Don't break my balls.

Don’t Break my Balls**…

(For the record, I never used to use this phrase but it’s almost impossible not to here in Italy. I don’t think you can have a conversation with an Italian without hearing about their balls being broken by someone. This phrase is used by men and woman equally, old and young. I don’t know any nuns but if I did, I’m sure she would talk about her balls being broken.)

David is out of town, will be for over a week. He left approximately 30 hours ago. I have already done this:

And this:








And this:

If he were here, HE would have done these things. And I would have said, respectively:
1. “Honey, our house is too small to not hang up your coat. Come on, the armadio is right behind that chair.”

2.a. “Honey, lunch is not over until the dishes are done. Don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink. Wash them.”
2.b. “Sweetheart, why is it so hard to get the peels out of the sink and into the trash can? It’s not like it’s across town, it’s right below the sink.”

3. “Baby, it defeats the purpose of washing things if you just hang them over the patio furniture to dry. Why can’t you get them to the clothes line?”

So, why do I do all the things I breakDavid’s balls for when he’s gone?
--Theory 1: I love him so much that this makes me feel like he’s really here when he’s not.
--Theory 2: I’m the queen of double standards. My stuff is ok but his isn’t.
--Theory 3: I just like breaking balls.

One last observation, why do I start every ball breaking statement with a term of endearment?

David, honey, if you are reading this, I miss you.