What women think - August 2006

With or without you

To partner or not to partner. That is the question.

It seems that we always want what we haven't got. More money in the bank, less weight around the hips, Carrie Bradshaw's shoe collection, Audrey Hepburn's style, other people's husbands (hello Angelina, Denise, Paris et al).

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When I'm single I want a boyfriend. When I've got a boyfriend I want to be single.

Having a boyfriend can be fabulous. Not only do you get lots and lots of lovely sex, you get someone who will check out that noise in the middle of the night, stick your Ikea furniture together and take stuff to the dump.

You never need worry when the invite says "and guest". You've got someone to go on holidays with and to drive you to pick up your car after servicing.

This one time I was having an unimpressive time with a mouse. In my house. Not in a cage. Not as a pet.

This wasn't a cute friendly clean white mouse like they used to show on Play School and sing songs about. It was one of those ugly grey tiny horrible dirty scary filthy things. I wanted it dead. Even more than I wanted 24-hour shopping in Brisbane and Tom Cruise converting to Catholicism.

When I heard the mouse trap go off at 2.06am one morning, all I had to do was nudge the male lying prone beside me and repeat insistently, "Honey, the mouse, it's caught, the mouse." and off he sauntered to "take care of it".

To this day, I don't know how he "took care of it". But when I went into the kitchen the next morning to make a cup of tea, it was gone. To be safe I didn't use the loo until I got to work.

There was this other time when this male at work was really giving me the irrits. Bit of a smart arse, you know the type? Full of hot air and all the wit of a tax return. On Valentine's Day he said my flowers looked lovely. I said thank you. He then asked how much they had cost me to send to myself. Yes, you know the type.

So when we had work drinks one Friday night, it was opportune that my boyfriend was this hulking great thing that stood well over six foot and weighed well over 100kg (yum.). He had biceps the size of a new born baby and a hand shake that could crush a brick. Or my colleague's hand. Ha ha. I had no trouble at work after that.

The downside to having a boyfriend? The farting in bed ("oh sorry love, oops. Oh oops again, how'd that get out?"), the continuous football on TV ("you've seen this episode of Sex and the City, switch the footy back on"), the continuous football on the radio (he'll even listen to AM if it's got football).

The fact that things he has to do are always more significant ("I can't fix the lock on your front door right now. I've got to get to golf, then Bazza and I are going to Bunnings to check out the new drill presses then we're going to see Hambone's new mags on his car, so I'll see how I'm going after that").

He is obsessed with his penis. He loves my cooking but wouldn't think to wash up. VB and Crown Lager stubbies fill my fridge. Empty VB and Crown Lager stubbies fill my bin. Socks and jocks keep appearing in my washing. Whiskers keep appearing in my basin. Chocolate biscuits keep disappearing from my cupboard.

The home page on my computer is the NRL site. He plays this weird grunge British punk music that makes me want to feed my head into a kitchen grinder. We sleep at my place because I live alone and he shares with two others. Who are gay. And in a relationship.

Did I mention the farting? There's a time and a place, and in my bed is neither.

When I'm with a boy, I can't go to bed with Eulactol Heel Balm all over my feet and a pair of cotton socks on. I can't coat my lips in Papaw ointment, my hands in pure lanolin or tie my hair back in a plait.

He'd have to be my husband for that to happen. Me with Papaw ointment on my lips is a good approximation of the "for better or worse" clause.

I can't serve him baked beans on toast for dinner whilst I'm wearing a dressing gown and slippers that probably should have been chucked out with my high waisted jeans. I can't put on a face mask, do a #2 in peace, or wear my period undies. Or even have a period. Period.

When I'm with a boy, I get into bed and look longingly at my Papaw ointment. When I'm without a boy, I get into bed and look longingly at the empty other side of my bed.

Men. Can't live with them. Can't live without them. Can't shoot them.

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Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com