Oh Christmas Tree

Posted by houndrat on Monday Dec 8, 2008 Under Christmas trees, family life, husbands, Uncategorized

Never, ever tell a man that something? just isn’t big enough.? Never.? Because any comments on size or lack thereof? are merely going to send? him into a “bigger is better” frenzy.? I mean, let’s face it–there’s a reason our inboxes are flooded on an hourly basis with emails entitled “enlarge your penis to 100x it’s actual size!”? ? Um, ouch.

But I’m not talking just private parts, people.? I’m talking ANYTHING.? Take, for example, a simple Christmas tree, and an innocuous comment about how last year’s six foot tree wasn’t quite tall enough for our vaulted ceilings.? In the same conversation, I’m pretty sure the words “eight feet would be nice” were mentioned.? But I could be wrong.? Because hubby did not come back with an eight footer. Or even a niner.

No, he proudly proclaimed, “I got the BIGGEST ONE on the lot–what do you think?” with a goofy smile on his face.?

What I think is that the twelve foot green monstrosity dwarfs our entire living room.? And sheds like an SOB.? We’re going to have to fork over some serious cash to buy about a? billion more lights to deck it out, and that goes double for? ornaments.? Also, the tree skirt is not remotely large enough to go all the way around that sucker, and I’m afraid if? it? tips like last year’s tree in the Fergie incident,? the resulting quake will be read on the Richter scale up in San Francisco.

On the plus side, it does smell super piney–always a good thing when you’re trying to mask the not so fresh “my dog peed on the carpet while I was in Chicago for Thanksgiving” odor.? Especially? when you just? hosted Bunco at your house.? And regrettably, the theme? was “holiday pajama party”, not “boarding kennel brouhaha”, so eau de doggy bladder would most likely not have been a big hit.

But the biggest problem? I’m having with the giant? Christmas tree?? Well, I can’t think of anything that rhymes with “ginormous”.? See, I tend to make up little ditties all the time in my head, and this one, if you’ll pardon the pun, is stumping me.?

So pretty please–if you can come up with a second line for “Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree, why are you so gi-normous?”—my brain would be eternally grateful.

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Meet My Husband–Mr. How Not To Wear

Posted by houndrat on Sunday Aug 17, 2008 Under family life, husbands, Uncategorized

I wasn’t going to say anything. I really wasn’t. But the more I think about it, the more I’m just so completely dumbfounded by the absolute retardedness of it all that I can’t possibly keep quiet.

So Friday afternoon I get an email from my husband at work. Here’s the email:

Subject: Damn, My Shirt has been Inside Out ALL DAY!
I was just in a meeting and someone asked me if my shirt was on inside out. I said, “NO!” Of course, then I looked at the buttons and they were inside my shirt? and there were threads hanging all over….Arghh…

That alone is beyond my comprehension. How does a grown man reach the ripe age of 37 without knowing a failproof way to tell if his shirt is on correctly?  But it gets better. Because then he shows up at home at 6:45 p.m. on Friday night AND HIS SHIRT IS STILL ON INSIDE OUT!

Me: “Hello there, King of the Dorks. Just out of curiosity–did it ever occur to you at any point throughout the day to put on your shirt correctly? Just for kicks?”

Hubby, eying me quizzically over a mouthful of pasta: “Huh? Shirt? Why?”

One of our more scintillating dinner conversations. But back to the point–it’s not like my husband works at—at—at a place where inside-out shirt wearers work, whatever planet that might be on. He works in a large, professional building, full of lots of professional-looking people. Minus one, of course.

And this isn’t the first time. I remember an occasion ten plus years ago, before we were married. My husband flies in for the weekend to visit. We’re hitting a “trendy” bar in Newport Beach, so en route from the airport we stop by the mall so he can pick up some appropriate clothing. Indeed we have to stop BECAUSE HE FORGET HIS LUGGAGE.? ? ? As in, all of it.? Who does that? The man literally shows up at the airport without a suitcase, without a duffel bag, without anything other than his wallet and the clothes on his back. Which were so not appopriate.

So he puts on his new clothes and then we’re in line at this bar in Newport? and my husband is smiling and chatting with the girls behind us. He then remarks to me, “Oh, the girls out here are so friendly!” Color me thrilled.

About an hour later we’re walking around inside and my best friend suddenly points at hubby’s back and starts laughing and I notice his shirt is on INSIDE OUT with the price tags dangling halfway down his back. And it hits me. The “friendly” girls he’d been talking to in line had giggled and said, “Is that the new style?”

Of course hubby just laughs it off as always, citing his “boyish and amusing”?defense. But now I’m wondering if there’s some kind of latent pathology here. And Stacy and Clinton, where the hell are you when you’re needed?

Stacy and Clinton

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Husband Killing Me with Random Videos

Posted by houndrat on Wednesday Aug 13, 2008 Under family life, husbands

I don’t mind the fact that hubby routinely wakes me up at 5:30 a.m. by cracking his knuckles so loudly I bolt upright in bed, sure that a SWAT team assault is under way. (Okay, actually I do mind. Although perhaps halting the espionage reading right before bed wouldn’t hurt.)

It’s also beyond me how he can sit and watch television in Spanish. He doesn’t even UNDERSTAND Spanish – except maybe a few of the words that appear on a Taco Bell menu. But even those he can’t pronounce. I know, I know–that “quesadilla” is a tricky one.

And then there’s the music. You see, hubby doesn’t take the time to actually learn the lyrics to anything, but he routinely sings (loudly) the words he thinks they are singing. Words that typically have no bearing at all on what the songwriters actually put to paper. Any attempts at correcting him fall on completely (tone) deaf ears. That’s if he doesn’t get mad at me because, “it ruins the song” for him. Because apparently he’s never recovered from the heartbreak of learning that Sugar Ray was actually singing “Every Morning” and not “Captain Morgan”, his favorite rum.

Anyway, the last few nights have been espcially painful because he’s rediscovered some random 80′s song by Pizzacato Five. He just can’t get enough of the video, which features two dudes and some scrawny chick wearing racoon hats and executing the most random dance moves known to man. He literally plays it about fifty times in a row, over and over again, until I want to pick up a stapler and shove it right into the varmit-killing lead singer’s brain. And as an added bonus? MY HUSBAND SINGS ALONG!!!!!!!! Which is beyond the realm of all that is decent and good, considering the entire song is IN JAPANESE.

He also had to point out how some random French band, Nouvelle Vague, looks like they attempted to rip off the dancing from the Japanese video. So not only do I have to listen to him butcher the lyrics to yet another song, but as an added bonus my brain is now being tortured by two horrible dancing sequence rather than one.


And now I have the damn song stuck in my head only I don’t know Japanese either so “Twiggy yo shee hee yo hee haw” is about as good as it gets. Maybe I’ll just stab myself with the stapler instead.

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I don’t know how you spent your last few minutes of awake time last night, but I’m reasonably certain they weren’t squandered discussing the merits of Gordon Lightfoot.? Me?? Not so lucky.?

Here’s how it happened: Hubby and I are getting ready? for bed, and at a decent hour for a change. Not that we’ve been up partying and closing down the bars lately.? But in our baby-driven lives, even eleven o’clock is pushing it.

Just as I’m fluffing my pillow and channeling Doris Day by pulling on my pink satin mask (it was cheaper than black-out shades), disaster strikes.? Because instead of the hum of our white-noise maker (okay, so it’s really just a humidifier sans filter and water–call me MacGyver)? I hear hubby’s voice.?

The talking is? brief enough at first—a few questions about facebook and linkedin, and who he’s reconnected with so far.? Then, mysteriously,? the topic? jumps from old college friends to Phish concerts to, of all things, Gordon Lightfoot.? No, I really have no idea how that’s possible, either.? But those kind of? random neuron firings? happen all too frequently around here.? Maybe it’s the 60′s coming back to haunt me.? Which is mildly perplexing, since I wasn’t born until the 70′s.

Of course, then? hubby? has to look good old Gordon up on the computer.? I mean, how could? one possibly? be expected to ever sleep again until they were reminded of which songs he sang,? songs that most likely held the talent and longevity of a Milli Vanilli number?? So hubby grabs his handy-dandy laptop, only it’s not so handy-dandy because the battery is shot so it always requires a plug, as does mine, come to think of it, and then we’re in business.?

I was pleasantly surprised to? discover that Mr. Lightfoot actually sang some pretty good stuff, including Sundown and If You Could Read My Mind.? So, after wasting even more precious snoozing time listening to samples of his music, then looking up the lyrics to Sundown (what did he say in that line about “sneaking” again?), we finally settle in for bed.

And it’s still only 10: 20 pm, so we’re in good shape. Until hubby starts in with some Connor-isms from earlier that evening.? How this relates to Gordon Lightfoot, I have no idea—hence the emphasis on random neuron firings.? Apparently, my son was having a little chat about swear words.? Connor told hubby that he could start? using some? bad words? when he turned? five.? When my hubby inquired which words those might be, Connor says, “Stupid.”?

Upon hearing that, hubby heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.? “…And f*ck,”? Connor continues, disingenuously.

? I wasn’t there, so I can only imagine the sound of my husband’s jaw slamming onto the concrete and his eyes popping out of his sockets and flying across the garage.? I mean, hubby and I have been known to utter the occasional “butt-munch” or “fart-knocker” at home (and yes, maybe I’ve? spewed forth with? “jackass” a few times while driving), but our profanity pretty much stops there.? But Connor has bionic ears, so who knows.

Hubby said it took him a moment, but he finally came up with, “No, that one’s not okay until you’re at least eighteen.”

Connor apparently thought about it for a moment, then smiled and said, “Or ten.”

After that, of course, all bets for sleep are off, as I’m left pondering how I’m going to convince my son that the “f” word is only legal for use once you’ve reaching voting age.

And I still don’t get what any of this has to do with Gordon Lightfoot.

?

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My kingdom for a (vacuum) hose

Posted by houndrat on Tuesday Jun 24, 2008 Under family life, husbands, kids

Is it just me, or are ants? some of the most disgusting creatures known to man?? Second, of course, to cockroaches.? I mean, I don’t mind seeing an ant here or there when I’m out and about.? And yes, I get that ants are amazing—they’re strong, organized, and cooperative.? In fact, they’d probably? fare better in the corporate world than most humans.? ? But there are rules.? And I draw the line when the little? bastards sneak? into my home for a morning snack.? Then, amazing or not, they must die.

So, I? stumble downstairs this morning, into the kitchen, and there they are.? Dozens and dozens of ants, crawling all over our counters, in our sink, on the floor, and on the sliding glass door, where they’ve apparently snuck in.? (By the way, my computer is telling me that “snuck” isn’t actually a word.? Are you kidding me?? Who the heck uses “sneaked”, anyway?)

Hubby was down here earlier this morning.? He keeps his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter.? Did he notice any ants?? Of course not.? Most hubbies, as you may have realized by now, have a great knack for tunnel-vision.? If it’s not a snack, a golf club,? or a completely unnecessary and useless electronic gadget, then it might as well be invisible.? Our phone conversation goes something like this:

Me:? “Um, honey, did you go into the kitchen this morning?”

Him:? “I think so.”? (See that?? He’s already hedging his bets—his “danger-meter” must be going off like crazy).

Me:? “Did you notice anything….strange?”

Him:? “Is this a trick question?”

Me:? “How about…did you notice the ANTS ALL OVER OUR KITCHEN COUNTER??”? (voice rising about a? hundred decibels)

Him:? “Ants??

Me:? “Yes. Ants.? You know,those little six-legged black insect things that like it when you leave PEANUT SHELLS ALL OVER THE FLOOR??” (Voice rising again, most likely loud enough for the neighbors to hear.? The ones that live three blocks away.)

Him:? “Peanut Shells?”

Sigh.? The next step, of course, is to kill the little suckers with my non-toxic dishwashing liquid and water spray.? That part, at least, goes as planned.

Then the clean up.? After wiping up as many dead bugs as I can possibly find (yum), I head to the garage(always a scary undertaking, at our house) for the vacuum.? I get super excited at first, because I could see the vacuum right off the bat.? For once, I thought, I’d escape from the garage unscathed.? No searching under totaled cars that should’ve been enjoying a view at the dumpster for the last year, no getting bombed by precariously balanced pieces of junk.? No getting blown up by fireworks.? Or eaten by a rat.?

I should have known better.? ? Because as? I get closer to the vacuum, I do a double take.? Something appears to be missing.? And in fact, something is missing—the hose.?

Now, I don’t claim to be a vacuum expert, nor do I play one on TV, but even my housecleaning-impaired brain is pretty sure that since we do not own a Dyson (nor any other vacuum from the twenty-first century, for that matter) the hose is a crucial element to getting that particular appliance to work.?

So, I call hubby again—I seem to remember he and my son playing with something which, in retrospect, may have resembled a vacuum hose while in the kiddie pool on Saturday.

Me:? “So, I found the vacuum, but there’s no hose.”

Him:? “Hose?”

Me:? “Yes, hose.? You know, the thing that actually makes the whole thing work?”

Him:? “Um.? I think maybe Connor was playing with it.”

Me:? “O-k-k-k-a-a-y.? So do you know where it is?”

Him:? “Um.? No.”

Me:? “Just for curiosity’s sake, do you think it’s a good idea to let our 4 yr old play with the parts to our major appliances?”

Him:? “Um.? No.? ? But he likes it.”

Me:? “He also likes to eat ice cream and candy and Oreos right before bed.? And smash things with a hammer.? Shall we let him do that?”

Him:? “Um.? No.? But maybe ask him where it is.? I haven’t seen it.”

Me:? “You mean, you haven’t seen it since he played with it?? Because obviously you saw it then.”

Him:? “Oh, yeah. ZZZShhhshZZZ (obviously man-made static noises).? Do you hear that static?? You’re cutting out.”

Double sigh.? So I ask my son where the vacuum hose is.? In fact, he does remember where he put it–on the floor of the garage.? Now, if this were your garage, maybe this is the point where you start jumping for joy, or singing “Whoomp, there it is!”, or whatever? ritual it is normal folks perform when they’ve located something in their garage,? knowing the hose would be in your vacuum-grasping hands at any moment.? But we’re talking our garage, where the word “normal” doesn’t even exist, home to a million pieces of junk, and that junk’s offspring.? And, of course, the occasional rat.

At any rate, I finally locate the vacuum hose.? It is, indeed, on the floor of the garage.? And I guess I can understand why hubby? couldn’t recall? seeing it.?

? Now, I think my son is amazing and gifted.? ? Really, I do.? But even I’m pretty sure that he didn’t heft up the pedal car, which I can barely lift, and? toss it right on top of the hose.? Nor, to the best of my knowledge,? did he suddenly grow about two feet and trade his training wheels in for an adult-sized ten-speed.? So, it begs the question—how did that hose get there?

I’d ask my hubby, but? I already know what his response would be.

? “Hose?”

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Do you feel lucky?

Posted by houndrat on Sunday Jun 8, 2008 Under family life

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.

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Hubby has a relapse

Posted by houndrat on Monday Apr 14, 2008 Under family life, husbands, kids

And I found this photo, too, from a few weeks ago.? I guess the blog-shaming effect only lasts so long, before lo and behold, there’s a pile of hubby hair in the sink again.

My son had just cleaned the sink the day before, hence the maniacal expression on his face.? He actually made me call daddy so he could give him a good tongue-thrashing over the phone.? Go, Connor!

Leaving the monster sized scissors out was also a nice touch.? Maybe my husband thought Connor wanted to give Fergie another ear, I mean hair, cut.

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Finley works from home

Posted by houndrat on Monday Apr 14, 2008 Under babies, family life, husbands

For awhile, I couldn’t find the little doo-hickey (technical term) that attaches the photo card to the computer (I know, it seems so strange that something would go missing in our uber-organized home), so I just came across a few photos that didn’t get posted.

? This one is from when I was sick last time and hubby worked from home, with his little helper.

And here’s a close up of Finley.? Note the finger in the mouth—that was the beginning of the end. (Actually, she did much better this weekend with the nursing–knock on wood, or hound-dog heads, or whatever else happens to be convenient to knock on at the time).

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Hubby’s mid-life crisis

Posted by houndrat on Monday Mar 3, 2008 Under family life, husbands

Well, it’s finally happened.? My husband has officially lost his mind.?

Okay, so maybe I’m being a tad melodramatic, but seriously.? What would you say if your husband suddenly took up skateboarding–in the middle of the night?? Because it’s always such a great idea to try out a new sport involving wheels in the pitch dark.? And I’ve seen my husband on roller skates before.? Or rather, I saw the roller skates on him.? He spent the vast majority of his time splayed in an assortment of unnatural poses on the ground, futilely attempting to cling to the safety bar at the rink.? Even the six year-olds were snickering.

And this morning?? I caught him drinking a cup of raw eggs.? I tried to convince him that Rocky didn’t really drink the eggs, that it was all just a paid ad by the Egg Producers of America.? I also told him not to come crying to me when he came down with salmonella.? I mean, I’m all for a healthy diet, but I don’t this is exactly what the proponents of switching to raw foods had in mind.? At least, I’m thinking they meant? more raw? broccoli,? less raw decomposing animal flesh.? But I could be wrong.? I suppose the egg thing goes along nicely with the Rocky II theme my husband has been singing lately, along with my son, although his version is “I Have the Tiger.”? Which, in all honestly, is slightly less lame than the real words, so I don’t correct him.

At thirty-seven, I’m thinking hubby is too young for a mid-life crisis, so what do you suppose this is called?? A new baby crisis?? You know, I wouldn’t be concerned, if only he’d taken up garage organizing or gourmet cooking as his new callings.

Then again, this is the man who used to drink tuna shakes (trust me, you don’t want to know) when I first met him, so maybe? my goals are a? bit lofty.

But the night ‘boarding has gotta go.?

? *****P.S.? I have sinned.? My husband just read this post–would you like to know what his only comment was?? Apparently, I made a terrible error—”Eye of the Tiger” is? NOT from Rocky II (which? for some unknown reason? he recently downloaded to his I-Pod).? I’m guessing it must be from Rocky III then, because I’m pretty sure the only song in Rocky one was “Getting Strong Now”, or whatever that annoying little mantra was called.?

So, no offense intended, to all you Rocky-aholics out there.? I’m not sure how I got confused—let’s see, in Rocky I,? Sly beats the odds and boxes, in Rocky II, he beats the odds and boxes, in Rocky III, he beats the odds and boxes, etc., etc., ad nauseam.*********

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Ridgebacks are smarter than husbands

Posted by houndrat on Monday Feb 11, 2008 Under dogs, husbands

The Ferganator strikes again.?

I haven’t been keeping score, but I think it’s something in the range of Fergie 50, husband 0.? By this point, don’t you think hubby would know not to leave assorted cardboard? boxes laying around in the backyard?? Apparently not.? Or maybe it’s a another new look he’s fostering—I’ve dubbed this one “shabby unchic”, or for the more succinct reader, “trashy” works just fine.

? Exhibit A:? Caught in the act!? (Yes, that’s Skye in the bottom corner, saying, “This is so beneath me.? I only eat books, you know.”)

Exhibit B:? Our patio after Fergie was finished decorating.

Exhibit C:? Hey, look, she’s tired.? Apparently, destroying a backyard is? exhausting work.? ? (Auntie Dawn, aren’t you glad Fergie approves of the Christmas gift you bought Connor?)

Hmm…come to think of it, the patio looks a little like the inside of my purse.? I wonder if I could use any of those cardboard pieces later?

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