Love is a Battlefield, Pat

Is it bad that when you are cleaning your half of the bedroom, you are picturing what it would look like if you were single and free to do what you want with it?

I HATE hats. On people's heads, fine. On my bedroom wall, NO.

For some one who doesn't have a cat, why am I feeding SEVEN of them several times a day??

When you would like someone to come in and ask for help or do their work, no one shows. They all come at once when you least want them.

Why would a girl spend a whole hour in here and not mention that she was here to do her work? Does she not realize that I might need to know that? That I might not realize she is here on her scheduled time which is something so rare that it would never occur to me?

I must be mean. Or bitchy. Yeah, that's it.

If one more person does not shut the door, the door mind you that they have to OPEN to get into the room, behind them when they walk in this room, I am gonna throw down on someone. And I am not picky who it is. Not one bit.

How do necklaces always disappear at my house? And I am talking costume jewelry more or less here people, not things that are expensive. Where do they go? What kind of animal likes shiny things? I am pretty sure it is not cats....maybe my 4 year old.

Apparently, the stomach flu can incubate a few days. My mom just called to say she has been spewing from both ends since early this morning. I bet my son is not her favorite now.

Pinky & Not-Brain

One fine evening, it must have been a Monday since it was fire-meeting night, I was enjoying myself by cleaning the kitchen. It was during the summer, I believe. I am so old that I really can't remember, but it seems like the weather was nice. Pretty sure I had on shorts. Anywho...I opened the kitchen closet/pantry and felt this horrific, stabbing pain in my foot. Really thought a knife had cut into me. Turns out that my handy husband had stacked paint cans in the closet - I don't think he realizes that paint does not keep for ten years-and one of the paint cans decided that it had had enough of being stacked on top of the other one and jumped off, thus nearly cutting annihilating my pinky toe. Pinky does not like to be separated. That extremely sharp pain was Pinky's separation anxiety. I looked down and saw blood running like a river--ok, a small stream- on the kitchen floor, so I got a towel, examined the toe hanging by a piece of skin, and called down to the fire barn to tell Hubs to come take me to the ER. As a back up plan, I also called my parents because I knew the Fireman/First Responder Hubs does not like the sight of blood. Ironic, no? You know, as a matter of fact, our little daughter went and got a wet wash cloth for Pinky. Hubs arrives home about the same time as SSD (Stupid Step Dad --he made up his own title; yes, he has a strange sense of humor, but yeah, we probably did call him stupid --he's a man) arrives. I wrapped the towel around Pinky and clutched her. I didn't want to lose her. Then I would walk even more clumsily, wouldn't I? I would be even more off-balance. Physically, that is. Nothing can be done for the mental balance. Clutching the towel and toe, I sit in a chair by the door and ask Hubs to take me to the vehicle. Pinky is letting her displeasure be felt by throbbing unmercifully. I am in somewhat of a daze, okay, okay, a panic...I loathe stitches. Just the thought of my skin being sewn back together makes me all teary-eyed and crybabyish. Hubs proceeds to pace through the house. I wonder if there is something he needs, say like a billfold, car keys, etc. But wait, SSD is there to drive. Mom has come and gone with Little Girl. What in the name of all that is holy is he doing? I stand up at the door and ask if we could go because Pinky is unhappy and wants to be stitched. I am afraid she will get disgusted and tear herself the rest of the way off. WHAT IS HE WAITING FOR? I finally tell SSD, who is patiently, or impatiently, standing there waiting to be told what to do. I hop down the step to the porch, hop to the car, and lay there waiting. SSD comes to the truck after standing and looking at Hubs who is still pacing through the house. I tell SSD to leave Hubs and GET ME TO THE ER. SSD finally gets in and starts the vehicle but waits on Hubs. Hubs EVENTUALLY, and by eventually, I mean paces through the house another five minutes or so, shuts and locks the door only to jiggle the knob and push on the door for another five minutes. Did I mention Hubs' unfortunate OCD tendencies. We go through door knobs like a dose of salts through a widow woman (say that in an Okie accent --"widder wo-man"). When Hubs finally comes to the vehicle, he climbs in the front seat, turns all the vents on himself, and lays the seat back, thereby scrunching me and Pinky, and covers his face with a wet washcloth. In sympathy for Pinky? No, in sympathy for himself. He was trying not to puke, I am assuming. Hubs--absolutely worthless in a Pinky crisis. Pinky got 7 or 8 stitches right under the nail, cuz that is where the paint can decided to decapitate her, just at the base of the nail. Sliced right under it.
Well, that is Pinky's story. Next post--Hubs's Vasectomy. How fun is that?

Your husband is a what?

Hillbilly Mom's story of her husband being sick during her vacation made me think of all the times my darling hubby has conveniently been on his deathbed during my vacations which of course fall on the school's vacations. I am not quite the teacher that Hillbilly Mom is. I could be but have instead chosen to be what I like to call a glorified tutor. Don't get me wrong. I love my job-- lots, actually. However, it is not such a demanding job or a soul-sucking job like Mean Teacher's. Hillbilly Mom reminds me a lot of my mom, and her stories from 32 years of elementary lovelies. Back to the story, Hubby has gotten bronchitis several, several times. Funny thing is, he usually gets it very sudden-like and always on my vacation. The first time was our first married Christmas together. He went to the doc who wanted to put him in the hospital because he also had pneumonia. How do you not notice something like this? Hubby never does until he just can't do anything but lie on the couch and barely breathe. Did I mention that he is very melodramatic? Or a great big faker? I swear sometimes, when he calls in sick, he purposely sounds like he is just about to keel over into a grave. His boss, who was once upon a time my relative, sometimes calls and imitates Hubs, and we have a great laugh over it. I swear it is the funniest thing you could ever see a grown man do. Now that we have children, I do not feel the need to constantly check his temp, get him drinks, rub him down with alcohol, make him soup, etc., etc., etc. We are getting fairly close to forty here people. Apparently, Hubs has always been this way. When he was little, he would make himself sick if he knew his mommy planned to go somewhere while he was in school. And she let him get away with this people. Now, I am not so hard-hearted, people. I would let one of my kids skip every once in awhile when I know they are not really sick. There might be something else going on that they are not ready to deal with at school. But Hubs is now a grown man. Physically anyway. He can deny it all he wants, he is still a mommy's suck-titty baby. The last time he was sick, I had some clues that soon he was going to be ill and began to hound him about taking his allergy medicine and getting a jump on his cold/whatever before it became a big problem. Did he, you ask? Ha ha ha Ha ha. I don't think so. He laid in our bed for at least 4 days straight. While I was at work, I know he had to have gotten up and made soup because I found evidence of such. When I was home however, completely helpless he was. And so, so pitiful. Like I don't have enough to do. Man, I do sound hard-hearted. Hmmmm. Well, maybe tomorrow I will tell you the story of his vasectomy, and we will see what you think then. I have to admit, this is a lot of fun to vent/write/whatever you want to call it. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what your husband might be. Mine is a ....kittycat. Hahahaha---I am sure that one is not too much of a stretch. Maybe I should tell the story of the time I almost lost my baby toe, and he had to have a cool rag for his head. Yes, I believe I have some things to say....