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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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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I ain’t no housewife

Posted by houndrat on Saturday Jan 12, 2008 Under babies, family life, husbands, kids, SAHM

My friend recently told me she’s a good wife, but not a good housewife.? It got me thinking (always a dangerous? pastime in our home)—what the heck is a housewife?? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I? married a man, not the outrageously? over-priced tract house with the world’s most minuscule kitchen? in which? we currently reside.? Although? I suppose I could be wrong—we did have a helluva? lot of booze? at our wedding.

Seriously, though, I think the? term “housewife” epitomizes all of the outlandish expectations men have? of their wives–for example, things like mopping the floor daily (sorry, I don’t live in a Brady Bunch rerun), or cleaning the toilet until it sparkles (I’ve never really understood the need to clean an appliance that will be instantly sullied by human excrement within hours of washing it), or discarding dirty toenail clippings (hey, they’re biodegradable).? ? I don’t know about you, but my wedding vows were to love, honor, and cherish—not love, honor, and pick up thy husband’s dirty undies ’til kingdom come.? And I’m pretty sure the latter statement would have penetrated even? the haziest of? booze-impaired brains.

So, instead, I like to call myself a stay-at-home mom, or SAHM, for short.? (or, if you read dooce, it’s actually an acronym for various profanities–which is equally apropos on any given day).? Honestly, though, I? have no problems with this moniker.? I do stay at home—well, except for the plethora of playgroup meetings, music class, gym class, grocery shopping, dog walking, outings to the zoo or Legoland or the beach, picking up the dry cleaning (okay, so I’ve only done that once in my entire married life, but it sounded good), etc, that force me to vacate my? residence for seemingly hours on end.? And I am a mom, unless those two little fiends living in my home were beamed? down by aliens, whose sole purpose? is to? study the effects of supreme daily chaos on the human body? (boy, are THEY getting an eyeful).?

Come to think of it, I had that second? fiend au naturel—and since certain body parts, which shall remain nameless, will never be the same, I suppose the kids are legit. (In case you’re wondering, “au naturel” means no drugs, no hospital—just my own house, my own bed, and a leather strap to bite down on—oh, wait, my husband is now telling me that was actually his arm.? Oops.)

But note, the title is stay-at-home mom.? Stay-at-home MOM.? The problem being—this title is an evil lie.? Or, an evil lie of omission, if you will.? Because implicit in this title is a whole list of other things we SAHMs are expected to do on a daily basis, things that are far less appealing than just being a mommy.? Let’s face it, you hear the term stay-at-home mom, and and what do you envision?? Images of smiling, cooing babies,? pictures of pristine moms in Jimmy Choos ruffling their equally pristine toddler’s hair, thoughts of decked-out MILFs and beaming, spotless children skipping hand-in-hand through the meadows, right?? ? Wrong.? It’s all a bunch of cow manure.? Essence of steer.? Meadow muffins.? It’s a load of poppycock propagated by men so that women will agree to be stay-at-home moms in the first place.? They cunningly neglect to mention all the fun extras that come with the job.?

For example, would you sign up to be a stay-at-home? poopy bottom wiper?? A stay-at-home dog barf cleaner?? A stay-at-home dirty undie scooper upper?? I think not.? I mean, seriously, who is going to pee their pants? with excitement? at the prospect of? being a stay-at-home snot sucker outer?? (There may be a lot of pants-peeing going on around here, including my own due to the above-mentioned baby-damaged body parts, but I can guarantee you it ain’t out of? glee over mucous).? Or a stay-at-home-hubby’s-nasty-hair-clippings-in-the-sink cleaner?? ? The last time I checked, my Master’s degree did not? adequately? prepare me for? such topics.? Maybe I should petition my school.

One time, my husband? proclaimed that he would make a great stay-at-home dad and a great househusband.? ? I? actually think I heard God laugh out loud.? Either that, or one of the dogs blasted us with another of those high-pitched farts.? Don’t get me wrong—my husband is an extraordinarily devoted dad, and an awesome husband and dad in so many ways.? Unfortunately, none of? those ways? involve? either a single? iota of ? consistent discipline or acceptable human cleanliness.? Basically, our house would implode within a week of leaving him home with the kiddage and doggage.? Think Home Alone, only? set in Bosnia instead of the suburbs, and you’ll get the picture.

So, please, make sure you read the fine print before signing on to be a SAHM.? That way, you can start learning how to be a stay-at-home-crusty-booger-wiper-offer far, far in advance.

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The Red Rocket

Posted by houndrat on Friday Jan 11, 2008 Under cars, husbands

We have a car, sitting idly in front of our home, that my husband fondly? refers to as? “The Red Rocket”.?

Me?? I fondly? refer to? it as “The Red-piece-of-shit-that-my-pragmatically-challenged-husband-paid-$1100-for-against-my-explicit-instructions-and-look-I-was-right-the-damn-crappy-thing-doesn’t-work Car”.

The Red Rocket.? A poetic and fitting name for, say, a corvette or maybe a classic 70′s muscle car. Heck, it would even be? marginally? appropriate? if we had an Eclipse.? Or? possibly a Saturn (although that’s a stretch). What is? it not a fitting name for?? Well, certainly not the 1989 none-too-gently used piece of snot Toyota Celica that has apparently taken up permanent residence outside our home.

The Red Rocket.? What an ironic name for a car that can’t muster over 50 mph on the freeway, on those rare occasions that it actually deigns to start for us.? Oh, it’s red, all right, but my husband must have been smoking crack to come up with the rocket part.? The only? remotely rocket-like thing about? it? is the? ear-numbing? amount of noise it produces, because of? a blown muffler.

You might be wondering how we acquired the? Crimson Crap-mobile.? Well, join the party.? I’m still sort of wondering the same thing.? One day, my husband? goes for a walk with my son to the park,? when, lo and behold, he returns with the Maroon Monster.? It was one of my husband’s? decidedly less inspired? impulse buys (of course, he chalks it up to the ADHD he self-diagnosed a month ago).

Actually, back that up a bit.? My hubby called me in-between the walk to the park and the ride home.? He called to ask me what I thought about purchasing the Magenta Money-Sucker.? My answer?? “No!”? Him:? “Maybe we should think about it?”? Me:? An emphatic “NO!”? Him:? “I’m sure it would be a great commuter car?”? ? Me:? “NO, NO, NO!”?

Husbands of the world, a quick tip—Never, ever ask your wives their opinion when you know you are just going to blatantly disregard it anyway.? This is the epitome of stupidity, and makes you destined to be? snoozing with Fido for a very long time.?

Back to our story.? See, my husband got his car totaled by a drunk driver last April (not that it takes a whole lot to total a 1996 Nissan Sentra).? My husband, who commutes over 60 miles one way to work every day, got a rental car, thinking this dude’s insurance would pay us pretty quickly, since he was clearly at fault.? Ha!? Such naivete on our part.? The? freakin’ bastards? (Legacy Pacific, in case you’re interested), have, to this day,? not forked over one measly dime.

So, what makes? someone spy a junker with a “for sale” sign and think, “Hey, there’s the perfect commuter car!”?? What conversation could? have possibly been going on in? my husband’s? head?? Hmmm…I like to? imagine it was something like this:? “Why, it’s a piece of crap 1989 Toyota Celica, complete with ripped up upholstery and a tape deck from the stone ages.? And look–it has a stick shift, which my wife can’t drive, and no room in the back, even though I have one kid already another on the way, and three dogs!? But that’s okay, because it’s perfect!? Why, it’s the Red Rocket!”

Or perhaps he was just thinking of a new fun way to piss me off—if so, hon, you’ve succeeded beautifully.

I told him to take it back immediately, I told him it was too old, I told him it was too ugly.? Heck, I even told him it would spontaneously combust within minutes of us owning it.? I may as well have been talking to my son’s miniature R2D2 robot (which? listens to? me about equally as well).? The Rojo Rubbish-Heap stopped working within a week, as I predicted, and now sits in front of our house, in all of it’s red glory (or lack thereof).

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the totaled Sentra is still here as well, keeping the Scarlet Shitbox company.? Why?? Aha, so you haven’t read my blogs on procrastination yet (Christmas? tree Procrastination and? All other varieties of Procrastination).

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Procrastinators, Anonymous

Posted by houndrat on Friday Jan 11, 2008 Under procrastination

Hi.? I am a procrastinator.? I admit it.? In fact, I admit it freely.? What’s more, I like to talk about procrastinating.? A? lot.? Why, you ask?? Because talking about the things you procrastinate about is the ultimate procastination.? It’s like procrastination nirvana.

? What kinds of things do we procrastinate about at our house?? I don’t think there’s enough space on the internet to list? them all.? Honestly. But I’ll try to throw out a few.

Some procrastinations are small.? For example, I procrastinate about buying various items at the store.? Toothpaste (yes, friends, that not-so-fresh-breath is sometimes me),? toilet paper (according to my husband, you can cut up used socks and use them instead—a fraternity house secret), and food (hey, we all needed to go on a diet anyway), just for starters.?

Sometimes, the procrastinations are bigger.? Like the fact? that we have yet to get? our daughter? a social security number or a birth certificate.? The midwife told us those in power like this to be done within 3 weeks of the birth.? Alas, our daughter is over 3 months now, and still without a country to call her own.?

This may not seem like a big deal, unless you knew that we had a home birth.? Apparently, if we don’t do this at some point, she will not be considered a citizen of the United States.? What I am wondering is, is it possible to be a citizen of nowhere?? How does that work, exactly?? I mean, I ‘ve heard of dual citizenship, but never no citizenship.

? But I digress (or, you might say, I procrastinate about procrastinating).? We also procrastinate about doing laundry (it saves the environment), replacing brake pads (we’re single-handedly keeping the rotor-making companies in business), and picking up dog poop (it’s free fertilizer, if you leave it long enough).? We didn’t have a crib mattress until our baby was two months old (hey, I needed an organic one, and you actually have to drive further than a mile to get those), and as for cleaning out the refrigerator?? Well, making your own penicillin does have some benefits, I guess.

Why do we procrastinate?? I honestly don’t know.? I mean, it’s not as if I really believe the toilet paper fairy is going to come make a delivery at our home (unless she just made a drop off in our trees—but I’m pretty sure that’s the kid who lives down the street, the little bastard).? And it’s not as if we think our friends are going randomly drop by and say, “Oh, I was just passing through, and thought I would? bring you? a crate of Charmin–it’s so squeezably soft, you know.”? (but friends, if you’re reading this, it’s not a bad idea—especially if you think you might need to use the john).

But the beauty of procrastination is, you can do it anytime, anywhere, anyplace.? In fact, I was able to procrastinate on about a billion projects, just by writing this blog.

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Husbands, undies, and ADHD

Posted by houndrat on Thursday Dec 6, 2007 Under husbands

My husband just recently diagnosed himself as adult ADHD.? He tells me this as if I’m supposed to be surprised or something.? As if I’ve never? realized that he doesn’t pay attention when I’m talking.? Does he not think I notice when I send him to the store for milk and bread,? and he comes back with a watermelon instead?? Or that when it was his turn to pay the bills, we almost had our electricity shut off?? Twice?? Or that he’s impulsive?? Like the time he decided he wanted to re-finish his $3000 speakers, so he ripped the wooden panels off within two seconds of the idea striking him?? Or that he leaves projects unfinished?? Like? said $3000 speakers, which have been sitting there with the wood panels ripped off for the past two years?? I won’t even bring up the countless gadgets and various crap he’s purchased over the years, because the “impulse” struck him.

What I wonder, though, is if it’s really ADHD that makes him forget to pick up his undies.? I mean, surely even the most distracted person? is aware of? when they strip off their skivvies? Don’t you at least feel a draft?? And yet there his are, strewn all over the house like rice at a wedding.? Only larger and smellier.? ? And it sort of begs? the question of why in the world my husband is stripping in all corners of the house?? This, as with many things concerning my husband, is probably a question best left unanswered.

So, what does my husband do when he decides he is ADHD?? He goes and buys about 100 books about it, of course.? Because we all know how good ADHD folks are at finishing books.? Basically,? the books are? just something else for me to pick up around the house.? ? Maybe they can keep the undies company.? If the books could only tell him how to remember to pick up the books, we’d be making some serious progress.? But I guess we can’t have it all.

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