Not my monkeys

I’ve been taking my new puppy to a friend’s house (thanks tons, Wendy!) each day, a house that is within easy driving distance from work, so that I can easily pop over at lunch and let him out during the middle of the day.

The house to the right of Wendy is a rental house and the last renters trashed the house.  The landlord has hired a company to renovate the house for the next set of renters.

The guy in charge of the project is almost always outside in the yard when I am in Wendy’s yard, walking Louie the puppy.  He’s a friendly guy and very chatty.  I’ve learned more than I ever wanted about the condition of the house post-renters, what a bad job the previous property managers did, how upset the landlord is, how much money property managers make, how much money he makes on projects, where his parents live, how many times he’s been to court, how crazy his cat is, etc.  Not even the sight of me bagging Louie’s poop discourages the pseudo-monologue.

Today, our conversation/monologue went to this place:

Guy:  I’ve been married 32 years and in all those years I have never cussed my wife nor have I ever raised a hand to my wife.

me:  *long pause* That’s the way it should be.

I don’t know whose background this reveals the most about (probably his) that he thought that this was an achievement worthy of mentioning to a complete stranger and that I think that this is an ante into marriage and totally not worthy of mention.  For me, it would be like advertising that a car has a steering wheel — duh, it better.  My husband promises not to hit me — well, no shit, that is given in this marriage.  I promise not to poison any meals that I cook and hand to you.  Do we have to put that in the vows?

I realize that for many, many people the reality of violence in their relationships means that my mindset is not their mindset.  A spouse or boyfriend (or a wife/girlfriend) that doesn’t physically abuse them would be very different from current status.  I don’t understand the dynamics between those partners, the demons that drive the abusers and the abusees, etc.  I guess I should count myself lucky, but it makes it hard for me to relate to Mr. Chatty.


I found this on the internets today and I am totally going to introduce it to my daily conversation:

Source: via Amy on Pinterest

According to the internets, this is a Polish idiom that means “Not my problem”.  Now, I’ve seen a few occasions where the internets have been wrong, so if you know anything about Polish (and I’m specifically putting a call out there to my friend, “Princess” Jenn, whose grandmother provided us a picture of Jenn’s ancestor King John Sobieski of Poland to hang in our freshman dorm room), I would appreciate validation.  I would hate to be going around saying, “Not my circus, not my monkeys” when I really should be saying, “Not my circus, not my clowns”.  I want to be right.  Especially when you’re talking about monkeys.  Or circuses.  Or (especially) clowns.