And this is the way things are.

You know, I love men. Really I do. Especially my man. Having a tall, dark, handsome person around is good for the ego. And it's convenient - you know, for when you need to put stuff away in hard to reach places. Having a man is good. Just like having electricity and running water is good. Life is so much more comfortable. Happy. Sorted.

Except if the running water is a leaking washing machine, or a drip in the back of the toilet. No. That's just messy. And annoying. Sort of like a man can be too.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't change my man for a whole bag of drip-free toilets. Not at all. I lurve the guy. I do. Couldn't breathe the good air without him. He is my rainbow sky. My adonis. My muse. I love being with him. I love talking to him. I love laughing with him. And I love to just look at him. He is my eye candy. For me, he is a chip off the ol' good-looking block. I think he looks great first thing in the morning. I think he's hot when he steps out of a steaming shower. I love watching him potter around.

But there are times... a day or two every month (by estimation) that I can't stand the sight of him. On these days I find him completely unpalatable. He. Just. Turns. Me. Off. He may try his silly cowboy stagger to get me to smile adoringly at him, but it won't work. He might toss me a nonchalant wink (with crooked eyebrow included), but I'm not buying it. He might just 'accidentally' flex a muscle in my general direction, but I am resolute in my unimpressed state. It is on days like these that I think how much better he would look if he were covered in an horde of rampaging army ants with his head on fire. I think how much I would rather he spend the night in a cage of pythons than share my bed with me. And quite frankly, I'm pretty sure, that on days like these, my long suffering husband would prefer the company of a venomous snake than that of the prickly wife he has back home.

Poor guy.

It only lasts for a day or two, of course. Then it's all fine again. We find each other again, and it's all a bed of roses for another 26. But the explanantion for the disruption of our happy equilibrium for those two days is hard to come by. But I have a senaking suspicion that it's all his fault really. Let me explain...

By day 25 something strange happens to that (mostly perfect) man of mine. While he's being all charming and pleasing and perfectly affable towards me, I start to notice a rapidly widening white ring around he's pupils. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a criminal at the gallows. And I can't be sure of this, but I get the feeling that he starts a frantic internal search. Like he's looking for something important.

On the outside he's all, "Hey, Honey. I made you a cup of chamomile tea. Would you like a foot rub?" But on the inside he's all, "Where did I put that chest plate? I know it was with my running shoes. Oh. Wait a minute. She did say something about always leaving those blasted shoes lying in the passage - doesn't she get that I might need them in a hurry? Think, man. Just think! Last time I used that chain mail, I had my head chopped off, gobbled up and regurgitated into the toilet. Right. There was bloodshed. Blood. Hmm. Did I get it back from the cleaners? Drat! Urgent Note To Self: stop by cleaners post haste! Oh, and maybe the hardware store for some spray-on fire-breathing-dragon repellent."

And back on the outside he suddenly becomes suspiciously animated. "Hey, my love-muffin," he croons with a slightly pinched edge to his voice. He starts to pick up the usual debris of poisons, chemicals and broken glass that is strewn across the lounge carpet. "I need to go to the hardware store, you know, for stuff to, er, fix the roof. Yes. The roof. I know, you've been asking me for months to check into that, and today's the day." He is placing padlocks on the gun safe, the fire place and the tin opener. "You need anything? No? OK then. You just put your feet up and stay right there, OK? Don't stress that pretty little head of yours now. You will stay there, right?" He's packing away kitchen knives as he speaks. I notice a flame thrower and a welding torch discreetly tucked into the back of his trousers.

"You alright, Sweetie?" I asked sipping on an heavily tranquilised cup of chamomile tea. "You seem a little um, distant." My tongue is feeling heavy and I have to wipe a river of dribble off my chin. Also, my back is starting to ache. I wriggle in my chair. I'm starting to feel very uncomfortable in my own body. My skin feels too tight. My hair is too straight. My toenails are too long. My fingers feel too much like, well, fingers. I stretch. Something pops. I look around and notice I have a horn on my left shoulder. Pop! Another one on my right. Pop! Pop! Pop! Several more burst out of my back. I stagger to the mirror to get a better look at what's happening to me. I look awful. I hate myself. Good grief! I'm thirty and I'm still getting pimples! The pimples explode. I am hideous. I run my awfully finger-like fingers through my hair, and catch a sulfurous whiff from under my armpit. I stink.

I'm ugly. I'm sore. I'm pimply. I'm oily. And I stink. Oh. And I have horns all the way down my back. This is not the way I woke up this morning. No. I was in a happy place. I was just fine. What happened? What made me like this? I spin on my fat swollen hobbit-feet and scan the room. And then I see it - that tea cup. That tea. He did it to me. It was him! Bastard guy!

I scowl. I growl. I howl. And I realise, too late, that the bugger has disappeared. He is outta here. I'm so mad I could... I could... well, I might just do something drastic. And to top it all off, that jerk has packed away all my poisons, my chemicals, my broken glass, my kitchen knives, my flame thrower, my welding torch. Dammit! I'm gonna kill him!

See? His fault! He's so lucky that I love him enough to forgive him all his shortcomings. Sigh. What a guy!