We Don’t Speak the Same Language

SoHubby and I have been married for 11 years this October and have known each other for 13 years.  You would think that we would understand each other, maybe even finish each other’s sentences.  You would be wrong.

Since Sam has, finally, started his own activity (something that SoHubby is really happy he is doing) SoHubby has asked what is our schedule.  This is not to say that he is not interested in Amber’s activities, but her schedule has been about the same for about a year.  We are, also, coming to the end of the school year so things are changing once again.  One thing about kids change is constant.

I tried to explain the schedule, but it didn’t get through.  I will say my fault in this was giving too much information.  Instead of just giving the schedule for right now, I tried to give the schedule for the summer.  That is difficult, because Sam will start Cabbage ball in mid June which will mess with Tae Kwon Do which just made matters worse.  Once I realized my mistake I thought I would make it simple by  pointing to the dry erase calendar I bought specifically for this purpose.  It still didn’t get through.  The calendar, in SoHubby’s words, is hard to understand.  I guess it is because the writing is small (I only have so much room to work with) and I put the things that happen on a weekly basis at the bottom with the day and time next to them.  The kids and I seem to get it, but SoHubby didn’t.  So to help him understand it, he took a pad and wrote the days of the week and then wrote what happened on those days.

All of this got me thinking.  We have always had a problem with communication.  I won’t blame either side.  SoHubby says things and they are clear in his head, but I am left confused.  I say things that are totally clear to me and the rest of the free world, but leave him confused.  I will fully admit that SoHubby will say things and I will promptly forget them.  Hey, have you seen our schedule?  I have a lot going on. I just wonder if this goes on in other homes or after a decade together people just understand their mates better than we do?

I, also, wonder if I really want someone that knows what I am thinking.  I often say that my head is a scary place to be.  I know I definitely don’t want to be privy to what is rattling around in SoHubby’s head, because what he tells me is scary enough.  It will be interesting to see how our communication has developed after we have been together over 20 years.

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Boudin and Me

Friday night, I, finally, got to watch Marley and Me.  You know that lovable story about a rotten dog and the family who loved him.  Frankly, I didn’t see much wrong with Marley.  Seemed like a typical Lab to me.  We had a part Lab and that dog ate an entire outdoor swing and doghouse.  It is what Labs do, CHEW!  However, I do understand the aggravation of having a pain in the ass dog and loving him just the same.

Boudin came to us through a weak moment at the mall pet store.  There he was in his little cage with one of his siblings just looking as cute as a Beagle puppy could.  I just had to show him to SoHubby, then my to-be, with no intentions of getting a dog.  I mean who is crazy enough to get a puppy 2 weeks before they are scheduled to get marry and go off on a week long honeymoon.  Us, apparently.  This was my first lesson in SoHubby’s impulse buy of the expensive nature.  We sat in the little store going back and forth.  I wanted to just wait and get a pound puppy.  All my dogs before had been from the pound.  SoHubby was in a bind and needed a wedding gift for me, pronto and this looked like his way out.  I guess Boudin’s cuteness got to me and the constant nagging of SoHubby and we walked up to the cashier and paid for our first dog together.  I will never forget ,there was a woman and her daughter in line in front of us and she went on how the dumbest dog she ever had was a Beagle.  I guffawed at such a notion, because surely if you have a little patience and train your dog everything will be bliss.  AW, the young and foolish.

Those nights with an 8 week old pup would prepare me for the up all nights one has with a newborn.  There was much crying and yelping.  And not all would be from the dog.  For some reason, SoHubby thought this would be my job to take care of this dog.  Nice wedding gift, huh, one that poops on the carpet and keeps you up all night.  Frankly, I was use to getting my 10 hours and was none to happy getting up with a dog.  I had never had this experience with a dog, but that might have been because I never had a puppy this young before.  Although, unhappy with this situation, I pushed on and spent my days with Boudin.  Mostly trying to get him not to chew on electrical wires and chairs.  Walking him and begging him not to eat his own poop while trying not to throw up in front of the neighbors.  Slowly we grew to an understanding that I was the head Bitch around here and he was to do what he was told.  However, there was one thing that I could never control and it annoys me to this day.  His barking.

Beagles are hunting dogs.  They basically sniff out small prey for their masters and their loud, obnoxious barks are to point out what they have found.  Boudin would never have a chance to hunt like he was intended, but the instinct is there.  He hunted the cat barking the whole time.  Cleo was pretty much disgusted by this whole ordeal and found refuge on top of a bookshelf.  Then Boudin had to find another way to get his barking out of his system.  That would mean barking at any and everything.  Sure dogs bark when a person knocks, especially a person they don’t know, but eventually they stop.  Not Boudin.  He can hear you coming from a mile away and he just knows you are coming to our house and that is when the barking starts and it doesn’t stop until I either threaten bodily harm or the person is a mile away.  The barking is not reserved just for people that Boudin doesn’t know, oh he will go apeshit when it is someone he knows.  He not only barks, but runs himself into the floorboards.  That is when he is excited.  The worst is when he barks, I get up to see who is here and there is nothing and no one outside. My only explanation for why he jumped from his bed and ran barking to the window is that he heard a fly fart and thought I should know about it, IMMEDIATELY.  So I totally understand the scene in Marley and Me when the mom is so tired, finally has gotten her 2 babies down for a nap  ready to take a nap herself and then hears the rumblings of the garbage truck.  She jumps into action and begs the dog to just be quiet.  The dog goes crazy, because, hey, there is a garbage truck out there and that only happens every week.  Next we see the dad come home and the mom sits there out of her mind screaming for him to take the dog away.  She doesn’t care where, just away.  Oh that scene has been played out in this house many times and many times I have thought about what to do with the body when SoHubby refuses to remove the noise machine.  Lucky for Boudin, I was too tired to put my plans of permanent eviction in motion.  I have just come to realized that there is nothing, short of removing his voice box (and I have heard it done for Beagles, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that), to be done about the barking.  It is in his make-up just like it is in my make-up to scream, “SHUT THE HELL UP!”  We all have our faults.

As much as I claim to hate Boudinand threaten him on a regular basis, there is some love between us.  I am the one to take him to his vet appointments.  I make sure he has a place to stay when we go on vacation.  And I am the one to scream, “SHUT THE DAMN DOOR”, so he won’t escape, another charming attribute of the Beagle, which would then lead me to go searching for him all over the neighborhood.  The kids feed him every morning and SoHubby does most of the potty duty.  Boudin is part of this family and like most family members there are things about him that we could do without, but like most loving families we choose to overlook them and make sure he is taken care of, even if he was the reason there is one hotel in Destin, FL that we can never darken their door, again.  Heck, we might be forbidden to enter the city limits of Destin ever again.  I guess it is a small price to pay for love.

For your listening pleasure:

Sam took on the part of reenacting my response.

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Raising a Hippie

Unless you live under a rock or a compost heap, you know that yesterday was Earth Day.  How do I know, since I am usually not up on all the hip that goes around?  Well, there were the constant reminders of Twits on Twitter.  Some were making fun, encouraging us to buy a SUV and others were wondering what we did to help SAVE THE PLANET.  Because you know the plant has been here for millions of years, but us, humans, need to save it now!  But the biggest town crier was Amber.  As soon as she jumped in the car, she yelled, “Mamma, it is Earth Day!”  Then there was much talk about turning off lights, not wasting water, recycling, and clouds.  Not sure how clouds fit in, but hey, I am all for learning, since it is EARTH DAY!! 

Proving that she is more and more like her daddy, everyday, it was totally lost on Amber when I exclaimed, “But I tell you that stuff, everyday!”  She gave me the same blank stare that her dad gives me when he presents me with a situation, I make a suggestion, he HMPHs off, and then a few days later tells me all about this brilliant solution someone told him regarding is situation du jour.  I get a blank stare when I causally mention that I might have, just maybe, given the same advice a few days earlier.  Apparently, my husband and daughter believe I have no sense at all.  Such is life.  At least, I know I am brilliant.  So for the rest of the afternoon, I was treated to a little girl hopping around pointing and telling ME how I was destroying the earth.  Yeah, whatever.    

I guess Earth Day is alright and I am by far no kind of environment saving hippie, but why do we need a special day?  Shouldn’t it just be stuff we do without thinking.  I take my green like I take everything else in life, what is in it for me, which I am learning is a bad American habit.  Us, dirty, selfish Americans with all our looking out for ourselves nonsense.  We should be doing it just because it is the right thing to do for our plant.  Pshaw!  What difference does it make why we do, as long as, we are doing it?.  Sure I only use my reusable grocery bags, because I hate opening my pantry door and getting hit in the face with a mound of plastic bags or having my groceries spilled and rolling around in the back of my SUV.   Plus those damn plastic bags don’t hold crap and always break.  Sure I am planning on using cloth diapers, because I hate buying diapers or hate the feeling, Oh My God! I have run out.  I never have run out, but the fear is there.  Besides, there are some cute designs out there and why shouldn’t we all look cute while saving the planet?  Sure we don’t buy paper plates for daily use, anymore, because I hated spending money on stuff that we were just going to throw away.  Although, I do remember my grandmother washing paper plates.  Of course, you should wag your finger at her; she did it more because she was a child of the depression.  And, sure I use vinegar and water for most of my cleaning, because why not?   There is nothing better than paying a $1 for a gallon of vinegar that last me for months, instead of the expensive supposedly “green” cleaners that every brand is marketing these days.  I am no fool and if I save the planet in the mean time, that is a bonus. 

I do, however, do not like to be bombarded with products, TV channels, government regulations and finger wagging all the damn time.  Sure I think it is great that more companies are trying to be less wasteful or releasing harmful toxins.  But I have to ask how will this affect my family and me in the long run.  Is all this regulationreally going to help us?  Are all these new products really much safer and more “green” than what our mothers’ mothers’ mothers’ use to use?   Or will this become like the war on germs?  We are bombarded with all these products telling us how we must get all those nasty germs off of our bodies or WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.  Then we find out that, hey, we needed some of those nasty little buggers to help our immune systems to fight off bigger nastiest germs, later.  Who knows?  I just hate this “WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE” tactic that is being used.  And while Amber’s school doesn’t seem to have this approach, I think blending Earth Day talk into everyday talk in a general way is better than focusing on one day then moving on.  Because, hey there is Sn0-Cone day Friday where a bunch of those little nasty germy kids are going to be covered in sticky, gooey, colored syrup and throwing their paper cones all over the schoolyard.  I am just saying.

 

Note:  Here is a Snopes.com article regarding CFL bulbs and their containment of mercury.  I understand that some of this has been blown out of proportion, but do we really need this list of instructions when cleaning up a broken light bulb?

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A Question for the Masses

There is one question out there that I thought would never be thrown my way.  How could it?  I never planned to have many children and I knew for sure that they would never be THAT close in age.  But last night, it happened…

A typical batshit crazy Wednesday.  The kids were driving me up the wall, I tried to keep 2 very fidgety small children occupied at boring (well, for us, anyway) dance class and finalizing plans for dinner.  Aw!  Dinner.  The holy grail I look forward to all day on Wednesday.  You could even say it is the reason I never throw my hands up, hire monkeys to watch the kids and hide under the covers all day.  I know that at the end of the day, I will be able to sit down, throw parental responsibility to others while I enjoy a hot meal prepared by someone else.  

This Wednesday was a little tricky.  Sun’s Dad’s car blew up on the bridge and he was in the process of buying a new one.  Sun’s mother was not very happy about all this and no one was happy about the process of buying a car.  Have you ever bought a car?  Wouldn’t you rather slide down a razor buck naked and then get a new car?  Yeah, it is a long, boring, painful ordeal that you never really feel good about in the end.  So, our timing was all off.  George had business at alittle Italian restuarant in our area.  It is quite famous and has the best Italian food in the city, in my opinion.  I swear I would pay large quantities of money and even my children for a dip in their red sauce.  However, if you like you can have it on pasta, instead.  We decided to eat there. 

I walk in with 3 kids in tow ready to pull up a trough of spaghetti and a truckload of bread.  That would have to wait, seeing that the restaurant was very busy because of Jazz Fest and Sun’s parents were nowhere near on their way to meet us.  Sam occupied himself and a few of the patrons by dancing in front of the jukebox.  Frank Sinatra and other oldies will do that to ya.  He was such an enjoyment of some of the customers that they kept the jukebox going just to watch him dance.  When one of his fans approached me.  He started listing the ages of the kids I had with me: “5 yrs old, 2 yr old and what is she 1 yr old?”.  And then without warning the question flew out of his mouth:  “You do know what causes that?”  I was stunned.  First of all, not all these kids were mine (okay, 2 out of the 3) and second, is 3 kids really that many?  Then I was distracted by a small boy who was causing servers to not only balance plates of hot food but avoid dumping them all over him and a girl whining that she was so thristy that she was on the verge of death.  So, for now, the question was tucked in the back of my mind.

I pose it to you, dear readers, what does cause this phenomenon?  Is it Catholicism? I mean the church does allow us some birth control. Is it Irishness? For the record, I am not Irish, but I think I rubbed up against, once.  Is it insanity?  Meaning, mine. For agreeing to let my husband take a “short business” call outside while I stay with 3 cranky and hungry kids, ALONE.  For the record, that phone call lasted almost 30 minutes and my sanity lasted about 5 minutes.  I am at a lost as to what causes this condition.  It surely can’t be sex, because we all know that that gets less and less with each kid.  What ever could it be? 

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It’s Vocabulary Time with Southern Dad

This morning, as I hit the snooze button for the second time, I was awakened loudly by a little girl that refuses to sleep pass 3am, these days.  {Oh did you think that sleep problems were only for the small and immobile.  Yeah me, too.  I am coming to realize that sleep problems get worse as kids get older, because they have the ability to wander the house unattended.  Which is fine, as long as you let sleeping parents lie.}  I jumped from my bed, because it is picture day.  Must. Stop. Child. From. Picking. Out. Her. Own. Clothes. For. PICTUREDAY!  I had explained to Amber that she would have to wear something nice for school today.  I should have further explained that nice meant something nice for normal little 5 yr old girls, not nice for rising teen starlets who need to hooker it up for the cameras.  *sigh*

I ran to her room and saw her standing in a denim skirt with mauve footless stockings searching for a shirt.  She wanted to wear what she wore to Catechism the night before.  My strategy with Amber is to minimize arguments as much as possible, so I had agreed to let her wear this outfit to church.  However, I would be damned if I was going to have photographic evidence of how I let my daughter dress to avoid a knock down, drag out fight.  So at 5:30 in the morning, Amber and I stood in her room throwing loud statements back and forth.  She wailed, screamed, stomped and I yelled, screamed, stomped and maybe threw a shirt or two.  Then I decided it was time for Amber to learn a little something about compromise.  I told her she could wear the plaid shirt she wanted, but she couldn’t wear the denim skirt with the tights.  Of course, I should have just stabbed her in the heart, which would have hurt much less than suggesting that she wear her new capri pants.  HOW DARE I?!  Where are the cops when a little girl needs justice?  Needless to say, she didn’t understand compromise and we both lost.  Which is the bastard definition of compromise: No one wins.  First causalty of Vocabulary time for the day.  And lesson 1 for me: arguments that are avoided one day will bite you in the ass another.

As her punishment and a way to get all of these small, loud and arugmentive people away from me, I told her that she could not watch TV and had to do her homework.  Take that loud and annoying little girl.  That will teach you to mess with me at 5:30 in the morning.  What I should have said was do the writing portion of your homework, so I don’t have to worry about it later.  What my husband heard was do the reading portion of your homework, so he can work on his laptop and pretend to listen.  Aren’t we the greatest parents around?   Lesson 2 for me: When trying to avoid parental duty, remember that the other parent, when left alone with children, will avoid his duty without your knowledge and you will end up with more work in the end.

As I was getting ready for the day, I heard a strange sound.  It sounded much like a boing from the cartoons. I ignored it, figuring that my mind was playing sleep deprived games on me.  I should have paid closer attention and raced downstairs before George gave his definition of one of Amber’s vocabulary words.  “Daddy, what does job mean?”.  That is when George’s ears perked up.  Here was his chance to give me grief and pass down his knowledge to the next generation.  George’s definition of ”job”: “Just Over Broke.  They give you enough to keep you coming back, but never enough to get you ahead”.  I had heard this definition enough during our dating time when I worked as a salesperson then manager of a retail store.  After my ears started to bleed with this constant propaganda, I decided to quit and let him support me.  That is when I decided he was right and I started my career as a pampered, middle class housewife.  You know, he is right.  I am much more ahead than I ever was with a J.O.B.  Lesson 1 for husband who thinks he is so clever: When you spew propaganda, people will begin to believe you and then it will bite you in the ass. 

Have fun on your NON-JOB, honey, I will be spending your money.   

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When Death Came to Town

I thought yesterday was going quite well, babies took a long nap (3 hours), I got to sit on the sofa with my lover (Laptop) and watch a marathon of Will and Grace (that show still cracks me up).  I was just a lamb unknowingly waiting to go to slaughter.  All hell broke loose at 4:45 pm, 15 minutes before we were to leave for dance class.  I had to feed the baby, let the dog out and buy cookies from the neighbor kids.  I figured I have this 3 kid thing down by now, I can multitask.  I did just that this morning and it worked out fine.  Well,  when your chasing your dumb ass dog across two yards and trying to feed a 5 month old, things tend to go awry. 

I take the baby in, hoping to get Amber to feed her a bottle, so I can go catch the DUMB ASS DOG.  I am in mid-sentence:  “Amber I need yo” when she spews vomit from every hole in her head.  I am stunned, but I still have to feed the baby and get the dog, before our neighbors put a bounty on his head, which is not a bad idea at this point.  I leave Amber standing there hunched over with a long string of spit hanging from her mouth, when I grab the leash and go chase the dog.  I come back in, kick the dog (not that hard, but he had me chasing him around our yard looking like a fool) and start to clean up the vomit.  Oh but wait, she just geared up for round 2 of Vomit-o-Rama.  Here I must stop and ask, why is it that bodily fluids are attracted to the most inconvenient surface to clean?  Amber couldn’t have thrown up on the wood floor or the miles of tile floor, no it had to be on my Pottery Barn area rug.  A moment of silence for the Pottery Barn rug.  But wait, it splatter onto the Pottery Barn sofa.  A moment of silence for the Pottery Barn sofa.  It might not mean much to you, but you don’t know the heartache we went through to get that sofa.  Or the heartache that Pottery Barn went through when you screw over a couple, like us.  I will just say they scatter when we walk into the store.

I clean it all up using my trusty vinegar and water solution while gagging the whole time.  In the meantime I am barking orders to everyone.  We were still going to dance school.  Here is where I become one of those mothers.  I have many problems and one of them is not wanting to deviate from the routine of the day.  If we didn’t go to dance class, then we wouldn’t go to dinner and dammit I wanted a burger, no matter how much it cost.  Besides, Amber could have emptied the contents of her belly because she ate too much earlier.  Thinking back, I think that would have happened at 1130am when they had lunch.  It could have been a bad cookie she ate after lunch, again something that would have happened earlier.  See how I talk myself into this chaos.  I grew up in a world where you had to have lost half your blood supply and missing a limb, in order, to stay home from school.  This will bite me in the ass, later.

We arrive at dancing class just in time and Amber is fine throughout her ballet class.  Sure she complained that she was tired when she came down, but if she would just stop waking up at 4am in the morning maybe she wouldn’t be so tired.  She asked for some water and went off to tap dance class.  Water can’t hurt, can it?  Oh, but it can come up just like the hamburger chunks I cleaned up from my rug a mere hour and half ago.  One of the dance school women came out,  screamed some name and said she threw up.  It wasn’t Amber so I breathed a sigh of relief.  At least, the death plague is making it’s way to others in the area.  At this point, I walk over to the monitor and try to find Amber and the mother next to me says with a disgusted look on her face, “Someone puked.”  I nod and think, “Thank God it wasn’t my kid.”  Then the lady comes back out and says, it is AMBER that puked.  SHIT!!!  This is when I realize I should have stayed my happy ass at home.  The thing about water, when it comes back for a repeat visit, you can’t see it on the floor.  A nice mother takes the baby from me and I leave Sam in my dust.  I will find him later screaming and wailing in someone’s arms.  I go to Amber, wipe her face and tell her we need to go.  The nice mom (I really need to learn these people’s name.  I have only seen them once a week for 3 years.) helps me to the car with my gaggle of kids.  I apologize to everyone and thank her more than anyone needs to be thanked. 

We drive home, but I am thinking I can still go to dinner, right?  See, how I don’t lose grasp of what is really important in this situation?  I call the hubs, who infoms me that he is ”just finishing up” a job.  This could mean that he will be finished anywhere from 5 minutes to the end of time.  My hubsand doesn’t do so well with the time estimation.  I inform him to drop what he is doing and get the hell home.  I have a vomit crisis on my hands and my dinner out hangs in the balance.  I contact my friend (the mother of the baby) and catch her up with what is going on.  Her concern:  that her precious baby will get sick from being around my carrier monkeys, again.  I did give full disclosure when we set up this babysitting agreement, so do I feel bad?  Well, kinda, but not really.  Hell, I knew I was going to get sick and we have to worry about me, here. 

Mid-drive, I slap myself into reality and come to terms that I will not be eating a $30 hamburger.  Dammit!!  I call the friend and tell her to just come to the house.  I swing by Wendy’s to get something to eat for Sam and me.  I have declared no food or water for Amber.  Why waste it and I don’t need to see it twice?  By this time she is practically hanging out of the car window to get some fresh air.  As much fresh air as the swamp can offer.  We make it home and no sooner do we get home, the release of body fluids begins, AGAIN.  I can’t take it.  She was told to go to the bathroom and put on her pajamas.  So how did she manage to throw up in my bathroom, my bedroom and the hallway?  Well, it is just physics, you see.  Give kid simple instructions and know that they will completely disregard what you say, because you are STUPID.  Also, all bodily fluids are drawn to carpet where they can seep down to the pad and breed only to contaminate you when you least expect it.  I hate carpet.  I want it out of my home, never to show it’s shagged face around here, again. 

We settle in for a long night.  Amber falls asleep on the living room floor, because what more could she possibly do to it.  George and I watch Nip/Tuck until they are just this close to porn where I pause it.  ”I can’t watch this even if she is asleep.”  We moved Amber to her bed, which would promote more spewing.  She, now, has her very own pot to yak in, so we avoid more clean up.  I thought of tying it around her neck, but I thought that was bordering on abuse. Right?  Our night would end when we are awaked by a hungry and thirsty little girl at 2am and a car alarm that goes off when the wind blows.  We would get up at 630am, because what was the use of trying to sleep when  Vomit Girl is standing over your bed?

I would like to report that the vomit has seemed to stop, but the other end has awakened.  Sam is blowing out his butt and Amber is finding it hard to tear herself away from SpongeBob on TIVO to make it to the bathroom.  The reasoning was lost on her that, now, she is missing the whole show because I have to give her a bath and clean up her carpet and it is TIVO, for the love of crackers.  The virus has moved to me and I think that if I move from my chair and the slight warm glow of my laptop, I will die. 

Education at fancy private school: $5500
Riding lessons at fancy private school: $740
Hot lunch at fancy private school: $500
Contracting nasty diseases and learning curse words from your fellow students at fancy private school:  Priceless

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Internet Pollution

The first thing George said to me as soon as he came home:

“You know Anderson Cooper is gay?”

Hey, don’t go crushing my fantasy.  You tell yourself whatever you need to, to get you through the night. 

“Lalalalalalalala!  At least, I am keeping up with current events while staring dreamily into that tight black t-shirt.” 

*************

A conversation in the wee hours of the morning in the bathroom:

A woman like screams comes from the bathroom as he opened the toilet lid to let loose that ever important morning pee. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What did you do; stuff the cat into the toilet?”

“What are you talking about?”

I forgot that I cleaned my hairbrushes into the toilet just a few moments ago.

Moving on to the next subject of the day:

“You need to take those towels down, because the cat peed on them, last night.  You know when you locked her in our room with no way out?  How many times, have I told you not to shut the cat in our room?”

The husband standing in his boxers looking at me wondering why he ever asked that all important question 8 years ago.  Takes a big whiff of air and chokes on the smell that is ALL HIS FAULT. 

“GOOD LORD, that is funky!”  as he dances around spraying Oust into the air.

Choking from the ozone killing fumes the husband just released into the air, I ask,  “Don’t you think that is over kill?”

Then he dances around and chants as he lights a match in the very important smell killing ritual.  I think the spirit of little kitty pee-pee has left our bathroom.  The chanting in your boxers helps.

“I hope I don’t start a bush fire” as he throws the match into the toilet. 

*************

Husband to English translations:

“If you need anything from Target or the grocery store you better tell me, now.”

“I think maybe you should pick up some breakfast bars for yourself.”

Translation:  Your ass needs a break from all that Burger King you have been eating in the name of not having anytime in the morning for breakfast.    

Hey, I am just getting my daily FDA recommended intake of Coke Icee.  Point taken and breakfast bars are safely stored in the pantry in hopes that my ass will still be able to fit out of the house each and every morning.  I even tried a LUNA bar this morning.  My head hurts from the chewing of the graveling cardboard, but the bloat is gone from running to the toilet from a dose of fiber my body is not use to.  I think I feel about 5 lbs lighter.  Evidentally, they are using the word, brownie, loosely.

*************

All this is brought to you by my brain, who decided it was time for a vacation right when I need it the most. 

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More Husband Talk

“What are we doing this weekend?”  asked the Husband

“I would like to decorate the house for Halloween and get some supplies for the pumpkin party.” nicely said the Wife

Sunday afternoon

“What are you doing?” asked the Wife

“I am just going to wash the front door and the porch railings.”  said the Husband  “It will take me 15 minutes.” 

After saving her son from certain brain injuries the Wife decided to go inside.  Wife peeks her head out, taking a break from her own cleaning, after 2 hours.  “Do you think you are done?” she asked, “It is already 5 pm.”

“Sorry”, said the Husband without a hint of remorse.  “Doesn’t it look like new, though?” 

“Sure”, answered the Wife, “but what about the Halloween decorations?  You can’t put them up with the house all wet.” 

The Husband gives the Wife the stank eye.  The Wife walks away knowing that next weekend the Husband will be distracted by something large and motorized and she will have to decorate the whole house herself.  And because all this decorating is for the kids, they will run off to play with their friends or stay in the living room buck naked watching Elmo.  The Wife wonders if it is all worth it for the few weeks left in the month.  She will do her duty, because that is what mothers do, pick up the pieces after it all crumbles.

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Translation

Thinking about getting (insert very expensive item here):  When used by Southern husband, this means that the item has already been purchased or it is in the process of being purchased.

Most recent example:  I walked into the gun store this weekend to give Southern Husband and his associate, Gunman, lunch.  It was busy so there was not much time to talk.  However….there was time to show me the new member of our family, even though I didn’t know it yet. 

SH: I am thinking of getting this for the tax free weekend.  (He shows me a shiny gun that looks like his other gun, maybe smaller.  What do I know, they are all guns only varying in sizes to me.)

SM:  Hmmm…that is nice.  Sam stopped hiding in the clothes!  Amber leave those handcuffs alone!  Okay, I think I have to go, now.  I think we lost Sam in the tactical pants.  SAM!!!

Cut to to the present:

SM: Don’t think I missed that new piece of machinery in your pants.  (Get your minds out of the gutter.)

SH:  Oh, I told you about this.

SM:  When?

SH:  You remember.  I told you while we were at the store.

SM:  Yeah, that’s right.  I am sorry I forgot my Husband to English Dicitonary that day.

I am ashamed that this tactic works.  It is usually combined with my attention focused elsewhere.  Either this man is a genius and should give lessons or I am the dumbest chick walking around.  He has snuck a Tahoe, AR-15 rifle, many a remote control car, new computer and cigars the price of the GNP of third world countries.  It is like I go to bed at night thinking our bank account is safe and sound only to wake up to find it violated and begging for mercy. 

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