Tonight he is reclining on the sofa. Feeling a little bad about the big crack on his iPhone from today's drop in the driveway. Watching football.
I had cooked dinner, helped two small kids make a dessert. Cleaned up. Prepared our Family Home Evening. Loaded the dishwasher after dinner. Began finally sorting out the paper mountain we accumulated over December when I was too busy to sort mail and school papers coming in by the tons.
Feeling a little guilty (neglectful), thinking Husband might need my calming, comforting presence, I sit down on the love seat and look at him sympathetically as he strokes his phone.
"I need to go back on the Wii Fit, that was really great the other day", he says with that dreamy look one gets after having a tropical holiday. "It's a really great workout, have you been on there lately?"
insert dramatic pause...
...you know, the one I should have taken...
before going into my tirade. (bless him, never saw any of this coming)
"Are you serious?! WHEN would I go on to the Wii? If I'm not cooking, cleaning, folding laundry or basically meeting everybody's needs, this TV is tuned into football or some ridiculous Disney Channel show that makes me want to gouge my eyes out and if the Wii is actually up and running, someone is playing FIFA!!"
quick breath... the kind you're trained to do as a singer... (bless him, never saw any of this coming)
"I don't ever have time to do anything like that and for the life of me, do NOT know how you fit it in this weekend while I was away! Housework around here is never done, the kids are always up to something..."
Somehow I don't think that's what he ever expected when he started that conversation. (bless him, never saw any of this coming) I think he may have even been holding onto some delusion of me patting his head saying, "Poor Little Bunny, you are putting on such a brave face speaking about workouts when your iPhone-obsessed heart is broken".
I'd love to say he won't bring it up again,
but he will.
Husbands can say some really dumb things sometimes.
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Monday, January 24, 2011
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Death by Chocolate
The joys of Scrolling Saturday.
Rather than squeeze a little humour out while juggling kids, who on day two of holiday are BORED, I can just cut and paste. I like that. a lot. Contest will go up by Monday. I have the goodies ready for photographing now... oooh, I am so excited!
Rather than squeeze a little humour out while juggling kids, who on day two of holiday are BORED, I can just cut and paste. I like that. a lot. Contest will go up by Monday. I have the goodies ready for photographing now... oooh, I am so excited!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
My Husband is Trying to Kill Me
I joke you not. I want you to watch for me and if a day or two passes without a new blog entry, I want you to contact the authorities. Fast.
I am not delusional, I have proof.
Today while frantically searching for the JC Penney card that I last saw in his hands when he was paying bills, I came upon a chilling discovery--- in my pajama drawer.
Why was I looking for a credit card in my pajama drawer? It's my stash-everything-in-here-quick-someone's-coming-over-drawer, and don't pretend you don't have one (or a closet, trunk, shower stall that you shove everything into when the doorbell rings).
And yes, people DO come into my bedroom. For some reason, everyone who graces our front step will ask for a tour of the house-- including the engineer who hooked up my hob and cooker (stove for you American-types). It could be because this place is massive. People will stand in our kitchen and look out the french doors across the courtyard, with the two ponds and connecting stream and ask, "Is that (pointing to the two-story bedroom side of the house) part of yours as well?"
One man who came to fetch J1 for a party we had shown up to without him (grumpy teenager, I didn't mind that he wanted to stay behind), returned to the festivities and all he could say was, "They live in the flippin' Pentagon!"
We were tremendously lucky in finding this place, but that's NOT what concerns me now. What I have thought about all day was what I found in my drawer.
In addition to a Pokemon ball, and a Creative Memories catalog, there's a box of German Truffles in a lovely gold box with a shiny blue ribbon. A gift from my husband when he returned from his vaca--I mean deployment. There's also a huge bar of some imported 70% cocoa, a monster Galaxy bar, and some British licorice mix. All brought to me at various times by my husband. My pancreas is screaming just thinking about it.
Out of curiosity, I went to my bedside table--yep, the sweets had found their way there as well.
Women who are swooning over such a thoughtful husband, please enlighten me. I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body (I might have had once, but all of my bones are tired these days and I can't make out which ones do what), I see it as his way of slowly poisoning me to get me out of the way so that he can have all of these kids (the crying, puking, peeing, pooping, mucous factories that they are) all to himself! I know it, and I fear for my life.
I'm afraid it won't be long now, he just came home from work and he brought me a life-sized Tootsie Roll! Help.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Mrs. (Husband's Job)
SO not my title.
My husband entered his job as an enlisted grunt. He entered as someone who had earned an AA & an AS (in a CCF degree-- see below), graduating with a 4.0 (enabling him to wear all sorts of cool ribbons during graduation). THIS would make it easier for him to "cross over" to the "O" side when he was ready. It also helped him towards earning his work-related brownie points, so basically he was on the " Fast Track" for promoting (and supposedly gearing up to apply for O's Training School-- or OTS see below).
I started calculating our future pay.
One year passed.
"Um, dear, when do you start doing the stuff for the O thing?"
Years 2 through 5 went buzzing by before I realized this guy had no intention of crossing over. There were all sorts of reasons. One time he told me that if he became an O, there would be things expected of me as an O's wife.
"Huh, Wha....?" "EXPECTED of me? Have you ever seen my reaction when told I have to do something?"
My mom says I have always been this way, kind of rebellious, strong-willed with a "sure sense of self". I had always thought that was a compliment, but as I get older, I'm thinking maybe not so much so.
Anyway, the way I saw it, I didn't sign anything and his work's training instructor kept reminding the newbie's that "this job didn't issue you a wife!" so what do you mean, "expected" of me?
There's a certain amount of dedication that is required to be the happy, bubbly woman left commandeering an entire company sections' better halves, while smilingly supporting her guy in all that he does. She's got to look you in the eye and appear thrilled that you are having another Pampered Chef/Tupperware/Happy Homemaker party that you want her to attend. She will be the one calling you when your husband is away and handing you tissues while bouncing your snotty-nosed kid on her lap at the monthly dinners designed to get you out of the house-- that she helped organize. and baked for. and attends. every month. She will be required to participate happily in gathering funds for the parties, gifts, etc... regardless whether or not her kids schedules are killing her or she's just too blue to do it. She will look impeccably coifed at all times. Even at the gym. She will never be found standing in the post office queue with two children hanging from her leg while the baby in her arms is stretching her blouse out just so to show everyone how she should've bought that new bra... a year ago.
No thank you. Keep your pay.
Of course, there's not a handbook that says any of this.
Not that I'd be able to read it if there was.
The Hub's company speaks a different language that I haven't quite mastered--I'm still trying not to sound daft speaking Britain-ese.
They speak in acronyms. Really.
A conversation could go something like this:
"T--- , have you prepared for your T--- to the N----?"
"Prepared, Sir?"
"Have you made sure your wife has a POA so that she can take care of your POV for your P--?"
"Uh..."
"C'Mon T---., she'll need it for T--- and F-- if you're going to make your NLD for this P--".
"Sir?"
"And she may need it in case anything goes wrong with your F--, B-- or O--, too bad you won't be getting any S-- on this one."
"Go by legal and get this taken care of ASAP. You know this P-- is going to be great for you, the C--- where you're O----- is high ...oh, and for this T--, don't forget to pack your P--"
To make things worse, my husband works in an area where they use initials.
Our first job location was an eye-opener for me. Someone rang the house asking for A---n Diaz". I told him there was no A---n Diaz there. Do you know how bad it is for an guy when his supervisor can't reach him because he's given them the wrong number? I felt so bad for the guy. I don't know when it finally occurred to me that they were calling my husband. DS.
So, Mrs (Husband's job) I am not.
I whine when I'm sad and I whine when I'm not. I begrudge him his extra time doing his "brownie point" duties and get a little resentful as he stacks his accolades. I would've sucked as an Os' wife, but maybe I'm ok as the regular guy's wife. The reason he didn't want to cross over?
He loves his job and wanted to do it as long as possible-- he would've been behind a desk as an O. I told him the pay didn't matter as long as he was happy in his job.
Although, that extra O-- and B-- would help me hire a M A I D......
My husband entered his job as an enlisted grunt. He entered as someone who had earned an AA & an AS (in a CCF degree-- see below), graduating with a 4.0 (enabling him to wear all sorts of cool ribbons during graduation). THIS would make it easier for him to "cross over" to the "O" side when he was ready. It also helped him towards earning his work-related brownie points, so basically he was on the " Fast Track" for promoting (and supposedly gearing up to apply for O's Training School-- or OTS see below).
I started calculating our future pay.
One year passed.
"Um, dear, when do you start doing the stuff for the O thing?"
Years 2 through 5 went buzzing by before I realized this guy had no intention of crossing over. There were all sorts of reasons. One time he told me that if he became an O, there would be things expected of me as an O's wife.
"Huh, Wha....?" "EXPECTED of me? Have you ever seen my reaction when told I have to do something?"
My mom says I have always been this way, kind of rebellious, strong-willed with a "sure sense of self". I had always thought that was a compliment, but as I get older, I'm thinking maybe not so much so.
Anyway, the way I saw it, I didn't sign anything and his work's training instructor kept reminding the newbie's that "this job didn't issue you a wife!" so what do you mean, "expected" of me?
There's a certain amount of dedication that is required to be the happy, bubbly woman left commandeering an entire company sections' better halves, while smilingly supporting her guy in all that he does. She's got to look you in the eye and appear thrilled that you are having another Pampered Chef/Tupperware/Happy Homemaker party that you want her to attend. She will be the one calling you when your husband is away and handing you tissues while bouncing your snotty-nosed kid on her lap at the monthly dinners designed to get you out of the house-- that she helped organize. and baked for. and attends. every month. She will be required to participate happily in gathering funds for the parties, gifts, etc... regardless whether or not her kids schedules are killing her or she's just too blue to do it. She will look impeccably coifed at all times. Even at the gym. She will never be found standing in the post office queue with two children hanging from her leg while the baby in her arms is stretching her blouse out just so to show everyone how she should've bought that new bra... a year ago.
No thank you. Keep your pay.
Of course, there's not a handbook that says any of this.
Not that I'd be able to read it if there was.
The Hub's company speaks a different language that I haven't quite mastered--I'm still trying not to sound daft speaking Britain-ese.
They speak in acronyms. Really.
A conversation could go something like this:
"T--- , have you prepared for your T--- to the N----?"
"Prepared, Sir?"
"Have you made sure your wife has a POA so that she can take care of your POV for your P--?"
"Uh..."
"C'Mon T---., she'll need it for T--- and F-- if you're going to make your NLD for this P--".
"Sir?"
"And she may need it in case anything goes wrong with your F--, B-- or O--, too bad you won't be getting any S-- on this one."
"Go by legal and get this taken care of ASAP. You know this P-- is going to be great for you, the C--- where you're O----- is high ...oh, and for this T--, don't forget to pack your P--"
To make things worse, my husband works in an area where they use initials.
Our first job location was an eye-opener for me. Someone rang the house asking for A---n Diaz". I told him there was no A---n Diaz there. Do you know how bad it is for an guy when his supervisor can't reach him because he's given them the wrong number? I felt so bad for the guy. I don't know when it finally occurred to me that they were calling my husband. DS.
So, Mrs (Husband's job) I am not.
I whine when I'm sad and I whine when I'm not. I begrudge him his extra time doing his "brownie point" duties and get a little resentful as he stacks his accolades. I would've sucked as an Os' wife, but maybe I'm ok as the regular guy's wife. The reason he didn't want to cross over?
He loves his job and wanted to do it as long as possible-- he would've been behind a desk as an O. I told him the pay didn't matter as long as he was happy in his job.
Although, that extra O-- and B-- would help me hire a M A I D......
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
My Husband is Trying to Kill Me
I joke you not. I want you to watch for me and if a day or two passes without a new blog entry, I want you to contact the authorities. Fast.
I am not delusional, I have proof.
Today while frantically searching for the JC Penney card that I last saw in his hands when he was paying bills, I came upon a chilling discovery--- in my pajama drawer.
Why was I looking for a credit card in my pajama drawer? It's my stash-everything-in-here-quick-someone's-coming-over-drawer, and don't pretend you don't have one (or a closet, trunk, shower stall that you shove everything into when the doorbell rings).
And yes, people DO come into my bedroom. For some reason, everyone who graces our front step will ask for a tour of the house-- including the engineer who hooked up my hob and cooker (stove for you American-types). It could be because this place is massive. People will stand in our kitchen and look out the french doors across the courtyard, with the two ponds and connecting stream and ask, "Is that (pointing to the two-story bedroom side of the house) part of yours as well?"
One man who came to fetch J1 for a party we had shown up to without him (grumpy teenager, I didn't mind that he wanted to stay behind), returned to the festivities and all he could say was, "They live in the flippin' Pentagon!"
We were tremendously lucky in finding this place, but that's NOT what concerns me now. What I have thought about all day was what I found in my drawer.
In addition to a Pokemon ball, and a Creative Memories catalog, there's a box of German Truffles in a lovely gold box with a shiny blue ribbon. A gift from my husband when he returned from his vaca--I mean deployment. There's also a huge bar of some imported 70% cocoa, a monster Galaxy bar, and some British licorice mix. All brought to me at various times by my husband. My pancreas is screaming just thinking about it.
Out of curiosity, I went to my bedside table--yep, the sweets had found their way there as well.
Women who are swooning over such a thoughtful husband, please enlighten me. I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body (I might have had once, but all of my bones are tired these days and I can't make out which ones do what), I see it as his way of slowly poisoning me to get me out of the way so that he can have all of these kids (the crying, puking, peeing, pooping, mucous factories that they are) all to himself! I know it, and I fear for my life.
I'm afraid it won't be long now, he just came home from work and he brought me a life-sized Tootsie Roll! Help.
I am not delusional, I have proof.
Today while frantically searching for the JC Penney card that I last saw in his hands when he was paying bills, I came upon a chilling discovery--- in my pajama drawer.
Why was I looking for a credit card in my pajama drawer? It's my stash-everything-in-here-quick-someone's-coming-over-drawer, and don't pretend you don't have one (or a closet, trunk, shower stall that you shove everything into when the doorbell rings).
And yes, people DO come into my bedroom. For some reason, everyone who graces our front step will ask for a tour of the house-- including the engineer who hooked up my hob and cooker (stove for you American-types). It could be because this place is massive. People will stand in our kitchen and look out the french doors across the courtyard, with the two ponds and connecting stream and ask, "Is that (pointing to the two-story bedroom side of the house) part of yours as well?"
One man who came to fetch J1 for a party we had shown up to without him (grumpy teenager, I didn't mind that he wanted to stay behind), returned to the festivities and all he could say was, "They live in the flippin' Pentagon!"
We were tremendously lucky in finding this place, but that's NOT what concerns me now. What I have thought about all day was what I found in my drawer.
In addition to a Pokemon ball, and a Creative Memories catalog, there's a box of German Truffles in a lovely gold box with a shiny blue ribbon. A gift from my husband when he returned from his vaca--I mean deployment. There's also a huge bar of some imported 70% cocoa, a monster Galaxy bar, and some British licorice mix. All brought to me at various times by my husband. My pancreas is screaming just thinking about it.
Out of curiosity, I went to my bedside table--yep, the sweets had found their way there as well.
Women who are swooning over such a thoughtful husband, please enlighten me. I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body (I might have had once, but all of my bones are tired these days and I can't make out which ones do what), I see it as his way of slowly poisoning me to get me out of the way so that he can have all of these kids (the crying, puking, peeing, pooping, mucous factories that they are) all to himself! I know it, and I fear for my life.
I'm afraid it won't be long now, he just came home from work and he brought me a life-sized Tootsie Roll! Help.
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