More From the Science Fair

Yes, the Science Fair project that is my marriage is alive and well. The chart that my husband, The Center of the Universe (CoTU) keeps under the bed is constantly being updated. At least that is my belief.


I’m guessing the categories are “What Does It Take To Pi** Her Off”, “How Far Can I Push Her Before She Snaps”, and “What’s the Land Speed Record for Turning a Fun Experience into an Ugly One.”

So yesterday’s encounter, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which column this one goes into, was about our ongoing observations of how easily CoTU loses weight, compared with how difficult it is for me to lose weight.

Here’s a précis of the backstory:

He eats to the point of gluttony and does no exercise. If he forgets to have one of his many afternoon snacks one day, he can drop two or three pounds. I say this without any exaggeration.

I eat like a true minimalist, very little processed food, very small portions, working out 4-5 times a week, and it took me forever to lose a few pounds. For the past six weeks I have lost NO weight at all.

Now, sorry about the detour, back to present time. Well, yesterday.

CoTU steps off the scale and proudly announces that he’s dropped two more pounds. This after he ate a nice round of three full meals the day before, punctuated by plenty of snacks, and topped off with a nice apple turnover for dessert.

I groaned and remarked that even though I forsook the potato, bread and dessert at our previous night’s dinner, I was still stuck at my seemingly immutable weight.

He said, “Well, just don’t worry about it, Mama Cass.” I. Am. Not. Kidding. Like this is funny? I’m supposed to laugh when he calls me the name of the fattest person he can think of?

He tried to tell me he was just teasing me, but I was NOT happy. I’m sorry—did I just say I was not happy? How about I was livid? Yes. Livid. I said, “Why don’t you just call me fatso and get it over with?”

“Aw, come on, Chubby, I was just kidding.” Good thing my skillet was two rooms away or I would have beaned him with it.

He still thinks this is funny, and wants to call it ‘teasing’.

I say this opens up a new category on the Science Fair chart: “Name-Calling: Is Today a Good Day to Die?”

Graphs and Charts, Domestic-Style

Whose Ox is Being Gored?


Yeah, the hubster—you know, the Center of the Universe (CoTU), made an off-color, off-handed, off-planet remark that can’t be repeated in this PG-13 blog. I clucked my tongue, rolled my eyes, and he protested as follows:

“Hey, that’s pretty harsh—don’t forget, I supply you with about 70% of all the material you use in your blog!”

Yeah, well I sure can’t use that.

But now I wonder if he’s counting up the number of posts that stem from his little gem-like offerings, and creating a spreadsheet to keep track of the true percentages…

It wouldn’t surprise me.

I have long thought that our relationship is basically the equivalent of a science fair project for him. He says something offensive, and silently measures my response and/or reaction. If there’s no visible reaction, he ramps up the O&O-factor (Offensive and Obnoxious) till I break. It may just be a look, a rolling of the eyes, or a subtle shaking of the head. The verbal responses just tend to escalate the insanity, egging him on to defend his frat-boy comments. Thus I often opt for the silence I have perfected over the years. It’s so much simpler that way.

Still, I believe that somewhere in the house, perhaps under the bed, perhaps behind his desk, there’s a display board complete with graphs and charts, recording for all time how many crude comments it takes to get a rise out of me. There are the short-term responses and the longer-term trends. It’s likely titled, “Driving Leah Crazy, One Crack at a Time”.