Meet Herbie, My Green Monster

Note: I did not title this post: My Little Green Monster.
My Green Monster has not, nor will ever be, little. If it’s true that jealousy feeds on itself, growing bigger, then Herbie (my green monster) must weigh 300 pounds by now.

I am always in the company of Herbie. I named him because my brain grew tired of thinking “my green monster”. I have a pretty tired brain. Herbie (and I) envy everyone and everything.  I manage to hide it pretty well (or so I think). I would hate for people to know just how shallow I really am. I certainly would not want this getting out on the internet. Ha.

It’s like this – I compare myself to everyone I meet, and I find myself lacking. Not only does this torture my self-esteem, but it’s exhausting. I have lived with the belief that if only I were pretty, everything would be OK. I would have self-esteem, confidence and more compassion. And yes, I’ll admit it, I’d get more positive attention.

In our defense, we don’t become insanely jealous. That is strange in itself, considering. I don’t shoot daggers out of my eyes at people, and we haven’t broken the law trying to steal stuff we want. Herbie is more of a pacifist. He likes to admire in people the things that I want, but cannot have. Things like a flawless complexion. Full lips. Large breasts I would flaunt at hubby – to see if I could lure him out of his shop, or just to be a brat.

Stuff like that.

We do not limit our envy to physical beauty – oh no! Herbie and I admire character, principles, bravery, honesty. We get misty eyed when we read something humorous, deeply moving, or impacting – wishing that I could write something that good.

We are suckers for romantic gestures and puppies. We are jealous of those who get to have one, and envious of those who have both. The typical “have and have not” scenario Herbie and I live with every day, in spite of all the therapy.

We hate that real-life isn’t life in the movies. Romantic comedy’s, that is. Not those vampire or zombie movies, which would, literally, suck.

photo credit: Daniel Ferenčak via photopin cc

Never Let A Man Pick Out Your Vacuum Cleaner

My hubby and his buddy were living and working on our new home for most of 2011 & 2012. I was not able join them, so they were there without any female supervision. This was a HUGE mistake, in ways I am still discovering.

I was relieved when hubby offhandedly mentioned they vacuumed once in awhile. I assumed that they were using the buddies vacuum, because he was storing most of his stuff in our basement after he moved from his apartment. I knew better than to assume anything when it came to my hubby or his friend, but alas, my guard was down.

So…  we move in and when one of the rooms (finally) got clear of boxes, I wanted to vacuum up the dirt and dust-bunnies that somehow hopped on a box and moved with us from our old house.  Hubby told me it was in the laundry room closet.


I did not want to believe this.  There stood the most big-assed, yellowest, ugliest, monstrosity of a vacuum that I had ever seen.  It obviously is a vacuum designed for men. It’s casing made me think of Storm Troopers.  I had to read the manual in order to figure out how to set it  to vacuum carpet.  "The Boss"

And get this – the yellow monster is so heavy (50+ pounds) that I can barely move it, so guiding it is a grueling chore . Only a man would buy a vacuum that looked macho and had a “Turbo” attachment. Am I right?

The thing’s own motor could not move the head enough to make it easier for me to push. I tried every carpet setting available. Some were better than others, but all of them strained my arm. It did not matter if I was pushing or pulling.

I would have used both arms to vacuum if I didn’t have to hold and maneuver the electrical cord to keep it from getting run over and eaten by Big Yellow. Yes, I  named it – temporarily. I plan on coming up with a much snottier one later.

To vacuum the corners, I configured it to use the hose attachment. Using the hose was even worse.  It wasn’t the hoses fault. It was the lifting and pulling of the monster around to get the short-assed hose where I needed it to go. My arm (wrist to shoulder) was not happy with me, and my herniated disc has not calmed down since.

Eureka!® must have had some reason to produce this monstrosity.  Nice try.  Men will certainly buy this model because it out-macho’s all the other vacuums.  Then the woman has to use the damn thing. That is just SO wrong!

I’m going to write those people a letter!