I’d like to make a small wager. Actually, I take that back. I’d like to bet all the chocoate in the northern hemisphere that my husband is starting to run around like a headless chicken (By the way, is that even true—I mean, can poultry run around sans skulls? And if so, how come people can’t jog a few blocks head-free?)
Why? Well, let me think—it’s now been over two weeks since I took the kids to Colorado to visit my family. Amid enjoying a two-week kid-free vacation (lucky man), hubby was supposed to get a few things done.
What has he achieved so far? Of course, I can’t be sure, but I’m betting highjacking my blog and a few rounds of golf about sums it up. You see, my hubby? He simply doesn’t know how NOT to procrastinate. So there’s virtualy no way he’s purchased the black-out shades for the kids’ rooms (let alone installed them), gone through the mail, put up the baby gates, or fixed the hot tub.
And the fact that he asked me for the specific time of my arrival on Wednesday, so he could “get the house in order”, leads me to believe our home currently resembles the aftermath of a particularly large frat party. Complete with beer bottles on the floor and socks in lieu of toilet paper. Yum.
Frankly, I am terrified of returning home.
But really—how would one find the time to tidy up and install blinds, when they have oh-so-important tasks like the how-to’s of crafting Ridgeback pool tables to occupy their brain. And you thought I was random.
Hmmm…I wonder how long it took him to write those blog posts, complete with the incredibly warped cut and paste photos? I’m thinking about the same amount of time it would have taken to, say, buy a black-out shade. Or maybe install baby gates.
Hubby, you are soooo busted when I get home. Run, chicken, run.Share on Facebook