When Brother – who has the same name as Husband and the same damn ass stubborn streak so really I just did this to myself. I’m an idiot. Anyway, when Brother was five, he sucked his thumb. All. The. Time. His thumb was a moist mess of creepy wrinkly skin. Not attractive. Not hygienic. Just plain nasty.
When Brother was sent to day care they did not care for him sucking his thumb. In fact, they were very upset about the continual sucking so they tried to make him stop. First they put some nasty tasting stuff on his right thumb, the primary soggy thumb. They figured he’d stop sucking and the problem would be solved.
He didn’t. He just switched his comfort sucking from his right to his left thumb. He considered it a win. They considered it a challenge. They dosed both thumbs, smearing the icky tasting stuff all over, and considered themselves smarter than a five year old.
They were wrong. Brother just went to the bathroom; liberally squirted soap on both thumbs, scrubbed them thoroughly clean and then went back to sucking the right thumb. They were not smarter than a five year old.
Well, neither am I.
I took the spatula hostage. I laid out my demands. I expected results. I expected Husband to comply. I expected my spatula to enjoy a dried on egg free environment from now on. Husband did not comply. He just went on Amazon, bought himself his own spatula and had it delivered on Sunday.
Lesson not learned.
For either of us.
I have taken the spatula hostage.
You will never see her again unless you can meet my demands.
They are simple: She must be bathed immediately after use and left to dry or placed lovingly in her drawer.
THIS MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.
Your Wife. (and protector of kitchen utensils)
If you’ve been reading my blurts, you’ll know that we’ve been referring to the next-door neighbors as the Dead Neighbors for the last two years. They used to be The Love Boat Neighbors because of the rope lights that line their roofline and make it look like the house is floating at night. But, because we haven’t seen them since May of 2013, Husband declared them dead and theorized that the handyman had killed them and buried them in the backyard. I still don’t understand the logic of killing them and then coming by to get their mail daily but not living in their house but Husband was sure that “the Handyman done it.”
Then we found out a month ago that one of the neighbors had actually died in March and our amusing theory wasn’t as hilarious as it had been. Not to mention that Husband was totally wrong about Handyman, and he wouldn’t admit it.
Anyway, for the last few weeks, there has been a lot more activity next door. We suspect that Dead Neighbor’s wife will be selling and they’re getting the house ready to show to developers who will knock it down and make our lives miserable for a year while they build a cookie-cutter mansion no one wants to live in - Ooops, is my opinion showing? Let me tuck that back in…
Anyway, the two cars that have sat outside for two years have been serviced and cleaned. The drive has been power washed, the pool cleaned, and the over grown brush cleared. And then yesterday, someone over there had a brush burn going. We could see the plume of smoke but it smelled like more than just wood or brush gathered from the garden was on fire. I checked to make sure it wasn’t the house but whatever was burning was contained to a small area in their side yard. Perhaps they were burning painted wood, I guessed. Nope, Husband surmised, someone over there was burning porn.
Yup, you read that right. Husband thinks that Dead Neighbor’s porn buddy heard about the house sale and came over yesterday to destroy the evidence. By burning it in the side yard. For hours.
That's a lot of porn.
I really worry about what is going on in Husband’s head.
I worry more that I entertain his delusions of crazy.
Same class of six and seven year olds - one of whom actually pushed the outie belly button of the very-pregnant-about-to-give-birth administrator of the camp and said, "Ding Dong."
Anyway, we’re still creating a play based on clues found in our treasure trunk and the clues have led them to believe that their story is about space. “What would we find in space?” I ask.
“Aliens!” they shout.
“So I guess our story is about aliens.” We do some exploring the space and pretending to be aliens. We walk around the room acting like we are aliens with tentacles or aliens with one eye or shape shifting evil ones with a loud laugh.
“How would they speak? Do you think they speak English?” I ask.
“No! They would speak alien.” they shout. Because, duh, Ms. ej!
Laughing, I ask them, “Do you know what Gibberish is?” “No…” they say, confused.
“It’s a made up language.” I tell them and I demonstrate, making the silliest noises I can. They find it hysterical. So I play a quick game of Gibberish with them. And then I have them do a short improvisation where one of them is speaking Gibberish and one of them is interpreting for them. They love it. It’s the “best game ever!” I’m thrilled.
“Maybe the aliens in our play can speak Gibberish.” one of them suggests.
“Great idea,” I say, totally pleased that they’ve bought into my secret plan. “Let’s put that in the play.” It's a good day. We move onto other things.
The next day we practice a bit of the play and then I have the kids playing the aliens stand up. They show me their alien moves and then I ask them, “Do you remember what language you suggested the aliens speak?”
And one kid raises his hand and almost squeals as he shouts, “Yes! BRITISH!”
My 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