My response is that I wasn’t planning on doing anything silly. Then as I spent 90 minutes driving down to Heathrow airport I got thinking, well if I plan to do the silly thing (get engaged) in a few months then why not do it now? I mean I rush through life at a hundred miles an hour so why was I waiting an arbitrary amount of time? So I made a decision as I sat alone in the car.
In which needing someone else’s help is hard but important.
It’s a strange topic to talk about today because I’m pretty happy. That’s because today is Mine and Mrs G’s third wedding anniversary. Even though we are not even out of the good anniversaries yet (this one is leather) it still seems like a long time. That is meant in a good way.
Often this blog is very flippant and doesn’t take things seriously, hopefully readers understand that and don’t think I’m just some random angry little man with access to the internet (surely if I was I would be more active on Twitter). One of the reasons for this is that I have been in a place where I have let life become too serious and feared it would take the heart of me. That now seems like even longer ago.
Just like many other people I have had moments where my mental health has not been as robust as it could have been, I have been treated for depression. I look at it as just another illness I had, and just like asthma or hay-fever I had treatment for it and got better. Even so, I still take precautions to make sure I don’t have another bout of the blues.
I really don’t like the idea of making wishes, it takes all the responsibility from you to get off your arse to do something and leaves it to the fates. Wishing to be famous/rich/popular/knowledgeable ignores all the hard work required to achieve these goals
Instead of throwing a coin in a fountain keep that penny and use it to start saving to make your wish come true, and rather than hoping your dream will happen go and create the opportunities and seize it.
For example, a post I wrote many years ago on the angrier version of this blog bemoaned the fact I was still a bachelor and I wished something would change. I ranted against the injustice, but didn’t do anything to change the fact that I was still single. Here is that post: Continue reading “There are not plenty of fish”
In which making the same mistakes over and over is not a problem.
They say the definition of madness is making the same mistakes over and over again. It could be keep gambling your money away, going out with the wrong kind of people or just writing the same post that you did 10 days ago.
I’ve made plenty of mistakes that I keep on repeating, but my tenacity in finding new ways to go wrong has got me to the great place in life I’m currently in. It took a walk around the zoo to make me realise this.
In which I get it all out of my system before I get married.
Tonight is the last night for a week where I have parental responsibility, the Feliciraptor will be spending a few nights at Grandma G’s and then she and Mrs G are off to Berlin for a few days leaving me all on my lonesome. It will be the first time for nearly two years that I will be able to relive the bachelor lifestyle.
At first I was at a loss as to what I could do, I am so used to spending my time with the pair, then I remembered that somewhere I had written a “bucket list” about what I aimed to achieve in my last days of being a singleton before Mrs G moved across an ocean to be with me.
At the time I thought I would miss the being on my own (I had got used to it) so this will be a chance to relive those days.
In which taking count leaves both parties in debt.
“This reminds me of an episode of How I met Your Mother” – Mrs G on more than one occasion.
You could replace How I met Your Mother with Seinfeld or Friends, but the principle is the same, a lot of life’s situations are often reflected in the humour of long running comedy shows. In this case I’m thinking of the episode “Drunk Train” in which Lily and Marshall tell the group the key to a successful relationship is not keeping score.
Normally I wouldn’t expect to say advice from a series that has taken nearly a decade to introduce the key concept of the show is actually worth listening to, but in this case it’s pretty solid. It’s hard work holding a grudge (I should know) and you can’t let others indiscretions and mistakes eat away at you. Especially for someone as perfect as I am, I can’t expect others to continually be at the high standards I hold for myself can I?
What is the word for the feeling you have when you are happy to let one person keep you up late and another to wake you early? You may not want to see the high or low numbers on the alarm clock (although we are not actually talking about a real alarm clock, who uses them any more, but saying mobile phone status bar seems strange) but you are not going to get too grumpy with either person.
It’s the same feeling that allows you to tolerate imperfections, to accept that there is more good than bad and be ready to forgive (and hopefully forget). That feeling is love, and like Heinz soup it comes in many varieties.