Husband likes his toys. According to him, as a middle child, he only had himself to play with so would spend hours with his Star Wars figures blowing things up. He’s a ‘grown man’ now but he still likes his toys - only now they are more than just plastic figurines. And, unlike his plastic figurines, his toys now cost more than a few pounds. These days his toys all turn on or plug in. These days his cars are the type that other grown up boys get excited about. And his inside toys are just as pricy and are things I don’t know or care about. He’d point out about now that I love that I can watch my trashy TV and listen to music and call people with the toys he’s bought… and he’d be right. But I think I’d enjoy them just as much if they were cheaper.
And then we moved. To a major fixer-upper. Bye-bye Man Fort, I thought.
I was wrong. Husband planned to make the den in this house into the new Man Fort. The den with a sagging linoleum floor, dark wood paneling and glass doors to the falling down deck that didn’t close or touch the walls and let in copious amounts of weather and bugs. It was an utter mess. I didn’t see this ever looking like the Man Fort of his dreams - until now. We - okay mostly Husband – have spent the last year fixing it up. We had new windows put in. We installed a new floor – okay, Husband installed the new floor, joists and all. All this was happening at the same time as Husband remodeling the kitchen. And now, with the list of to-do’s in the kitchen still wanting – grout, lights, under cabinet lights, hooking up the stove - Husband has spent the last few days finishing up the new Man Fort. He’s hooked up the speakers in the ceiling. He’s hooked up the stereo and the TV. We got the new couches delivered and he’s got them at the optimum-viewing angle. The Man Fort was looking good. And then, this past weekend, Husband started playing with his new fancy projector and his new even fancier projector screen. This one has a remote control up and down feature. Cue your “ooohs” and “ahhhs” people. He was excited to get it mounted. He prepped the space for the installation. He measured and poked and taped and did lots of screwing of pieces of wood for him to install the screen to. And then Husband asked me to help him take the projector screen out of the box it came in. Because of my back was having an episode of hating me, he asked me to just stand and hold the box and keep the box from moving and scratching the floor. I did just as he asked. I held the box as he pulled on the screen. He pulled. I held. He pulled some more. I held some more – and holding was hard because of the angle and my back and the fact that the screen wasn’t coming out easily. It was almost out and I was having a hard time keeping the box still. Husband yelled, “Hold it!” I held it! At no point did he tell me to hold the projector screen. So I didn’t. He pulled, I held - and the screen pulled right out of the box, bounced hard on the floor leaving a few dings and possibly breaking the screen. Epic fail. So folks, when you come by for the tour of the house and we get to the Man Fort and he’s asking you too “oooh” and “ahhh” over the projector screen, make sure to look down at the floor for the dings. I did that.
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I can’t write today. My brain is an over-stimulated mess of feelings and impressions and random solutions to issues with my home office design and my dream about buying baby gifts for two families and asking them to share... Not one of those spinning opinions or observations has made themselves into an actual idea worth babbling about. Perhaps it’s because the sun is finally shining here and the temperature isn’t stupid cold and I have to leave for work in an hour and I’m hungry and really want a plate of fried potatoes but am settling for fruit. Ugh. I really can’t write today. Let’s just say I’m hopeful that today will be a good day and I’ll do my best to find the humor in each bump that comes my way. Maybe it will be a post someday. I'll leave you with this lovely text from Husband yesterday - picture of me and the neighbor (not the dead one) taken from the security camera in front of the house. He then proceeded to make Fresh Prince references all night.
Husband is an ass. Tigger the Dog and I went to the New Vet yesterday. Our appointment with New Vet was actually last week but when we got there last week, she was in the middle of brain surgery on a dog. No lie.
The staff all apologized profusely and rescheduled us for yesterday. And then they all apologized profusely when we got there yesterday. Like I would have actually thrown a fit that she didn’t see my dog for her yearly shots instead of finishing up the BRAIN surgery on the poor dog on the operating table. Um, it was brain surgery. Shots could wait. Let me assure you, TTD didn’t mind at all. And I’m pretty sure the poor dog with the tumor that had eaten INSIDE its skull and into its brain would rather New Vet finished up with the surgery instead of stopping to poke my dog. I’m just saying. Anyway, New Vet is awesome. Her office space is bright and clean and modern. Shiny cement floors, big open treatment rooms and the operating room is right in the center of the place so you can watch if your beast needs treatment – if you’re into that sort of thing live, on someone you know, instead of on TV behind a screen and commercials and snacks. The Big Dog room is approximately seven ft by seven ft with one lime green wall, two white walls and a full wall of windows facing my parking spot. It was a perfect set up for TTD. She was focused outside on our car, who was walking by and all the crazy stuff happening outside most of the time she was in the room. The whining Chewbacca dog we usually have didn’t surface at all. Not to say that there wasn’t a whimper when the shots went in or that she was pleased with the invasive temp check in her rear. I got a rather dirty look from her and a "What's up with that?" whine then. But, for the most part, this TTD was not the TTD we have at home. Then New Vet told us she’s also pumping in pheromones of some sort that only TTD could smell and that, combined with the space and the view was very helpful for dogs. Where can I get me some of that? I will pump in at her 24/7. Heck, I’m going to sniff it myself because I didn’t get freaked out at the vet either. Not even when New Vet said we’re going to have to Ferberize the dog. Yikes! We’re going to have to ignore the Chewbacca gurgling and pacing and tail destruction and just let her be until she calms herself down? At 6:30am when I’m sleepy and grumpy and it’s cold and she is loud and knocks over half the coffee table with her whip of a tail as she heads out of the room, I am to ignore the behavior? Right. Who’s going to ignore my behavior when my head explodes from the high-pitched whines when I raise the blinds? Or when TTD comes running in the house like she’s possessed and does 360’s on the new hardwood floors with her nails? Or when there’s a gunshot or doorbell or car backing up or some kind of noise on the TV and she has to warn us that Timmy is in the well? Who am I kidding? I need that pheromone stuff too! Especially now that we’re on a diet – I mean – TTD is on a diet. Apparently, even thought we can see TTD’s waist - and New Vet was very complimentary about TTD’s waist - we apparently need to be able to feel TTD’s ribs. Crap. I’m pretty sure that applies to us too. Though Husband likes to say he doesn’t have a waist because his hips are so high up. He also likes to say he doesn’t have a chin – that his chin starts at his belly button and goes up to his mouth... Yeah, we’re on a diet too. Joy. Now I have to go outside and collect a sample of Tigger the Dog’s poop. New Vet’s Nurse was very excited about the Spork that comes with the collection container. Me, not so much. I don’t drink. Well, I do drink sometimes but I don’t drink often. Okay, this is starting to read like one of those grammar tests. What I mean to say is, I’m not the kind of person who has a glass of wine with dinner every night. And this is not just because we’ve been eating in places that would serve it out of a box. I’ve just never been an every day drinker. Well, even that’s wrong. I was an every day drinker for a period of time when my forced path of education suddenly ended and I was without a plan. But that wasn’t a glass of wine with dinner drinking. That was stupid, stupid youthful ‘because I know everything and am a grown-up now’ drinking. I was not and I did not. My point is I don’t drink on a regular basis. And, as a result, I drink badly. I’m not saying I miss my mouth or spill things – though that has happened. I’m saying, I don’t drink often so my body is not good at processing the booze. Husband says I just need eat beforehand. He thinks that I should stuff myself with bread products to absorb the liquor. But to me, that’s admitting you’re going to do really stupid things like those Jackass dudes. The bread is like putting a crash pad around your butt and jumping off a building into a nest of bees. I’m never planning to drink so much I pin my high school drama teacher up against a wall twenty years after I’ve graduated and tell him he missed my greatest performance on stage ever and he should regret it. And despite Husband pulling me away, repeat the pining and the berating of the poor guy throughout the night. I’m never planning to run into the sliding glass door at full speed leaving the print of my forehead on the glass for all to see. I’m never planning to lie down on the ottoman in my friend’s house, after all the guests have gone home and the hosts are all sitting around in their PJ’s, and refuse to leave until Husband plays the ‘Bus Song’ on her pretty white piano. And then, once he has played the ‘Bus Song’ to the entire sleepy family, stand up, walk three feet and pass out in their foyer. That is never on the agenda when I get dressed for an evening out. I went to a Hockey game last night. My friend and her husband are season ticket holders and gave me their seats when they couldn’t attend. (If she’s reading this, she’s likely freaking out right about now because what I’ve just written… ) But have no fear, Friend; there was no falling down or running into things or berating folks. I didn’t drink countless bottles of wine and then tell people they missed me when I was fabulous on stage. There was no singing - Wait, I lie. There was a band at the intermission half time break thing and I sang along with them but quietly, under my breath. Okay. That’s a lie too. I sang along with them very loudly but no one was listening – to me or to the band – so that doesn’t really count. Anyway, I had two beers over the course of the game. Two weak watered down game beers and I am as foggy today as the weird horror movie weather outside. My throat is raw and shredded. I sound like Selma from the Simpsons. And my back and shoulders, heck, my whole body is tense and tight and in need of a deep tissue massage. I have no idea how people do this daily. Of course it’s very possible my throat might be due to my screaming “GET IT IN THE HOLE!” as loud as I could and as often as I could during the game. And the tension could be because I got a ‘bit’ involved in the game and was trying to will the shots into the goal, ducking and weaving in my seat while I tensing every muscle to protect myself from all the sticks and wall slamming and the puck flying and stuff. It is possible the foggy brain is due to the fact that I think I relived the game in my sleep, shot for shot - only in my dreams, we won. With my help, of course. What was my point? Oh, yes. I don’t drink. And, apparently, I don’t play hockey either, only my body doesn’t know that. I'm not sure how, but an actual phone conversation with the Mom ended like this but it did.
ME: People don’t honk here. You can be behind two cars at a light and the first one isn’t moving because they’re texting but no one will honk at them to move! And when they finally move and you pull up beside them at the next light, their head is down and they are texting away like the police won’t know what is in their lap. MOM: Or the police think they are doing something immoral in the car. ME (snorting with laughter): Mom! Not here. We’re in the Bible belt. MOM: Well, in the paper here, there was a story recently about a guy in a car park that was doing that in his car. ME: Doing what? Texting? MOM: No. The other thing. There was a woman - ME (confused): A woman? Doing what? Watching him? MOM: Yes - ME: Do what? Having a wank? MOM: Well, not really - ME (in total shock): She was giving him a blow-job!? (Husband looks over at me in total surprise, eyes wide. Mom is laughing. I'm laughing harder. ) MOM: No. Not a blow-job. He was having a sank. And he was doing in in front of the woman. ME: Wait. She was in his car? Just watching him? MOM: No. She was in her car in front of his car in the parking lot. ME: Ohhh - MOM: She called the police and reported him. ME: As she should! MOM: I don’t know. I kind of think my reaction would be (as she says in a disappointed tone) “Oh. That’s kind of of small.” But I haven’t had the opportunity to use that. And scene! THIS ^ is why I am the way I am. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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