My friend buys her husband’s clothes. And he likes that she shops for him. And he likes what she buys for him. And, more importantly, he wears what she buys for him.
My other friend also buys her husband’s clothes and he likes that she shops for him. And he likes what she buys for him. And, more importantly, he wears what she buys for him.
My husband hates it if I shop for him and has sneered at almost everything I’ve ever brought home. And by sneer, I mean says highly derogatory things about my choices, usually ending with, “…do you even know who I am?”
My brother – who might I remind you shares the same name as Husband and therefore the same ass stubbornness – Brother handles my clothing gifts with the same disdain as Husband; they are usually opened, laughed at and then returned. And Brother is way more stylish than Husband. In fact, once Brother once gave an Ex of mine his discards and then was totally horrified at the outfit the Ex put together. “If I knew he was going to put those pants with that shirt, I would never have given him any of my clothes.” he said while shaking his head and trying to pretend he wasn’t with us. Brother is fashionable and trendy. I am not.
I’ve abstained from any attempts to dress those picky losers because shopping is not really my thing. In fact, I dislike shopping for clothes slightly less than shopping for food. Since the food thing is necessary, I refrain from shopping for clothes as much as possible.
See Husband has been wearing the same shirts for like five years now. And they look like he’s been wearing them for five years. Now he has two of each shirt so the wear and tear hasn’t been as tragic as it might have been but they are not looking good. But getting an OCD nutter to get new shirts is a nightmare. They no longer make the shirts he has so the change was going to be quite drastic. Someone – not me – was not taking this change well. Someone – not me – kept resisting, ignoring the sorry state of his wardrobe and pretending life would go on as it had been. Someone – that would be ME – wasn’t having that. I gave him a deadline to get new shirts by then end of August or walk about naked in September because I was going to toss the nasty ones in the trash. After the blustering and name-calling and downright drama, Husband finally came to terms with the challenge. And by ‘came to terms’, I mean, went shopping once, rejected everything I showed him or suggested and went home in the same sorry shirt he’d come in with. It was looking like I was going to have a naked Husband come September first.
And then last week I went to the Apple store to have the half moon camera issue on my phone fixed. I was hoping for a replaced shiny new one but they took my broken phone from me, told me they’d fix it and to come back in 45minutes. What the hell does someone who is not a shopping fan do when they’re stuck in a mall for 45 minutes? Shop for one’s Husband, that’s what. And because I had no phone, I could not text him pictures for approval. And because I could not text him for approval, I amused myself scooting about the sale rack in Macy’s picking up all manner of shirts for him that he was sure to hate and I was sure to have to return. I did restrain myself from getting him the tight sherbet pink V-neck Brother might wear but giggled myself silly at the thought of Husband sporting it around Nashville. It’s the little things. One hour later, fixed cell phone in one hand and heavy shopping bag in the other and tootled on home to face Husband’s scorn.
BUT HE LIKED THEM!
Not all of them of course. That would be nuts. But three out of seven ain't bad, considering my record of zero. I was feeling so dang cocky, when I returned the four rejected shirts, I got him four more! And guess what? He liked them too! Which means, Husband now has seven new shirts and I have broken a twenty-year losing shirt shopping streak. I’m feeling so hot; I might even attempt to buy something for Brother…
Yeah, whom am I kidding? Brother is too posh for the sale rack and I’m too cheap to pay full price for a shirt he’ll reject. I’m going to quit while I’m ahead and go just go remove Husband’s icky five-year-old shirts and place them lovingly in a box – per his request – until some later date when I can throw them out. Oh, happy day!
What is worse than that damn smoke alarm battery warning beep from a smoke alarm somewhere in your house?
That damn smoke alarm battery warning beep from a smoke alarm somewhere in your house going off at 2AM!
And what is worse than damn smoke alarm battery warning beep from a smoke alarm somewhere in your house going off at 2AM?
Having a dog with MASSIVE anxiety issues every time she hears a tiny beep like a car locking or a truck backing up or A DAMN SMOKE ALARM BATTERY WARNING BEEP FROM A SMOKE ALARM SOMEWHERE IN YOUR HOUSE GOING OFF AT 2AM!
There is nothing less relaxing than Husband fumbling about in the dark trying to locate the stupid beeping smoke alarm that never beeps consistent enough to find it but sure as heck beeps annoyingly enough to drive the dog batshit. And by ‘batshit’ I mean full volume high-pitched Chewbacca whine-gurgle-whimper in her crate accompanied by non-rhythmic tail crate banging and manic crate spinning - which is not easy for a big wussy dog in a crate meant for sleeping not white-coat flipping out. I’m not sure who was having a worse time; Husband, Tigger the Dog or me.
Oh, yeah, that would be ME. Because I was trying to sleep through the freakin’ circus that was TTD cage raving and Husband stomping the stepstool about from room to room waiting for the beep that never came from the smoke alarm he was standing under.
Woke up not feeling too friendly toward TTD or Husband or smoke alarms or sunshine or birds or anything.
Why in the hell can’t they make those stupid alarms programmable so they will tell you which room they are in AND let you know that they are in need of a battery change at a reasonable hour? I mean, what is it, a baby? It’s 2015 – make that happen people!
This is my worst nightmare.
Okay maybe not worst – I’m sure I could come up with something that would be worse, especially at 3am – but hugging is really not my favorite thing.
Unless you’re a toddler or a baby and then hugging is awesome and all of the things the picture says. But hugging grownups - with all my hang-ups and their hang-ups and judgments and touching and stuff... Not. My. Thing.
I get it from Mom. The first time I ever saw her hug Uncle was when Grandmother died. And let me tell you, I thought the world had ended. So awkward! Last year, she tried to shake my hand at the airport when I dropped her off after a two-week visit. And I l almost let her! Yeah, we're a pair, perfectly able to communicate in language that doesn't mean touching each other.
AND WAIT, I just thought of a thing that is worse – CUDDLE PARTIES! Where you are led by a Cuddle Facilitator who will guide you through what is NOW my worst nightmare. My neighbor in California thought I would enjoy them. Actually, I think he said I "needed them" to "get over myself" but the dude had pot smoking drum circles and a different lady licking his feet every night so I couldn't take him seriously.
Not to mention I couldn't stop manically laughing once he described what went on at one. Um, you want me to get into my PJ's and spend the evening hugging on people I've just met? Me, who Husband hugs in the middle of me yelling at me to shut me up. Yeah, that'll happen NEVER!!!
My skin is crawling just thinking about it. And my breathing is coming short. And a sweat is breaking out on my brow. Quick, say something sarcastic and antisocial to stop this trauma...
Seven New Years Eves ago, Husband and I got home from our 4pm British New Years Eve toast - which is the best way to celebrate because you’re home before 8pm! - to find my half-bro a useless lump on the couch and his wife-to-be pissed off and sad in the other room. Lots of yelling ensued – mostly me shouting “You didn’t come to fucking California to spend fucking New Years Eve on my fucking couch!’ or some variation of that. I’m pretty sure there were more curse words. I can work a curse word. It’s a skill.
Anyway, an hour later, we dropped them off at the train station, told them to pay attention the route we drove so they could make the walk home and sent them off to San Francisco for the night to experience all New Years Eve in a big city can be.
Was I a perfect host? No. Was I a perfect sister, half or otherwise? No. Was I a perfect ass? Yes! Yes I was. But look, here we are, seven years later and he’s now this guy!
Can I take the credit for this? No, I really can’t. Am I proud as heck that he got off his ass and did something with his brains? YES, I AM!
Congrats Kyalo on a job well done! You have made this half-sis awfully proud.
I was put on timeout today by a three-year old. Twice.
The first time, I asked him if he could please pull up his undies and his eyes got wide.
“Did I just use a word I shouldn’t?” I asked him, knowing full well that the word that was actually off limits was 'panties' but in order to argue my point with him, I'd have to use the word and would get in trouble anyway. He nodded, grave face.
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“Go into the timeout corner.” He told me, pointing at the corner near the bathroom. So I put myself in the corner.
Two hours later, I made the same mistake. “Please pull up your undies. Ooop. I mean underwear.” I said after his tenth trip to the bathroom. But my correction was too late. And this time his brother was a witness to my forbidden word usage. They both laughed at me as I apologized but pointed at the corner anyway.
“How long do I have to stay there?” I asked, my face to the wall. One brother said two minutes, one said five minutes, so I set my time for three minutes and continued to face the wall as they snickered manically behind me.
Then, before my handy timer went off releasing me from the corner shame, I was informed by the older one, totally mimicking his grownup’s voice, “Now we have to talk to your mommy.”
“We do?” I said. “Why do we have to talk to my mommy?”
“Because you gots on timeout!” they said, logic peppering their outraged three-year-old voices.
So we called my mother.
Because apparently when you are in timeout, you have to get a talking to by your mother.
I was totally relieved that the answer machine picked up. The only thing worse than being put in time out by a three-year old is being put on timeout by your mother.
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