Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Blood on the Porch
He walked right past the bloodstains on the porch.
Perhaps, the uneven surface of the aggregate hid the evidence.
Perhaps he saw them but his brain told him it
had to be something else.
He put his key into the blood-smeared doorknob.
This he noticed.
The blood.
Never one to overreact,
his first thought was,
casually,
"Well, something definitely happened here."
I had tried to call him for over an hour.
He was driving.
His phone was turned off.
Etc., etc.......
I never reached him.
But...I couldn't get my finger to stop bleeding. I knew the proper first aid. I performed the recommended procedures. I even consulted the esteemed Google doctor and his commenting cronies. My paper towel supply started to run low. I wasn't sure how much longer I could apply pressure and hold my hand above my head. The situation was borderline dire.
After an hour I was still bleeding a lot.
I took another look at the damage that had been done.
There was quite a significant jagged cut. I was able to see inside to a few parts that aren't supposed to be seen from the outside. A small part of me wondered if I'd pass out from the blood loss. A larger part of me decided that thought was ridiculous. I just need to take charge of this situation and drive myself to Urgent Care-not the far one, my favorite, but the close one. I certainly wouldn't do anything crazy.
The husband saw the note I had taped to the entryway floor.
"I have driven myself to Urgent Care--the close one."
The husband, knowing I was capable of writing a note AND finding the elusive tape to secure the note (which meant I was still remarkably coherent) decided he had time to go to the bathroom. He entered the powder room off the entryway and found a sink full of blood spatters and drips. He found blood-soaked toilet paper scattered on the counter beside the sink.
The husband, being the relaxed person he usually is then went into the kitchen to put his lunch box away........before he rushed off to Urgent Care-the close one, of course. It was there he was met with piles of paper towels soaked in blood. It was then he saw random blood drops(pools) in the kitchen sink. It was then he saw the Google search pulled up on the open laptop, "what do I do if I can't stop my finger from bleeding?" It was then he got in the car and rushed off to Urgent Care-the close one.
Of course.
The nurse opened the door and said, "Your husband is here."
He said, "What did you do?"
I said, "I wanted to trim that stupid hedge. It's way overgrown. I got out the hedge trimmer and started trimming. But then it jammed. So I turned the trimmer off and cleared the junk. When I turned it back on my hand was still on the blades. It chewed my finger up for about 1/10th of a second. That was enough."
He said, "But there is a handguard, your hand stays behind the guard for safety? Right?"
I said, "Yep. That's what it's there for. But I put my hand in front of it, right on the vibrating blades."
He said, "Why?"
I said, "I don't frickin' know why. I think we can chalk this one up to operator error."
One of us went home, driving with 11 stitches on one bandaged up hand and the other able-bodied hand desperately trying to navigate the corners.
One of us went home via the drive-thru and brought home dinner.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Pop the Hood
In his very best car dreams, I would pop the hood.
I would pull the latch
every single time
I get
I get
gas.
I would stand at the front of the car while the gas flowed into the tank at the back. I would lean over the front end of the car, careful to not actually touch the car. I would check the oil. I would check the windshield washer fluid. I would rub my chin with my hand while my left brain pondered and assessed and determined technical things.
I would mutter, “It looks like it’s about time to ____________________” And then I would fill in the blank by saying something smart in car guy language.
That would make the husband happy, in his very best car dreams.
I am a dream killer.
I rarely pull the latch.
I pretend to know nothing.
It’s completely his fault, of course.
Cars are his THING.
They make him happy.
Cars make me happy if they have pretty paint
and are washed and vacuumed
and have a stereo with good bass
and have a stick shift
and tons of torque
and corner well
and are
completely
paid
for.
He loves all the cars.
No matter what.
He cares more.
I pretend to know nothing.
Last week we had a car issue. The husband could tell you in great detail what it was. I don’t have a clue what it was. He explained the problem to me. He quickly sensed my lack of interest in what he was saying and my failure to fully commit to the cause. The conversation ended with him muttering, “Am I the only one who ever pops the hood? I pop it EVERY TIME I GET GAS!”
3 days later I took the teenage boy to the gas station. I forced the budding driver to pump the gas. I forced him to wash the rear window with the drippy squeegee. I forced the smart, college bound sophomore to calculate the gas mileage.
“Why??????”, he whined.
“Because, “ I lectured, “The first signs of automotive trouble often present themselves in a declining gas mileage calculation.”
It was the husband’s car guy voice.
It came out of my mouth.
There was a man in the next stall over when the teenage boy and I got gas. He popped his hood. He rubbed his chin while his left brain pondered and assessed and determined technical things.
He turned to us and called out.
“Hey!” he said. “That boy’s gotta know more than how to pump gas and clean a window! Next time you should really pop the hood and have him check things out underneath! Anyone who drives a car should do that every single time they get gas, you know?”
I looked around to see if I was being punked by the husband.
I took a breath and turned back to the man in the next stall. “You are absolutely right. I was speaking with my husband just the other day…..about that…..about the importance of popping the hood.”
“Well that’s fantastic. You tell your husband he’s a lucky man to have a wife who doesn’t pretend to know nothing about cars.”
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
One Lucky Man
The husband is one lucky man. He knows this because I point it out to him when I get the chance.
When the TV promos for “Hoarders” or “Kate Plus 8” or “The Real Housewives of (anywhere)” blare into our living room, I say to the husband, “See? It could be worse.”
The husband mumbles back in agreement, “Why, yes it could.”
And when the TV promos for “Pimp My Ride”, “Monster Garage” and “Overhaulin'” blare into our living room, the husband is kind enough to remind me as well. “See? It could be worse.”
I always wholeheartedly agree, “Why, yes it certainly could.”
I approached Valentine’s Day this year with that same tolerant, observant practicality that the husband and I have mastered. While never one to be extravagant in my gift giving, I do find it important that the husband not go empty handed on Valentine’s Day. I found a card for him at the grocery store that wasn’t too corny and didn’t make me gag and roll my eyeballs. And because it was such a special day, I forced myself not to look at the price. I put the card in a bag with a very special car magazine and a few other items I had purchased for the husband.
When the husband was brushing his teeth on Valentine’s Eve, I secretly took the bag with the card and other items down to the dining room. The husband went to bed. I stayed up very late learning about AP European History with the teenager.
The husband’s alarm went off at 4am on Valentine’s morning. He took his shower and went downstairs to eat breakfast. I was sound asleep. He was greeted at the seat where he sits by a grocery store bag. Perplexed, the husband opened the bag and pulled out a few random goodies, a very special car magazine and a few receipts. He reached in toward the bottom of the bag and pulled out a pink envelope. And then he pulled out a Valentine’s card that wasn’t too corny. The card was not in the envelope. The card wasn’t even signed.
When the husband went to leave for work awhile later, he tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day. And thanks for the car magazine.”
The shame shot through me and I sat bolt upright in bed. I was immediately awake. “OH NO!” I cried out to the husband. “I forgot your stuff! I took it downstairs and just left it on the table! I got too tired……”
I rambled in embarrassment to the husband about the wrapping paper I was going to use and the nice ribbon I was going to tie the magazine up with and the witty and loving repartee I had planned to write inside the card.
The tolerant husband assured me that we would somehow survive this difficult hardship. He also said, “I did find it a bit odd that the card wasn’t even signed…”
Yes, that husband sure is one lucky man.
Check This Out!
The teenager was given an amazing opportunity to play a few basketball games this past weekend with a local Special Olympics Unified basketball team. Special Olympics Unified Sports is a program that combines Special Olympics athletes and athletes without intellectual disabilities (partners) on sports teams for training and competition. The teenager went in a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. She came out having loved every minute of it.
Both the teenager and I found the entire day inspiring. Every person we encountered, from the Special Olympics athletes and parents to the coaches and volunteers, was positive and supportive. The basketball was good and the competition was fierce. The parents cheered. The athletes played their hearts out. But mostly, it was a whole lot of fun. It was how kids’ sports should be.
If you ever get the chance to watch or be part of any Special Olympics event, I cannot recommend it highly enough. You should most definitely check it out.
When the TV promos for “Hoarders” or “Kate Plus 8” or “The Real Housewives of (anywhere)” blare into our living room, I say to the husband, “See? It could be worse.”
The husband mumbles back in agreement, “Why, yes it could.”
And when the TV promos for “Pimp My Ride”, “Monster Garage” and “Overhaulin'” blare into our living room, the husband is kind enough to remind me as well. “See? It could be worse.”
I always wholeheartedly agree, “Why, yes it certainly could.”
I approached Valentine’s Day this year with that same tolerant, observant practicality that the husband and I have mastered. While never one to be extravagant in my gift giving, I do find it important that the husband not go empty handed on Valentine’s Day. I found a card for him at the grocery store that wasn’t too corny and didn’t make me gag and roll my eyeballs. And because it was such a special day, I forced myself not to look at the price. I put the card in a bag with a very special car magazine and a few other items I had purchased for the husband.
When the husband was brushing his teeth on Valentine’s Eve, I secretly took the bag with the card and other items down to the dining room. The husband went to bed. I stayed up very late learning about AP European History with the teenager.
The husband’s alarm went off at 4am on Valentine’s morning. He took his shower and went downstairs to eat breakfast. I was sound asleep. He was greeted at the seat where he sits by a grocery store bag. Perplexed, the husband opened the bag and pulled out a few random goodies, a very special car magazine and a few receipts. He reached in toward the bottom of the bag and pulled out a pink envelope. And then he pulled out a Valentine’s card that wasn’t too corny. The card was not in the envelope. The card wasn’t even signed.
When the husband went to leave for work awhile later, he tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day. And thanks for the car magazine.”
The shame shot through me and I sat bolt upright in bed. I was immediately awake. “OH NO!” I cried out to the husband. “I forgot your stuff! I took it downstairs and just left it on the table! I got too tired……”
I rambled in embarrassment to the husband about the wrapping paper I was going to use and the nice ribbon I was going to tie the magazine up with and the witty and loving repartee I had planned to write inside the card.
The tolerant husband assured me that we would somehow survive this difficult hardship. He also said, “I did find it a bit odd that the card wasn’t even signed…”
Yes, that husband sure is one lucky man.
Check This Out!
The teenager was given an amazing opportunity to play a few basketball games this past weekend with a local Special Olympics Unified basketball team. Special Olympics Unified Sports is a program that combines Special Olympics athletes and athletes without intellectual disabilities (partners) on sports teams for training and competition. The teenager went in a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. She came out having loved every minute of it.
Both the teenager and I found the entire day inspiring. Every person we encountered, from the Special Olympics athletes and parents to the coaches and volunteers, was positive and supportive. The basketball was good and the competition was fierce. The parents cheered. The athletes played their hearts out. But mostly, it was a whole lot of fun. It was how kids’ sports should be.
If you ever get the chance to watch or be part of any Special Olympics event, I cannot recommend it highly enough. You should most definitely check it out.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Lunchbox
I smelled it before I touched it. Yet still, I touched it. Because that’s what mothers do.
The boy was quite adept at taking a lunch box to school and failing to bring one home. And I was no stranger to washing and bleaching that same funky smelling lunch box when it miraculously reappeared on the kitchen counter a few days later. Neither of us however, was prepared to handle the lunch box that went missing in the middle of December. When it miraculously reappeared after the holiday break, in the second week of January, it had transformed into its own living and breathing being.
When I picked the boy up from school, he was holding the lunch box by his pinkie finger, his arm outstretched as far as he could manage. His other hand was covering his nose. “Here mom, I found my lunch box!”
The acrid stench was immediately overwhelming. As the boy and I walked home from his school a green cloud of poison accompanied us. The other mommies steered their children away from us. Small dogs growled at us and backed off in fear. Flocks of birds left the trees, deciding to fly south after all. For the first time, the scary teenage boys in the neighborhood looked a little bit scared of me. I’m pretty sure if I had put the lunch box down on the ground it could have walked home itself.
Let me be very clear. I was a pro at handling foul smelling lunch boxes. But this was more than even I could handle. I coughed, gagged and made an embarrassing spectacle of myself. In terms of first world, suburban mother hardships, I had hit the jackpot. This was truly a terrible thing for me to be going through.
I knew the lunch box was done for. There was no other way. Even if I managed to clean that noxious, certainly harmful, container without choking on my own lung, I would never truly feel comfortable giving it to the boy again. No good mother would take that chance.
I quickly abandoned the lunchbox on the front porch. When the husband came home I would force him to acquire a hazmat suit and dispose of the lunchbox in a manner that would ensure that I would never encounter it again.
When the husband walked into the house an hour later he announced to the family, “Hey! The boy dropped his lunchbox on the porch. I brought it in for him!”
The husband seemed unfazed as he put that awful lunchbox on the clean kitchen countertop. There was no gagging spectacle. There was no hardship. There was no terrible experience.
In shock, I made sure the husband knew exactly how I felt about that lunchbox.
The boy nodded in agreement as he played his video game, “Yeah, Dad. You’d better huck the thing. Mom thinks we’re all going to die.”
The husband grinned just enough to offend me and said, “I don’t smell a thing.”
That grinning husband then proceeded to unload the contents of that vile lunchbox onto the clean countertop. He unloaded the just-about-to-burst-pressurized-full-of-green-foam-Rubbermaid-juice-box. He unloaded that nice thermos container that oozed the leftover casserole the boy had taken to school so many weeks earlier. He unloaded the plastic baggies full of now unrecognizable scraps and crumbs. The husband then took one last look inside the lunchbox and sniffed a big sniff.
“Wow! Look at those colors inside there. And yeah…I suppose it might smell a little bit.”
I insisted the husband throw the entire lunchbox out. He said it wasn’t that bad and accused me of being wasteful. I told him it was not safe for the children. He said that a modern dishwasher could sanitize anything. I told him I didn’t care and that the whole thing grossed me out. He told me that I would never survive in the slums of India. I told him that he was probably right about that one.
When the garbage men took our garbage away the next morning they took with them that dreadful lunchbox. The husband eventually put it in the trash, but only when he realized he really would have to clean it himself. The boy promised to bring home his lunchbox in a timely manner. I cleaned the countertops more times than necessary. I opened the windows in the house to air out that awful smell I was still smelling. I added “buy new lunchbox” to my “to do” list. And then I sat down and Googled “slums of India smells”.
I mean really, how bad could it be?
Check This Out!
Far from the slums of India comes the somewhat humorous, often varied Argentinian band, Pario la Choco. A little bit reggae mixed with a little bit of everything else, Pario la Choco is a nice change of pace from what you are listening to right now. Many of their songs feature brass more than this one does. If you like that sort of thing, as I do, look up some of their other songs too.
The boy was quite adept at taking a lunch box to school and failing to bring one home. And I was no stranger to washing and bleaching that same funky smelling lunch box when it miraculously reappeared on the kitchen counter a few days later. Neither of us however, was prepared to handle the lunch box that went missing in the middle of December. When it miraculously reappeared after the holiday break, in the second week of January, it had transformed into its own living and breathing being.
When I picked the boy up from school, he was holding the lunch box by his pinkie finger, his arm outstretched as far as he could manage. His other hand was covering his nose. “Here mom, I found my lunch box!”
The acrid stench was immediately overwhelming. As the boy and I walked home from his school a green cloud of poison accompanied us. The other mommies steered their children away from us. Small dogs growled at us and backed off in fear. Flocks of birds left the trees, deciding to fly south after all. For the first time, the scary teenage boys in the neighborhood looked a little bit scared of me. I’m pretty sure if I had put the lunch box down on the ground it could have walked home itself.
Let me be very clear. I was a pro at handling foul smelling lunch boxes. But this was more than even I could handle. I coughed, gagged and made an embarrassing spectacle of myself. In terms of first world, suburban mother hardships, I had hit the jackpot. This was truly a terrible thing for me to be going through.
I knew the lunch box was done for. There was no other way. Even if I managed to clean that noxious, certainly harmful, container without choking on my own lung, I would never truly feel comfortable giving it to the boy again. No good mother would take that chance.
I quickly abandoned the lunchbox on the front porch. When the husband came home I would force him to acquire a hazmat suit and dispose of the lunchbox in a manner that would ensure that I would never encounter it again.
When the husband walked into the house an hour later he announced to the family, “Hey! The boy dropped his lunchbox on the porch. I brought it in for him!”
The husband seemed unfazed as he put that awful lunchbox on the clean kitchen countertop. There was no gagging spectacle. There was no hardship. There was no terrible experience.
In shock, I made sure the husband knew exactly how I felt about that lunchbox.
The boy nodded in agreement as he played his video game, “Yeah, Dad. You’d better huck the thing. Mom thinks we’re all going to die.”
The husband grinned just enough to offend me and said, “I don’t smell a thing.”
That grinning husband then proceeded to unload the contents of that vile lunchbox onto the clean countertop. He unloaded the just-about-to-burst-pressurized-full-of-green-foam-Rubbermaid-juice-box. He unloaded that nice thermos container that oozed the leftover casserole the boy had taken to school so many weeks earlier. He unloaded the plastic baggies full of now unrecognizable scraps and crumbs. The husband then took one last look inside the lunchbox and sniffed a big sniff.
“Wow! Look at those colors inside there. And yeah…I suppose it might smell a little bit.”
I insisted the husband throw the entire lunchbox out. He said it wasn’t that bad and accused me of being wasteful. I told him it was not safe for the children. He said that a modern dishwasher could sanitize anything. I told him I didn’t care and that the whole thing grossed me out. He told me that I would never survive in the slums of India. I told him that he was probably right about that one.
When the garbage men took our garbage away the next morning they took with them that dreadful lunchbox. The husband eventually put it in the trash, but only when he realized he really would have to clean it himself. The boy promised to bring home his lunchbox in a timely manner. I cleaned the countertops more times than necessary. I opened the windows in the house to air out that awful smell I was still smelling. I added “buy new lunchbox” to my “to do” list. And then I sat down and Googled “slums of India smells”.
I mean really, how bad could it be?
Check This Out!
Far from the slums of India comes the somewhat humorous, often varied Argentinian band, Pario la Choco. A little bit reggae mixed with a little bit of everything else, Pario la Choco is a nice change of pace from what you are listening to right now. Many of their songs feature brass more than this one does. If you like that sort of thing, as I do, look up some of their other songs too.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Chekov the Potty Mouth
It was 11:45 pm, when the husband, now known as Chekov, put down the masking tape he had used to tape the hotel doors shut. He snuck out of his room wearing his favorite swim trunks. He passed by the pool and headed to the hot tub where he was greeted by Kirk, Spock, Bones, Scotty and Uhura. He put his walkie talkie on the table with the others, took off his shirt and slid into the water. As he laughed at Spock’s story about the problem child in room 345, the 40 something husband thought to himself, “This is the best band tour ever!”
When the teenager agreed to let the husband chaperone her band tour she had four rules. 1. The husband was not allowed to pack a swimsuit. 2. He was not allowed to ever take his shirt off. 3. He was not allowed to enter the pool area of the hotel for any reason. 4. The husband was not allowed to embarrass the teenager in any other way that wasn’t covered by the first three rules.
By the end of day one, the husband had already broken rules 1, 2 and 3.
Band tour had started that morning with the teenager excited about her first band tour. The husband admitted to being a bit nervous about his first band tour as a chaperone. When the charter bus pulled away from the school, the teenager was sitting with her friends, somewhere in the middle of the bus. A few rows in front of the teenager, the chaperone husband had forgotten about his nervousness when he was handed his very own walkie talkie and a list of Star Trek code names each chaperone was assigned. The bus had only travelled a few miles when another chaperone, “Scotty”, yelled out, “Klingon battle cruiser at 9 o’clock!” as the bus passed a police car. With a satisfied look of amusement on his face, the husband looked back a few rows at the teenager and he was pretty sure he saw her roll her eyeballs.
On day 2 of band tour, the husband called home. I chastised him for breaking rules 1-3. “Come on!” the husband whined. “The teenager wasn’t even there. She’s got nothing to worry about. I won’t embarrass her. By the way, these teenage boys CAN NOT keep their hands off of the girls! They are constantly touching them. I’m beginning to think that it’s all they ever think about!”
Later on that second day, the teenager was heard reprimanding some boys for swearing. The boys were used to it. The teenager had gained quite a reputation, apparently, for being the band “potty mouth police”. The teenager didn’t like bad language and wasn’t shy in telling her peers to clean up their mouths.
The husband was unaware of this fact.
It was near curfew on night 2 of band tour. The boys were expected to be in their rooms on the 3rd floor of the hotel. The girls were expected to be in their rooms on the 2nd floor. The chaperone husband was having trouble with Joe. Joe very much wanted to touch a girl. Joe would sneak down to the 2nd floor. The husband would send Joe back to the third floor. This cycle would repeat, numerous times. Finally, the husband could no longer maintain his proper chaperone composure.
“Joe! Get your a** back to your room right now. And I don’t want to see your a** down on this floor again!”
On day 3 of band tour, the charter bus, full of tired teenagers and chaperones, began to make the long trip home. As the teenager sat with her friends, somewhere in the middle of the bus, she was surrounded by kids who were reminiscing about the prior 2 days.
One boy piped up, “I think the funniest thing that happened on band tour this year was when the teenager’s DAD actually SWORE at Joe when he kept trying to sneak on to the girls’ floor. The potty mouth police’s own DAD swore. How funny is that?”
All the kids agreed. The husband’s swearing on band tour would be remembered for a very long time.
And so it was official. Rules 1, 2 and 3-broken. And now rule number 4-broken. The husband was 4 for 4.
The teenager hunched further down in her seat and glanced forward a few rows toward Chekov the husband. Somewhere near the front of the bus, Captain Kirk yelled out, “Klingon battle cruiser approaching!” Chekov grinned and thought to himself, “This was the best band tour ever!”
Check This Out!
Do I need to even mention that Iron Man 2 is now out on DVD? I thought not. Love that Tony Stark….
The novel Born Under a Million Shadows, by Andrea Busfield attempts to shed some positive light on Afghanistan. From the beauty of its land to the beauty of its people, Afghanistan comes to life differently than it does on the evening news. Despite a difficult history, the drug trade and the Taliban, the people of Afghanistan somehow manage to hold on to hope for the future. Although this was a slower, quieter novel, I did enjoy it and recommend it especially if you have an interest in that area of the world.
When the teenager agreed to let the husband chaperone her band tour she had four rules. 1. The husband was not allowed to pack a swimsuit. 2. He was not allowed to ever take his shirt off. 3. He was not allowed to enter the pool area of the hotel for any reason. 4. The husband was not allowed to embarrass the teenager in any other way that wasn’t covered by the first three rules.
By the end of day one, the husband had already broken rules 1, 2 and 3.
Band tour had started that morning with the teenager excited about her first band tour. The husband admitted to being a bit nervous about his first band tour as a chaperone. When the charter bus pulled away from the school, the teenager was sitting with her friends, somewhere in the middle of the bus. A few rows in front of the teenager, the chaperone husband had forgotten about his nervousness when he was handed his very own walkie talkie and a list of Star Trek code names each chaperone was assigned. The bus had only travelled a few miles when another chaperone, “Scotty”, yelled out, “Klingon battle cruiser at 9 o’clock!” as the bus passed a police car. With a satisfied look of amusement on his face, the husband looked back a few rows at the teenager and he was pretty sure he saw her roll her eyeballs.
On day 2 of band tour, the husband called home. I chastised him for breaking rules 1-3. “Come on!” the husband whined. “The teenager wasn’t even there. She’s got nothing to worry about. I won’t embarrass her. By the way, these teenage boys CAN NOT keep their hands off of the girls! They are constantly touching them. I’m beginning to think that it’s all they ever think about!”
Later on that second day, the teenager was heard reprimanding some boys for swearing. The boys were used to it. The teenager had gained quite a reputation, apparently, for being the band “potty mouth police”. The teenager didn’t like bad language and wasn’t shy in telling her peers to clean up their mouths.
The husband was unaware of this fact.
It was near curfew on night 2 of band tour. The boys were expected to be in their rooms on the 3rd floor of the hotel. The girls were expected to be in their rooms on the 2nd floor. The chaperone husband was having trouble with Joe. Joe very much wanted to touch a girl. Joe would sneak down to the 2nd floor. The husband would send Joe back to the third floor. This cycle would repeat, numerous times. Finally, the husband could no longer maintain his proper chaperone composure.
“Joe! Get your a** back to your room right now. And I don’t want to see your a** down on this floor again!”
On day 3 of band tour, the charter bus, full of tired teenagers and chaperones, began to make the long trip home. As the teenager sat with her friends, somewhere in the middle of the bus, she was surrounded by kids who were reminiscing about the prior 2 days.
One boy piped up, “I think the funniest thing that happened on band tour this year was when the teenager’s DAD actually SWORE at Joe when he kept trying to sneak on to the girls’ floor. The potty mouth police’s own DAD swore. How funny is that?”
All the kids agreed. The husband’s swearing on band tour would be remembered for a very long time.
And so it was official. Rules 1, 2 and 3-broken. And now rule number 4-broken. The husband was 4 for 4.
The teenager hunched further down in her seat and glanced forward a few rows toward Chekov the husband. Somewhere near the front of the bus, Captain Kirk yelled out, “Klingon battle cruiser approaching!” Chekov grinned and thought to himself, “This was the best band tour ever!”
Check This Out!
Do I need to even mention that Iron Man 2 is now out on DVD? I thought not. Love that Tony Stark….
The novel Born Under a Million Shadows, by Andrea Busfield attempts to shed some positive light on Afghanistan. From the beauty of its land to the beauty of its people, Afghanistan comes to life differently than it does on the evening news. Despite a difficult history, the drug trade and the Taliban, the people of Afghanistan somehow manage to hold on to hope for the future. Although this was a slower, quieter novel, I did enjoy it and recommend it especially if you have an interest in that area of the world.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Jury Duty
When I surrendered all of my morning duties to the husband, I didn’t delude myself with high expectations of what would happen when I was not home. During our temporary role reversal, I assumed that the dishes and laundry and floor cleaning would not cross the husband’s radar. I was hoping however, that the husband would ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece.
When I left my family for jury duty that morning I was armed with snacks and books and whole ton of patience. I had been told there might be some waiting. And despite inexplicably setting off the security alarm at the courthouse door, I managed to check in on time, fill out my forms and start to prematurely judge all of my new juror friends by their appearance and behavior.
A competent seeming judge soon provided an inspirational and instructional speech on my jury duty experience and the pride I should take in the long and slow process of waiting.
The judge asked if there were any questions. The first question came from a young woman and concerned the form we had all filled out. “It says on the form, ‘Have you ever been a party to a lawsuit?’ Well what if you went to a party and afterward there ended up being a big lawsuit over some stuff that happened that night?”
The next question came from a middle aged woman who cleared her throat and then spoke. “Where it says here on the form, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’…..well…what exactly do you mean by a….FELONY?”
A man raised his hand and asked the judge, “I already know I’m prejudiced but I didn’t see that on the form. Is there any way I can just leave now?”
Between the judge’s infectious enthusiasm for the importance of jury duty and my new doubts about the capabilities and qualifications of some of my fellow jurors, I found myself more than ready to take part in the judicial process. Within the first hour, a woman began to announce the names of 62 people that were to be questioned for a jury in courtroom number 4. I sent the woman telepathic messages with my brain, “Pick me! Pick me! I’d be good! I got an A in American Government in high school!” I don’t think the woman ever got my silent messages. She never called my name. I was convinced there had been some mistake.
Eventually, my jury duty enthusiasm began to wane as I sat and waited with those who were in the same jury limbo boat that I was. We read our books, ate our snacks and pounded on laptops. We spoke in Korean, very loudly, on our cell phone for 2 hours straight. We complained about President Obama and Sarah Palin and those troublesome Australian tax rates. We bought shoes for $39.95 from our cell phone, confessed our marital troubles to strangers and announced to the room that the pitcher for the local baseball team was a big wussy. But mostly we shifted in our seats and stared at the walls. I never was called to be a juror. After hours and hours of waiting I was sent home. I had earned $20 in jury pay, read two great books and was now able to speak some rudimentary Korean.
I drove in the driveway and my thoughts shifted back to my family. I wondered how the morning had gone for the husband and the teenager and the boy. When I walked into the house it was not the expected dirty dishes or the inevitable basket of dirty laundry or the pesky crumbs that were still left on the floor that caused me to pause. It was the sight of the first aid kit, strewn all over the counter, left in a frantic mess that caused my breath to momentarily suspend.
When I left for jury duty that morning I had hoped that the husband would somehow ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece. And I could see from the evidence of the dismantled first aid kit before me that the teenager and the boy, although apparently bandaged, were still, thankfully, in one piece.
Check This Out!
One of the books I read while waiting for my jury duty moment to come was Exile by Richard North Patterson. This legal thriller focuses on the defense of a Palestinian woman on trial for organizing the suicide bombing of the Prime Minister of Israel as he visited San Francisco. I found it to be a nice combination of the expected drama and suspense a novel like this is known for as well as a good dose of information about the Middle East and the often confusing Arab-Israeli conflict. This one was a hard one to put down.
For a completely different kind of book, you might try I'm Off Then: Losing and Finding Myself on the Camino de Santiago. The author, Hape Kerkeling, is a hugely popular comedian and entertainer in Germany and the rest of Europe. His pilgrimage across the Pyrenees to the Spanish shrine of St. James, is the same spiritual journey that over 100,000 people make every year. I expected a book by a "funny guy" to be intentionally funny. This book wasn't. It was most definitely amusing. But somehow, quietly and slowly, meaning and inspiration also snuck their way into the words he wrote. This book started off slowly for me. And by the time I had finished it I knew it would be a blog recommendation.
When I left my family for jury duty that morning I was armed with snacks and books and whole ton of patience. I had been told there might be some waiting. And despite inexplicably setting off the security alarm at the courthouse door, I managed to check in on time, fill out my forms and start to prematurely judge all of my new juror friends by their appearance and behavior.
A competent seeming judge soon provided an inspirational and instructional speech on my jury duty experience and the pride I should take in the long and slow process of waiting.
The judge asked if there were any questions. The first question came from a young woman and concerned the form we had all filled out. “It says on the form, ‘Have you ever been a party to a lawsuit?’ Well what if you went to a party and afterward there ended up being a big lawsuit over some stuff that happened that night?”
The next question came from a middle aged woman who cleared her throat and then spoke. “Where it says here on the form, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’…..well…what exactly do you mean by a….FELONY?”
A man raised his hand and asked the judge, “I already know I’m prejudiced but I didn’t see that on the form. Is there any way I can just leave now?”
Between the judge’s infectious enthusiasm for the importance of jury duty and my new doubts about the capabilities and qualifications of some of my fellow jurors, I found myself more than ready to take part in the judicial process. Within the first hour, a woman began to announce the names of 62 people that were to be questioned for a jury in courtroom number 4. I sent the woman telepathic messages with my brain, “Pick me! Pick me! I’d be good! I got an A in American Government in high school!” I don’t think the woman ever got my silent messages. She never called my name. I was convinced there had been some mistake.
Eventually, my jury duty enthusiasm began to wane as I sat and waited with those who were in the same jury limbo boat that I was. We read our books, ate our snacks and pounded on laptops. We spoke in Korean, very loudly, on our cell phone for 2 hours straight. We complained about President Obama and Sarah Palin and those troublesome Australian tax rates. We bought shoes for $39.95 from our cell phone, confessed our marital troubles to strangers and announced to the room that the pitcher for the local baseball team was a big wussy. But mostly we shifted in our seats and stared at the walls. I never was called to be a juror. After hours and hours of waiting I was sent home. I had earned $20 in jury pay, read two great books and was now able to speak some rudimentary Korean.
I drove in the driveway and my thoughts shifted back to my family. I wondered how the morning had gone for the husband and the teenager and the boy. When I walked into the house it was not the expected dirty dishes or the inevitable basket of dirty laundry or the pesky crumbs that were still left on the floor that caused me to pause. It was the sight of the first aid kit, strewn all over the counter, left in a frantic mess that caused my breath to momentarily suspend.
When I left for jury duty that morning I had hoped that the husband would somehow ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece. And I could see from the evidence of the dismantled first aid kit before me that the teenager and the boy, although apparently bandaged, were still, thankfully, in one piece.
Check This Out!
One of the books I read while waiting for my jury duty moment to come was Exile by Richard North Patterson. This legal thriller focuses on the defense of a Palestinian woman on trial for organizing the suicide bombing of the Prime Minister of Israel as he visited San Francisco. I found it to be a nice combination of the expected drama and suspense a novel like this is known for as well as a good dose of information about the Middle East and the often confusing Arab-Israeli conflict. This one was a hard one to put down.
For a completely different kind of book, you might try I'm Off Then: Losing and Finding Myself on the Camino de Santiago. The author, Hape Kerkeling, is a hugely popular comedian and entertainer in Germany and the rest of Europe. His pilgrimage across the Pyrenees to the Spanish shrine of St. James, is the same spiritual journey that over 100,000 people make every year. I expected a book by a "funny guy" to be intentionally funny. This book wasn't. It was most definitely amusing. But somehow, quietly and slowly, meaning and inspiration also snuck their way into the words he wrote. This book started off slowly for me. And by the time I had finished it I knew it would be a blog recommendation.
Friday, April 17, 2009
In Defense of the Husband
To my kind and tolerant neighbors, all nearby innocent elementary school children, and every sensitive songbird that used to visit my bird feeder:
It’s not my fault. I wholeheartedly blame the husband. That being said, I would like to apologize for the recent disturbance that has altered our normally tranquil suburban community. I have tried my best over the years to be the type of wife who could squelch every last bit of her husband’s desires, personality and enjoyment in life. I have failed miserably. Despite my best efforts, the husband still loves his 1969 Camaro.
It was this Camaro that received a new racing engine this past week. I realize that this engine has caused much distress in your life. I realize this engine is unreasonably loud and obnoxious, vibrates the very foundations that your homes sit upon and is, quite possibly, illegal in 9 states. My friends, I also share your concerns. However, because I’ve been married to the husband for many decades now, I am obligated by the marital contract to offer up some sort of defense in support of him. I do this, of course, with the implicit assumption that you will not involve law enforcement officials in any manner whatsoever.
Evidently, my friends, the thunderous blasting that has been let loose from my once peaceful garage is not the annoying disturbance we have initially perceived it to be. I am aware that some of you were in fear that a jumbo jet crash landing in your bathtub was imminent. I know that many of your napping babies were unceremoniously jolted awake. And I myself have been witness to particularly panicky pets disappearing for days on end. I’ve been informed by the husband, however, that we should not fear. Apparently, this deafening display of horsepower and the occasional heart stopping crescendo of simulated acceleration is actually quite necessary and very, very su-weeeet. Perhaps even, righteous…dude. This beautiful gift of horsepower comes from the somewhat uncommon yet quite extraordinary high compression, high lift racing engine. What a privilege it is to be privy to a sound that is so rarely heard in suburban enclaves such as ours. We are so lucky. So sayeth the husband.
Evidently, my friends, the chest pounding tremors that have emanated from this monster of an engine is a sure sign of gearhead success. It’s true that these other worldly vibrations are usually reserved for California fault line dwellers.
I know that your wall decorations have vibrated off the wall and have fallen to the ground. And I can confirm that these vibrations have even caused the weak bladdered among us to experience mild urinary leakage. But that is the trade off, apparently, when you are dealing with uncompromised, large bore excess. This unrestrained, quake like experience is the result of a simple but proud pursuit of unrestricted power without bowing to the unreasonable expectations and limitations of neighborhood civility. The husband does not feel that his choice of 3 inch pipes on a dual exhaust is indicative of any rudeness, insensitivity or unmannerly behavior at all. Any engine can sound good. But to reach true engine nirvana, you must feel it. So sayeth the husband.
I am fully aware that there has been a gasoline and exhaust smell that has permeated our neighborhood. I know that this smell has caused fits of gagging in otherwise healthy and tolerant wives. And I suspect that this awful odor is 97% responsible for the recent air pollution warning in our greater metropolitan area. But it goes without saying, that this is merely the gratifying, beautiful, retina burning evidence that high octane racing fuel is present. The burn characteristics of this sweet nectar from the racing gods serves to increase horsepower, acceleration and general combustion efficiency. It should be revered and not reviled. So sayeth the husband.
I’d like to tell you, my friends, that after my loving and non judgemental confrontation with the husband over this engine and its unpleasant side effects, that he has vowed to change his ways. This would not be true. I must admit, that yet again, I have failed to squelch the husband. As a result, the husband has issued the following statement:
“To all non-gearheads: You must realize this ain’t no grocery getter. This beautiful blend of muscle and steel is built to haze the hides. This righteous ride is now equipped with a stroker mouse motor. This baby is now ported, overbored, jetted up and ready to rock and roll. And with her new rubber rake, a new light up tach and a tranny signed by Dirty Dan himself she is now ready to meet the tree. And finally, I honestly don’t understand your complaints about the noise. I mean really, it’s not like I left her uncorked.”
So sayeth the husband.
Pray for me, my friends. You can see what I’m dealing with here.
Check This Out!
If you too find yourself unexpectedly receiving cable channels that you have not paid for, then may I strongly suggest that you start watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the Cartoon Network. The boy and the teenager give it two thumbs up.
Of course, if you prefer, you could also watch this. It would make the husband so proud.
It’s not my fault. I wholeheartedly blame the husband. That being said, I would like to apologize for the recent disturbance that has altered our normally tranquil suburban community. I have tried my best over the years to be the type of wife who could squelch every last bit of her husband’s desires, personality and enjoyment in life. I have failed miserably. Despite my best efforts, the husband still loves his 1969 Camaro.
It was this Camaro that received a new racing engine this past week. I realize that this engine has caused much distress in your life. I realize this engine is unreasonably loud and obnoxious, vibrates the very foundations that your homes sit upon and is, quite possibly, illegal in 9 states. My friends, I also share your concerns. However, because I’ve been married to the husband for many decades now, I am obligated by the marital contract to offer up some sort of defense in support of him. I do this, of course, with the implicit assumption that you will not involve law enforcement officials in any manner whatsoever.
Evidently, my friends, the thunderous blasting that has been let loose from my once peaceful garage is not the annoying disturbance we have initially perceived it to be. I am aware that some of you were in fear that a jumbo jet crash landing in your bathtub was imminent. I know that many of your napping babies were unceremoniously jolted awake. And I myself have been witness to particularly panicky pets disappearing for days on end. I’ve been informed by the husband, however, that we should not fear. Apparently, this deafening display of horsepower and the occasional heart stopping crescendo of simulated acceleration is actually quite necessary and very, very su-weeeet. Perhaps even, righteous…dude. This beautiful gift of horsepower comes from the somewhat uncommon yet quite extraordinary high compression, high lift racing engine. What a privilege it is to be privy to a sound that is so rarely heard in suburban enclaves such as ours. We are so lucky. So sayeth the husband.
Evidently, my friends, the chest pounding tremors that have emanated from this monster of an engine is a sure sign of gearhead success. It’s true that these other worldly vibrations are usually reserved for California fault line dwellers.
I know that your wall decorations have vibrated off the wall and have fallen to the ground. And I can confirm that these vibrations have even caused the weak bladdered among us to experience mild urinary leakage. But that is the trade off, apparently, when you are dealing with uncompromised, large bore excess. This unrestrained, quake like experience is the result of a simple but proud pursuit of unrestricted power without bowing to the unreasonable expectations and limitations of neighborhood civility. The husband does not feel that his choice of 3 inch pipes on a dual exhaust is indicative of any rudeness, insensitivity or unmannerly behavior at all. Any engine can sound good. But to reach true engine nirvana, you must feel it. So sayeth the husband.I am fully aware that there has been a gasoline and exhaust smell that has permeated our neighborhood. I know that this smell has caused fits of gagging in otherwise healthy and tolerant wives. And I suspect that this awful odor is 97% responsible for the recent air pollution warning in our greater metropolitan area. But it goes without saying, that this is merely the gratifying, beautiful, retina burning evidence that high octane racing fuel is present. The burn characteristics of this sweet nectar from the racing gods serves to increase horsepower, acceleration and general combustion efficiency. It should be revered and not reviled. So sayeth the husband.
I’d like to tell you, my friends, that after my loving and non judgemental confrontation with the husband over this engine and its unpleasant side effects, that he has vowed to change his ways. This would not be true. I must admit, that yet again, I have failed to squelch the husband. As a result, the husband has issued the following statement:
“To all non-gearheads: You must realize this ain’t no grocery getter. This beautiful blend of muscle and steel is built to haze the hides. This righteous ride is now equipped with a stroker mouse motor. This baby is now ported, overbored, jetted up and ready to rock and roll. And with her new rubber rake, a new light up tach and a tranny signed by Dirty Dan himself she is now ready to meet the tree. And finally, I honestly don’t understand your complaints about the noise. I mean really, it’s not like I left her uncorked.”
So sayeth the husband.
Pray for me, my friends. You can see what I’m dealing with here.
Check This Out!
If you too find yourself unexpectedly receiving cable channels that you have not paid for, then may I strongly suggest that you start watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the Cartoon Network. The boy and the teenager give it two thumbs up.
Of course, if you prefer, you could also watch this. It would make the husband so proud.
Friday, March 6, 2009
As Good as New
I’m certainly not a laundry queen.
I barely manage to get the clothes clean.
But last week my normal laundry routine
Took a very bad turn for the worse.
The squealing noise made the children annoyed.
They asked to have the dryer destroyed.
I knew that I would have to avoid
Doing laundry when they were at home.
The dryer was surely not working quite right.
But things really got nasty on last Monday night.
When I smelled that smell I thought it might ignite
And burn down the house where we lived.
I yelled to the husband, “Oh no! It’s not good!”
And I wish I could say that he understood.
But he kept on reading like I knew he would
A magazine that had come in the mail.
So I patiently waited ‘til he smelled the smell.
And I must tell you he didn’t take it so well.
He looked up from his reading and started to yell
“What the heck smells so horribly bad?”
He unplugged the dryer and complained of the fumes.
Our dryer was dead-I quickly presumed.
But the husband was not so fast to assume
That the thing would end up at the dump.
I said to the husband, “I saw one at Sears!”
I’ve been drooling at it for quite a few years!”
He muttered something about motors and gears.
I don’t think he heard me at all.
I said to the husband, “It’s gorgeous and blue!
The neighbor has bought one, last year, brand new.
She said it dries things superfast too!
I’m sure we could find one on sale.”
I then left to put the children to bed.
And when I returned I was filled with dread.
With screwdriver in hand, the husband then said
“I think I can fix this thing.”
My dryer was not in the house anymore.
The husband had hauled it out to the garage floor.
He took things apart. He began to explore.
And I began my assault.
I said to the husband, “What can you be doing?
I’m not sure I like what you are pursuing!
I really don’t want you to be screwing
With a dryer I want to be dead!”
The husband then said, “It’s a very good dryer.
We’ve done all the upkeep the manual required.
Now I realize that you have “new dryer” desire
But a new motor is all that we need.”
I said to the husband, “How much could that be?
I bet it’s expensive! I’m sure that you’ll see!
I’ll go do some research and I’m sure you’ll agree
That a new dryer just makes more sense.”
I spent the next day researching online.
The dryer I liked, that was nicer than mine
Cost a whopping big thirteen hundred and nine
And that was a whole lot too much.
So I found a dryer that dried just as good.
I gave up the blue color like I knew I should.
I gave up LED like I knew I would.
On sale it was four twenty eight.
I then searched for motors but not very hard.
To the husband’s wishes I gave little regard.
I basically acted like one big retard.
Cause I wanted a new dryer soon.
But I did find a motor and it was quite cheap.
Perhaps my dryer would not see the junk heap.
I slowly realized that I’d have to keep
The dryer I wanted to ditch.
The new motor did cost one hundred and four.
The difference in price I couldn’t ignore.
A new dryer would cost a whole lot more.
I had to face the facts.
The facts were that I had married a guy
Who wanted to fix things when they went awry.
So with a major big huff and a sad little sigh
I ordered the motor online.
My ugly white dryer that’s not pretty blue
Now acts like it did when it was brand new.
The husband has fixed it like he said he would do.
And I told him that he was “the man”.
The next morning I got up somewhere near dawn.
I put toast in the toaster ‘cuz breakfast was on.
The husband came down and let out a yawn
And asked what the heck that smell was.
The toaster was surely not working quite right.
The toast came out black which was not alright.
When I smelled that smell I thought it might ignite
And burn down the house where we lived.
I said to the husband, “Don’t worry, my dear!
I saw a super great toaster at Target last year.
And as the husband then spoke he was quite sincere
“I think I can fix this thing.”
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has spent this past week enjoying the Cranium card game Zigity and the movie Harlem Globetrotters: The Team That Changed the World. You'll be surprised how much fun you can have playing Zigity and you'll be surprised at the impact the Globetrotters had beyond the world of basketball.
I barely manage to get the clothes clean.
But last week my normal laundry routine
Took a very bad turn for the worse.
The squealing noise made the children annoyed.
They asked to have the dryer destroyed.
I knew that I would have to avoid
Doing laundry when they were at home.
The dryer was surely not working quite right.
But things really got nasty on last Monday night.
When I smelled that smell I thought it might ignite
And burn down the house where we lived.
I yelled to the husband, “Oh no! It’s not good!”
And I wish I could say that he understood.
But he kept on reading like I knew he would
A magazine that had come in the mail.
So I patiently waited ‘til he smelled the smell.
And I must tell you he didn’t take it so well.
He looked up from his reading and started to yell
“What the heck smells so horribly bad?”
He unplugged the dryer and complained of the fumes.
Our dryer was dead-I quickly presumed.
But the husband was not so fast to assume
That the thing would end up at the dump.
I said to the husband, “I saw one at Sears!”
I’ve been drooling at it for quite a few years!”
He muttered something about motors and gears.
I don’t think he heard me at all.
I said to the husband, “It’s gorgeous and blue!
The neighbor has bought one, last year, brand new.
She said it dries things superfast too!
I’m sure we could find one on sale.”
I then left to put the children to bed.
And when I returned I was filled with dread.
With screwdriver in hand, the husband then said
“I think I can fix this thing.”
My dryer was not in the house anymore.
The husband had hauled it out to the garage floor.
He took things apart. He began to explore.
And I began my assault.
I said to the husband, “What can you be doing?
I’m not sure I like what you are pursuing!
I really don’t want you to be screwing
With a dryer I want to be dead!”
The husband then said, “It’s a very good dryer.
We’ve done all the upkeep the manual required.
Now I realize that you have “new dryer” desire
But a new motor is all that we need.”
I said to the husband, “How much could that be?
I bet it’s expensive! I’m sure that you’ll see!
I’ll go do some research and I’m sure you’ll agree
That a new dryer just makes more sense.”
I spent the next day researching online.
The dryer I liked, that was nicer than mine
Cost a whopping big thirteen hundred and nine
And that was a whole lot too much.
So I found a dryer that dried just as good.
I gave up the blue color like I knew I should.
I gave up LED like I knew I would.
On sale it was four twenty eight.
I then searched for motors but not very hard.
To the husband’s wishes I gave little regard.
I basically acted like one big retard.
Cause I wanted a new dryer soon.
But I did find a motor and it was quite cheap.
Perhaps my dryer would not see the junk heap.
I slowly realized that I’d have to keep
The dryer I wanted to ditch.
The new motor did cost one hundred and four.
The difference in price I couldn’t ignore.
A new dryer would cost a whole lot more.
I had to face the facts.
The facts were that I had married a guy
Who wanted to fix things when they went awry.
So with a major big huff and a sad little sigh
I ordered the motor online.
My ugly white dryer that’s not pretty blue
Now acts like it did when it was brand new.
The husband has fixed it like he said he would do.
And I told him that he was “the man”.
The next morning I got up somewhere near dawn.
I put toast in the toaster ‘cuz breakfast was on.
The husband came down and let out a yawn
And asked what the heck that smell was.
The toaster was surely not working quite right.
The toast came out black which was not alright.
When I smelled that smell I thought it might ignite
And burn down the house where we lived.
I said to the husband, “Don’t worry, my dear!
I saw a super great toaster at Target last year.
And as the husband then spoke he was quite sincere
“I think I can fix this thing.”
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has spent this past week enjoying the Cranium card game Zigity and the movie Harlem Globetrotters: The Team That Changed the World. You'll be surprised how much fun you can have playing Zigity and you'll be surprised at the impact the Globetrotters had beyond the world of basketball.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I Don't Mean to Brag
I don’t mean to brag. But I know a few things about cars. I know what it means to change jets and not be anywhere near an airport. I know that butterflies have nothing to do with nature. I know that the often overlooked low lift numbers can be just as important as the peak flow numbers. I know that a high speed retard is a good thing and not an awful insult. I know that the Rhino Charge Enhancer is not a late night infomercial for men. I don’t mean to brag. But I know these things.
I know that alcohol injection and beer chugging are not the same thing. I know that I can have 3 custom tune files stored and still not have any music to listen to. I know that getting supercharged doesn’t involve drinking an ounce of coffee. I know that a double pumper doesn’t have anything to do with lactating breasts. I know that Cleveland is not a city, Magnum is not a gun and Wedge is not a golf club. I don’t mean to brag. But I know these things.
The husband knows a few things about cars too. While I do occasionally have to instruct him on how to drive them in a safe and law abiding manner, most often he can fix them without consulting the encyclopedia of gearhead wife wisdom. There is however, one area of the automotive world in which the husband still has a lot to learn. The husband has yet to learn the proper time to fill up the gas tank.
I don’t mean to brag. But I know that the best time to fill up a gas tank is before it gets below the red E. The husband naively disagrees. He has mathematical formulas to back up his position. He has years of commuting experience that he has submitted as evidence. He has an engineering degree that testifies to his qualifications.
I have common sense.
When we discuss how wrong the husband is about this he says things like, “Blah, blah, blah….fuel tank capacity….blah, blah, blah….EPA fuel mileage ratings….and blah, blah, blah…my recent percentage of fuel efficient highway driving…………blah.
I say things like, “Look….it’s on empty!”
And so, as I got in the husband’s car the other day I was most distressed to find that he has yet to realize the superiority of my knowledge in this gas getting area. As I turned the key, I looked down to find the little lever below the line. He was below empty. He should have filled up by now. I stewed the entire drive to the grocery store. I wondered if he’d ever learn. I stewed the entire time in the store. I decided that I was not going to fill his tank for him. I would let him suffer the natural consequences of not listening to me. I stewed the entire drive home from the store. I formulated my impending verbal attack on him trying to disguise it as loving, constructive, non judgmental criticism.
As I pulled into the driveway I looked down at the gauge again. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Suddenly, the husband’s car had somewhere between a third and a half tank of gas. I was stunned. I had no explanation. I called the husband out to his car.
“How do you explain this?” I demanded. “You were completely out of gas and now there is over a third of a tank!”
“The engine warmed up.” he stated calmly.
“What? That makes no sense.” I said a little too arrogantly. “ You don’t create more gas when the engine warms up.”
He looked at me with part amusement, part exasperation and part sympathy for my obvious ignorance. He pointed to the gauge. “No, it is not possible to create more gas, Melissa, but when you drive the car the engine does get warmer. And that’s exactly what this temperature gauge that you’re looking at is telling you. That’s why the little red line went up. The engine got warmer.”
OH.
Now I don’t mean to defend myself, but in my car the gauges ARE reversed.
It’s a simple mistake, really.
I’m sure it happens to people all of the time.
In fact, I think it really is probably a design flaw with the car.
I mean, really, I don’t mean to brag. But I do know a few things about cars.
Check This Out!
Now I don't mean to brag, but this bean dish is really, really good. It's my grandmother, Nanny's, recipe. My dad has perfected it with a few changes of his own. Now don't tell me how you don't like beans. They are really good for you. At the very least make this for your next pot luck and you'll see that I know a few things about beans.
Bean Dish
Brown 1/2 to 1 lb of ground beef, 3/4 lb of bacon cut into small pieces and at least 1 cup of chopped onions in a skillet. Drain grease. Put into a crock pot. Add 2 or 3 16 oz cans pork and beans. Drain 1 16 oz can of garbanzo beans, 1 16 oz can of kidney beans and 1 16 oz can of butter beans and add to crock pot. (Or use your own favorite combination of beans. I tend to use 2 pork and beans and double up on some other bean.) Add 1 16 oz can of diced tomatoes, 1 cup of ketchup, 1/4 cup of brown sugar, 3 TBL of white vinegar and 1/2 TBL of liquid smoke if you have it. Add 1 tsp of salt and some pepper. Stir it all up, cover and cook on low for many, many hours. Perhaps 6. It freezes well if you possibly have any left over.
I know that alcohol injection and beer chugging are not the same thing. I know that I can have 3 custom tune files stored and still not have any music to listen to. I know that getting supercharged doesn’t involve drinking an ounce of coffee. I know that a double pumper doesn’t have anything to do with lactating breasts. I know that Cleveland is not a city, Magnum is not a gun and Wedge is not a golf club. I don’t mean to brag. But I know these things.
The husband knows a few things about cars too. While I do occasionally have to instruct him on how to drive them in a safe and law abiding manner, most often he can fix them without consulting the encyclopedia of gearhead wife wisdom. There is however, one area of the automotive world in which the husband still has a lot to learn. The husband has yet to learn the proper time to fill up the gas tank.
I don’t mean to brag. But I know that the best time to fill up a gas tank is before it gets below the red E. The husband naively disagrees. He has mathematical formulas to back up his position. He has years of commuting experience that he has submitted as evidence. He has an engineering degree that testifies to his qualifications.
I have common sense.
When we discuss how wrong the husband is about this he says things like, “Blah, blah, blah….fuel tank capacity….blah, blah, blah….EPA fuel mileage ratings….and blah, blah, blah…my recent percentage of fuel efficient highway driving…………blah.
I say things like, “Look….it’s on empty!”
And so, as I got in the husband’s car the other day I was most distressed to find that he has yet to realize the superiority of my knowledge in this gas getting area. As I turned the key, I looked down to find the little lever below the line. He was below empty. He should have filled up by now. I stewed the entire drive to the grocery store. I wondered if he’d ever learn. I stewed the entire time in the store. I decided that I was not going to fill his tank for him. I would let him suffer the natural consequences of not listening to me. I stewed the entire drive home from the store. I formulated my impending verbal attack on him trying to disguise it as loving, constructive, non judgmental criticism.
As I pulled into the driveway I looked down at the gauge again. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Suddenly, the husband’s car had somewhere between a third and a half tank of gas. I was stunned. I had no explanation. I called the husband out to his car.
“How do you explain this?” I demanded. “You were completely out of gas and now there is over a third of a tank!”
“The engine warmed up.” he stated calmly.
“What? That makes no sense.” I said a little too arrogantly. “ You don’t create more gas when the engine warms up.”
He looked at me with part amusement, part exasperation and part sympathy for my obvious ignorance. He pointed to the gauge. “No, it is not possible to create more gas, Melissa, but when you drive the car the engine does get warmer. And that’s exactly what this temperature gauge that you’re looking at is telling you. That’s why the little red line went up. The engine got warmer.”
OH.
Now I don’t mean to defend myself, but in my car the gauges ARE reversed.
It’s a simple mistake, really.
I’m sure it happens to people all of the time.
In fact, I think it really is probably a design flaw with the car.
I mean, really, I don’t mean to brag. But I do know a few things about cars.
Check This Out!
Now I don't mean to brag, but this bean dish is really, really good. It's my grandmother, Nanny's, recipe. My dad has perfected it with a few changes of his own. Now don't tell me how you don't like beans. They are really good for you. At the very least make this for your next pot luck and you'll see that I know a few things about beans.
Bean Dish
Brown 1/2 to 1 lb of ground beef, 3/4 lb of bacon cut into small pieces and at least 1 cup of chopped onions in a skillet. Drain grease. Put into a crock pot. Add 2 or 3 16 oz cans pork and beans. Drain 1 16 oz can of garbanzo beans, 1 16 oz can of kidney beans and 1 16 oz can of butter beans and add to crock pot. (Or use your own favorite combination of beans. I tend to use 2 pork and beans and double up on some other bean.) Add 1 16 oz can of diced tomatoes, 1 cup of ketchup, 1/4 cup of brown sugar, 3 TBL of white vinegar and 1/2 TBL of liquid smoke if you have it. Add 1 tsp of salt and some pepper. Stir it all up, cover and cook on low for many, many hours. Perhaps 6. It freezes well if you possibly have any left over.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Lucky
20 years ago today I got lucky. 20 years ago today, I married the husband.
I was 19 and the husband was 22. I was a college student. He was a submarine officer. I knew I wanted to be married. I was sure.
For the next 20 years we lived a life we never could have predicted or planned for in 1988. We’ve lived through randomness and progression, and challenges and changes. We’ve lived through ups and we’ve lived through downs. We’ve lived through really bad things. We’ve lived through really good things. We’ve lived through stuff we’ve told everyone about. We’ve lived through stuff we’ve told no one about. We’ve lived through being 100% sure. We’ve lived through not knowing anything for sure. We’ve lived a normal life.
And somehow, 20 years later, we are lucky enough to still be standing upright. We are lucky enough to still like each other. We are lucky enough that we still know how to laugh. We are lucky enough to still be married.
I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow or next week or next year. I’m expecting some randomness and progression and challenges and changes. I do know this, however. Today, I want to be married. Today, I am sure. Today, I feel lucky.
I was 19 and the husband was 22. I was a college student. He was a submarine officer. I knew I wanted to be married. I was sure.
For the next 20 years we lived a life we never could have predicted or planned for in 1988. We’ve lived through randomness and progression, and challenges and changes. We’ve lived through ups and we’ve lived through downs. We’ve lived through really bad things. We’ve lived through really good things. We’ve lived through stuff we’ve told everyone about. We’ve lived through stuff we’ve told no one about. We’ve lived through being 100% sure. We’ve lived through not knowing anything for sure. We’ve lived a normal life.
And somehow, 20 years later, we are lucky enough to still be standing upright. We are lucky enough to still like each other. We are lucky enough that we still know how to laugh. We are lucky enough to still be married.
I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow or next week or next year. I’m expecting some randomness and progression and challenges and changes. I do know this, however. Today, I want to be married. Today, I am sure. Today, I feel lucky.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Frisky
The husband was tired and was going to bed.
He took off his glasses and laid down his head.
He gave a quick kiss and then he said,
“I’m really not feeling that well.”
He’d been working so hard, 6 days in a row.
Now his nose was plugged and he needed to blow.
And his head was still pounding, even though
He had swallowed a couple of pills.
I sat down on the bed right next to his arm.
I asked him if he had set his alarm.
I held his hand and I spoke with such charm
And I asked him how his day was.
He opened one eye but only half way.
He looked at me and then proceeded to say,
He was actually quite tired and work was ok.
And then he closed his eye again.
I wondered how his commute had been.
I looked down at him with my super cute grin.
And I charmingly asked him a question again.
“Honey, how was traffic today?”
He did not respond right away.
And he grunted after a tiny delay.
Then he mumbled and asked, “What did you say?”
But he never opened his eyes.
I could not believe what was happening here.
I was trying to bond with the husband, my dear.
And I was starting to think, I was starting to fear,
That he was ignoring me.
But I didn’t give up, I kept on trying.
He just had the sniffles, it’s not like he was dying.
So I kept on talking because I was still vying
To get some attention for me.
But the husband was out; he was out like a light.
He was in a deep sleep for the rest of the night.
And I was not happy; this was not alright.
He obviously didn’t care.
I felt neglected; I felt so cheated.
I did not like the way I was treated.
I felt so alone; I felt so defeated.
Didn’t he love me at all?
I sulked for a minute and I then poked his side.
I coughed much too loud and obnoxiously sighed.
But it didn’t matter how hard I tried.
The husband just wouldn’t wake up.
I sat on the bed and pondered my fate.
The husband and I could no longer relate.
I thought once that he was my only soul mate.
But obviously I was wrong.
As I got up to leave and go watch TV.
I looked down at the husband and was able to see
That he was as tired as a man could be
And there would be no talking tonight.
Despite his loud snoring I gave him a kiss.
I whispered to him about what he would miss.
I told him it was really too bad that this
Was how the night had gone.
The kids were in bed; they had been very tired.
I whispered to him about what I desired.
I was feeling quite frisky and very inspired.
It was a shame he was feeling so sick.
I started to walk out of the bedroom.
I was a bit sad and filled with some gloom.
I guess it was wrong for me to assume
That the husband wasn’t really that tired.
But lo and behold! You will never believe!
A miracle happened as I was ready to leave!
Perhaps I had been a little naïve
To think miracles didn’t exist.
But with God as my witness, the husband arose.
He was back from the dead, despite his stuffed nose.
How it happened, I think, that God only knows,
But then the husband sat up in bed!
“I’m not feeling that tired or sick anymore!”
He said much more livelier than before.
And then, he practically began to implore
“Did I hear you say you were frisky?”
I said to the husband, “You were sound asleep!”
“And I thought your sleep was really quite deep!”
“And your nose and your eyes had started to weep
Because your cold was so bad!”
“And I was talking to you but you kept ignoring.
In fact you even started up snoring!”
Then the husband said, “What you were saying was boring!
….until you got to the frisky part!”
I sighed and I started shaking my head.
I thought about yelling but then I instead
Told the husband that he could just go back to bed
Because my frisky was suddenly gone.
So he rolled his eyeballs and laid right back down.
On his face he was sporting a very large frown.
I felt a bit bad so I went to sit down
On the side of the bed again.
I looked down at him with my super cute grin.
I lovingly rubbed his hair stubbled chin.
Then I started to ask him a question again,
Because, after all…he was already awake.
“Hey husband, I did wonder, what you would think
If I wanted to paint the guest bathroom pink?”
I do think he thought my idea did stink
Because his answer was a very loud snore.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated husband and children have been thoroughly enjoying playing Guitar Hero on the neighbor's xbox 360. They have also enjoyed SingStar on their cousins' PlayStation. We strongly recommend that you too find generous and kind neighbors and relatives that have these games and are willing to let your family play. They'll have a blast.
He took off his glasses and laid down his head.
He gave a quick kiss and then he said,
“I’m really not feeling that well.”
He’d been working so hard, 6 days in a row.
Now his nose was plugged and he needed to blow.
And his head was still pounding, even though
He had swallowed a couple of pills.
I sat down on the bed right next to his arm.
I asked him if he had set his alarm.
I held his hand and I spoke with such charm
And I asked him how his day was.
He opened one eye but only half way.
He looked at me and then proceeded to say,
He was actually quite tired and work was ok.
And then he closed his eye again.
I wondered how his commute had been.
I looked down at him with my super cute grin.
And I charmingly asked him a question again.
“Honey, how was traffic today?”
He did not respond right away.
And he grunted after a tiny delay.
Then he mumbled and asked, “What did you say?”
But he never opened his eyes.
I could not believe what was happening here.
I was trying to bond with the husband, my dear.
And I was starting to think, I was starting to fear,
That he was ignoring me.
But I didn’t give up, I kept on trying.
He just had the sniffles, it’s not like he was dying.
So I kept on talking because I was still vying
To get some attention for me.
But the husband was out; he was out like a light.
He was in a deep sleep for the rest of the night.
And I was not happy; this was not alright.
He obviously didn’t care.
I felt neglected; I felt so cheated.
I did not like the way I was treated.
I felt so alone; I felt so defeated.
Didn’t he love me at all?
I sulked for a minute and I then poked his side.
I coughed much too loud and obnoxiously sighed.
But it didn’t matter how hard I tried.
The husband just wouldn’t wake up.
I sat on the bed and pondered my fate.
The husband and I could no longer relate.
I thought once that he was my only soul mate.
But obviously I was wrong.
As I got up to leave and go watch TV.
I looked down at the husband and was able to see
That he was as tired as a man could be
And there would be no talking tonight.
Despite his loud snoring I gave him a kiss.
I whispered to him about what he would miss.
I told him it was really too bad that this
Was how the night had gone.
The kids were in bed; they had been very tired.
I whispered to him about what I desired.
I was feeling quite frisky and very inspired.
It was a shame he was feeling so sick.
I started to walk out of the bedroom.
I was a bit sad and filled with some gloom.
I guess it was wrong for me to assume
That the husband wasn’t really that tired.
But lo and behold! You will never believe!
A miracle happened as I was ready to leave!
Perhaps I had been a little naïve
To think miracles didn’t exist.
But with God as my witness, the husband arose.
He was back from the dead, despite his stuffed nose.
How it happened, I think, that God only knows,
But then the husband sat up in bed!
“I’m not feeling that tired or sick anymore!”
He said much more livelier than before.
And then, he practically began to implore
“Did I hear you say you were frisky?”
I said to the husband, “You were sound asleep!”
“And I thought your sleep was really quite deep!”
“And your nose and your eyes had started to weep
Because your cold was so bad!”
“And I was talking to you but you kept ignoring.
In fact you even started up snoring!”
Then the husband said, “What you were saying was boring!
….until you got to the frisky part!”
I sighed and I started shaking my head.
I thought about yelling but then I instead
Told the husband that he could just go back to bed
Because my frisky was suddenly gone.
So he rolled his eyeballs and laid right back down.
On his face he was sporting a very large frown.
I felt a bit bad so I went to sit down
On the side of the bed again.
I looked down at him with my super cute grin.
I lovingly rubbed his hair stubbled chin.
Then I started to ask him a question again,
Because, after all…he was already awake.
“Hey husband, I did wonder, what you would think
If I wanted to paint the guest bathroom pink?”
I do think he thought my idea did stink
Because his answer was a very loud snore.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated husband and children have been thoroughly enjoying playing Guitar Hero on the neighbor's xbox 360. They have also enjoyed SingStar on their cousins' PlayStation. We strongly recommend that you too find generous and kind neighbors and relatives that have these games and are willing to let your family play. They'll have a blast.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Happily Ever After?
The husband and I have been married for 19 years. We paused briefly to acknowledge our anniversary last month, and then jumped right back into the craziness of the holidays. Fortunately, knock on wood, the husband and I have never considered divorce. It has been widely advertised, however, that somewhere around 50% of all marriages will end in divorce. According to divorcemag.com the percentage of married people who will reach their 15th anniversary is 52%. Only 33% of married people will make their 25th anniversary. Extrapolating out the numbers, it’s entirely possible that the husband and I have somehow managed to position ourselves in the above average category. I feel I must explain, at least on my part, how we have achieved this apparently extraordinary and somewhat surprising feat. I must explain why, after 19 years, I am still married to the husband.
1. He has a job. He’s always had a job. There’s never been any doubt about him having a job. He goes to work. He makes money. He then gives me the money to spend. It’s one of his best qualities.
2. He comes home. Mostly happy. Everyday. After work he picks up the teenager from jazz band practice or stops by to visit his “engine man” or picks up the books on hold from the library or waits somewhat impatiently in a traffic jam. But after that, he always comes home.
3. He’s a present father. 90% of runaways, 63% of youth suicides, 71% of high school dropouts and 85% of youths in prison come from fatherless homes. His value to the teenager and the boy cannot be overstated. (divorcemag.com)
4. He’s an involved father. He will ride his bike to the lake. He knows how to throw a football. He will play PIG with the new basketball that he inflated to the exact specified pressure. He is willing to have a burping contest. Or worse. He’ll happily chaperone a field trip with 8 gangly and giggly 13 year old girls or a bunch of “naughty boy” 2nd graders. He will race RC cars until the batteries are dead. He will play Christmas trumpet music duets until his lips look like they’ve had a double collagen injection. He will build a model airplane and allow the boy to “customize” it, even if it’s not entirely accurate and goes against all his sensibilities of proper model building.
5. He’s passionate. When the husband is interested in something, he is passionately interested in something. No stone is left unturned. No detail is left unresearched. No website is undiscovered. No book is left unread. This passion can be exciting, infectious, and often keeps him conveniently out of my hair.
6. He’s never met Jerry Springer nor does he own a wife beater tank top. He hasn’t cheated on me with my sister. He hasn’t solicited police officers in public bathrooms. He’s never even been in a casino. And he’s never asked to have a meth lab in the kitchen.
7. He’s flexible. He doesn’t care if we have Hamburger Helper or prime rib for dinner. He’ll listen to Les Mis or Linkin Park. He’ll watch American Gladiator or Househunters. And he’s fine with painting the bedroom blue or green, just as long as he doesn’t have to do it.
8. He crosses things off the Honey Do List. The bathroom towel bar was fixed the same hour it broke. The refrigerator received a new water filter on time. He independently ordered the new lawnmower part. He put in the external hard drive. As long as I don’t expect him to paint anything, he’s a pretty reliable handy man. And I’d say that almost half the time he doesn’t even complain about it.
9. He’s smart. He can rattle off any trigonometry formula in an instant. He can discuss World War II for hours on end. He can debate presidential politics and actually know what he’s talking about. He’s more than book smart, though. He’s also husband smart. He laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny. He always “enjoys” my cooking. According to him, I have yet to own a pair of pants that make me look fat. He manages to be patient with the kids when I’m not. And he even manages, somehow, to restrain himself from yelling out in fear when I am driving and he is the passenger.
10. He still floats my boat. I started dating the husband in the summer of 1985. I am shocked that 22 ½ years later I am still able to tolerate him. I’m surprised that I’m still attracted to him. I had no idea that, after all these years, I’d still find him interesting. I’m amazed that I still look at him with respect. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our ups and downs just like everyone does. Sometimes he drives me crazy with certain quirks. Sometimes he talks way too much about engine displacement. Sometimes he fails to treat me like the queen of his life should be treated. Sometimes he’s just plain annoying. But, not most of the time. Most of the time, he’s the guy who already knows all of my “stuff”. He’s the guy who’s been there for every day of the teenager’s and boy’s life. He’s the guy who knows when to leave me alone and knows when to let me babble and cry for an hour. He’s the guy who will turn down the heat when I'm too hot instead of making me take off my sweatshirt. He's the guy who knows that I'm wearing the sweatshirt to cover up my fat that day. It’s quite comforting to have 22 years of history with someone, knock on wood. That’s worth everything. It certainly, for me, makes up for the fact that he refuses to paint.
Check This Out!
Speaking of American Gladiator...you might want to check it out, Monday nights, on NBC, at 8pm. Mindless fun that just might make you want to work out a little more than you do.
1. He has a job. He’s always had a job. There’s never been any doubt about him having a job. He goes to work. He makes money. He then gives me the money to spend. It’s one of his best qualities.
2. He comes home. Mostly happy. Everyday. After work he picks up the teenager from jazz band practice or stops by to visit his “engine man” or picks up the books on hold from the library or waits somewhat impatiently in a traffic jam. But after that, he always comes home.
3. He’s a present father. 90% of runaways, 63% of youth suicides, 71% of high school dropouts and 85% of youths in prison come from fatherless homes. His value to the teenager and the boy cannot be overstated. (divorcemag.com)
4. He’s an involved father. He will ride his bike to the lake. He knows how to throw a football. He will play PIG with the new basketball that he inflated to the exact specified pressure. He is willing to have a burping contest. Or worse. He’ll happily chaperone a field trip with 8 gangly and giggly 13 year old girls or a bunch of “naughty boy” 2nd graders. He will race RC cars until the batteries are dead. He will play Christmas trumpet music duets until his lips look like they’ve had a double collagen injection. He will build a model airplane and allow the boy to “customize” it, even if it’s not entirely accurate and goes against all his sensibilities of proper model building.
5. He’s passionate. When the husband is interested in something, he is passionately interested in something. No stone is left unturned. No detail is left unresearched. No website is undiscovered. No book is left unread. This passion can be exciting, infectious, and often keeps him conveniently out of my hair.
6. He’s never met Jerry Springer nor does he own a wife beater tank top. He hasn’t cheated on me with my sister. He hasn’t solicited police officers in public bathrooms. He’s never even been in a casino. And he’s never asked to have a meth lab in the kitchen.
7. He’s flexible. He doesn’t care if we have Hamburger Helper or prime rib for dinner. He’ll listen to Les Mis or Linkin Park. He’ll watch American Gladiator or Househunters. And he’s fine with painting the bedroom blue or green, just as long as he doesn’t have to do it.
8. He crosses things off the Honey Do List. The bathroom towel bar was fixed the same hour it broke. The refrigerator received a new water filter on time. He independently ordered the new lawnmower part. He put in the external hard drive. As long as I don’t expect him to paint anything, he’s a pretty reliable handy man. And I’d say that almost half the time he doesn’t even complain about it.
9. He’s smart. He can rattle off any trigonometry formula in an instant. He can discuss World War II for hours on end. He can debate presidential politics and actually know what he’s talking about. He’s more than book smart, though. He’s also husband smart. He laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny. He always “enjoys” my cooking. According to him, I have yet to own a pair of pants that make me look fat. He manages to be patient with the kids when I’m not. And he even manages, somehow, to restrain himself from yelling out in fear when I am driving and he is the passenger.
10. He still floats my boat. I started dating the husband in the summer of 1985. I am shocked that 22 ½ years later I am still able to tolerate him. I’m surprised that I’m still attracted to him. I had no idea that, after all these years, I’d still find him interesting. I’m amazed that I still look at him with respect. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our ups and downs just like everyone does. Sometimes he drives me crazy with certain quirks. Sometimes he talks way too much about engine displacement. Sometimes he fails to treat me like the queen of his life should be treated. Sometimes he’s just plain annoying. But, not most of the time. Most of the time, he’s the guy who already knows all of my “stuff”. He’s the guy who’s been there for every day of the teenager’s and boy’s life. He’s the guy who knows when to leave me alone and knows when to let me babble and cry for an hour. He’s the guy who will turn down the heat when I'm too hot instead of making me take off my sweatshirt. He's the guy who knows that I'm wearing the sweatshirt to cover up my fat that day. It’s quite comforting to have 22 years of history with someone, knock on wood. That’s worth everything. It certainly, for me, makes up for the fact that he refuses to paint.
Check This Out!
Speaking of American Gladiator...you might want to check it out, Monday nights, on NBC, at 8pm. Mindless fun that just might make you want to work out a little more than you do.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Gearhead Christmas
'Twas a few weeks before Christmas,
And all through my house,
Not one gift was purchased,
Not even for the spouse.
The stockings were still
In a box in the attic,
In hopes that we might
Soon get ecstatic.
The children saw bright lights
That danced in their heads.
They hoped for a tree
But sadly, instead,
Mama in her bleached sweats
Was flat on the couch.
She had just settled down
And was a bit of a grouch.
And out on the lawn
It was lonely and bare.
No lights and no blowups
Were seen out there.
The moon in the sky
Lit up the whole street.
You could see all the neighbors,
Their decorations complete.
When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear.
But a little white car
With four tires to steer.
With a most handsome driver,
So smart and so slick.
I knew at that moment
I was his special chick.
More rapid than usual
He got out of the car.
He whistled and shouted;
He called from afar.
“Hey, teenager! Hey, boy!
Hey, hot mama spouse!
Hey, troublesome kitties!
Come out of that house!
Look on the porch,
Up against the wall!
There’s a package for me!
Come quick now, y’all.”
As we’ve seen in the past
When one knows a car guy,
When they meet with an obstacle,
They search and then buy.
He bought stuff online,
A lot more than I knew:
A box full of car toys
And a tool or two, too.
And then, in a twinkling,
I heard by the door,
Him grabbing the box.
He couldn’t wait anymore.
In the house burst the husband,
A huge grin on his face.
He gave me the quickest
Spousal embrace.
He was dressed all in black
In denim and fleece.
His clothes were all tarnished
With ketchup and grease.
The box of car toys
He had flung open wide.
When he pulled out the metal
His heart filled with pride.
His eyes how they twinkled!
His dimples how merry!
He held out the car part
With arms that were hairy.
His mouth was now speaking
And moving so fast.
He mumbled “THE GARAGE!”
And then he ran past.
With a thump of the door
He went to the Camaro.
He laid under that car
In a spot that was narrow.
He had a red face
As he lay on his belly.
He soon got all sweaty
And became very smelly.
Then the hubby jumped up
and went to the garage shelf.
And I laughed when I saw him,
In spite of myself.
Some dirt in his eye
And some grease on his head,
Soon gave me to know
I’d have laundry ahead.
He spoke many words
And continued to work.
He filled all the fluids
And turned bolts with a jerk.
I could see he was happy
With what he had done.
He was already having
His Christmas fun.
He didn’t need lights
Or blow up reindeer.
Car parts gave him
Much holiday cheer.
And I heard him exclaim
As he washed up his hands
“I’m going online!
I’ve got so many plans!”
Check This Out!
We here at Slightly Exaggerated have been obsessed with the Filipino band, The Zoo Band. In particular, we have been drooling over the lead singer Arnel Pineda and his unparalled talent. Pineda is so talented that Neil Schon of Journey fame has picked Pineda to be the new lead singer of Journey. Check out The Zoo Band and Pineda on You Tube. Type in “The Zoo Journey” to get your viewing started. Don’t forget to also check out Pineda’s version of the Heart song, Alone.
And all through my house,
Not one gift was purchased,
Not even for the spouse.
The stockings were still
In a box in the attic,
In hopes that we might
Soon get ecstatic.
The children saw bright lights
That danced in their heads.
They hoped for a tree
But sadly, instead,
Mama in her bleached sweats
Was flat on the couch.
She had just settled down
And was a bit of a grouch.
And out on the lawn
It was lonely and bare.
No lights and no blowups
Were seen out there.
The moon in the sky
Lit up the whole street.
You could see all the neighbors,
Their decorations complete.
When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear.
But a little white car
With four tires to steer.
With a most handsome driver,
So smart and so slick.
I knew at that moment
I was his special chick.
More rapid than usual
He got out of the car.
He whistled and shouted;
He called from afar.
“Hey, teenager! Hey, boy!
Hey, hot mama spouse!
Hey, troublesome kitties!
Come out of that house!
Look on the porch,
Up against the wall!
There’s a package for me!
Come quick now, y’all.”
As we’ve seen in the past
When one knows a car guy,
When they meet with an obstacle,
They search and then buy.
He bought stuff online,
A lot more than I knew:
A box full of car toys
And a tool or two, too.
And then, in a twinkling,
I heard by the door,
Him grabbing the box.
He couldn’t wait anymore.
In the house burst the husband,
A huge grin on his face.
He gave me the quickest
Spousal embrace.
He was dressed all in black
In denim and fleece.
His clothes were all tarnished
With ketchup and grease.
The box of car toys
He had flung open wide.
When he pulled out the metal
His heart filled with pride.
His eyes how they twinkled!
His dimples how merry!
He held out the car part
With arms that were hairy.
His mouth was now speaking
And moving so fast.
He mumbled “THE GARAGE!”
And then he ran past.
With a thump of the door
He went to the Camaro.
He laid under that car
In a spot that was narrow.
He had a red face
As he lay on his belly.
He soon got all sweaty
And became very smelly.
Then the hubby jumped up
and went to the garage shelf.
And I laughed when I saw him,
In spite of myself.
Some dirt in his eye
And some grease on his head,
Soon gave me to know
I’d have laundry ahead.
He spoke many words
And continued to work.
He filled all the fluids
And turned bolts with a jerk.
I could see he was happy
With what he had done.
He was already having
His Christmas fun.
He didn’t need lights
Or blow up reindeer.
Car parts gave him
Much holiday cheer.
And I heard him exclaim
As he washed up his hands
“I’m going online!
I’ve got so many plans!”
Check This Out!
We here at Slightly Exaggerated have been obsessed with the Filipino band, The Zoo Band. In particular, we have been drooling over the lead singer Arnel Pineda and his unparalled talent. Pineda is so talented that Neil Schon of Journey fame has picked Pineda to be the new lead singer of Journey. Check out The Zoo Band and Pineda on You Tube. Type in “The Zoo Journey” to get your viewing started. Don’t forget to also check out Pineda’s version of the Heart song, Alone.
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