pomegranates: the spawn of the devil. or a strawberry and a cantaloupe had an affair.

I’ve decided pomegranates were created to piss people off.

I spent an hour peeling TWO pomegranates yesterday. An HOUR.

AN HOUR.

I want to make sure that really sinks in: AN HOUR.

Why bother? Why not just leave the little bastards on the shelf in the grocery store? I mean, not only are they a pain the ass to peel, they also stain the shit out of EVERYTHING. The little section of wall behind the kitchen sink is now permanently decorated with pinkish splotches and I had to wear gloves for a week while out in public cause one look at my hands and everyone would think I had leprosy.

Well, it turns out that pomegranates have magical powers imbedded in their tough ass flesh that come in the form of tiny ruby colored beads that do things like shoot out little fairies to clean the house and fold the laundry and, oh, fight prostate cancer.

And that last one…damn I wish I would’ve never seen it in an article on our google news homepage (yes, we’re awesome like that and have NEWS on the homepage…not cartoons or videos or anything fun…). Because now, technically, I have to suffer through all the peeling and swearing or I’m pretty much just helping the cancer along all, “Here! This one! His wife didn’t feed him the pomegranate!”

You’re welcome, wives. Come, join me.

I even decided to do a little research, since we spend so much time together these days. I mean, the pomegranate knows plenty about me and how I feel…but I knew nothing about how they became so damn ornery.

It didn’t take long to figure out that they’ve always been a pain in the ass and everyone – even the Egyptians – developed their own I-hate-you-but-you’re-so-good-for-me-so-I’ll-continue-to-be-your-friend relationship. I mean, had God made a pomegranate tree instead of an apple one, Eve would’ve never strayed and we’d all still be happily running around naked in The Garden. Just sayin.

But now I totally understand why the Egyptians invented so many tools.

Like this one:

They were trying to create a pomegranate peeler. Because it also happens that the Egyptians found these magical fairies too…and the wealthy people were all, “Hell, if the fairies know how to carve stone, then bring on the little pixies!” I mean, who wants to spend half their life carving their family history into a hard ass rock when it could all be for shit if a tiger or something eats you? So they made the poor people go into the forest instead:

(Personally, I think those look like pears, onions and a pail of cement, but whatever. It looks like they also thought to bring along a miniature caribou for protection…or a distraction… incase they ran into the tiger)

I told Tim I’d pay for someone to peel the pomegranates all, “It’s totally so you don’t get cancer. Think of it as life insurance.”

He said I could hire one as soon as I made a million dollars.

And don’t think for a second I didn’t add that to my list of Things to Do After I Win the Lottery or Become Obnoxiously Famous.

You have to be prepared for these things.

And nothing says prepared like a list.

dear patience: i hate you

I never paint my nails in the house.

It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s just…

I’m not allowed to anymore because the last time I got nail polish on the bed…and on Tim’s shirt my shirt (his t-shirts…THE BEST. And I steal them)…on the counter…on the bathtub.  Hell if I know how any of that happened…same as I said to Tim when he was all, “THE HELL, WOMAN? Why is there a pink heart-shaped splotch on my sink?!”

I refuse to cut paper if a straight line is required.

I don’t like to wait for anything to pre-heat. I just throw it in there all, “it’ll cook eventually.”

Same goes with things “cooling off.”

Which results in disasters like this:

And “this” was a lemon cake that was supposed to probably be like…three inches higher and all in one piece. The top layer isn’t even attached in some places. 

My first mistake was tinkering with the recipe. TWO eggs? We don’t need all that extra cholesterol, hell, let’s try one egg plus lots of applesauce. Oil? Nah. More applesauce. Then, while it was busy doing its baking thing, I opened the oven around 50 times to check its progress and poked it about 300 times with a toothpick.  Once I decided it was done baking…

Let me stop right there…and answer the question I’m sure you’ll ask yourself: Why didn’t she use a timer? Yah…well, we do actually have one. I’m just not allowed to use that, either. Last time I tried to time something on the oven timer thingy, I managed to explode the circuit for the entire left side of the house. Ok, so maybe it didn’t explode exactly, but I had to sit in the dark with no TV or internet until Tim came home.  And the whole “look at the clock when you put it in the oven” is lost to me. I mean, sure, I’ll look.

But will I remember?

No. I won’t.

I’ll forget I was even cooking until Tim races into the kitchen and is all, “Why in the hell is there smoke coming from the oven?”  True story.

So, anyway, back to my cake: When I took it out of the oven, I carried it immediately to the counter and flipped the bundt pan thing right over onto a wire rack. I then proceeded to beat the bottom of the pan with oven mits, hoping that would help it come out all nice and pretty, like on the box.

It didn’t.

I was pissed all, “THE HELL, CAKE? You’re supposed to COME OUT IN ONE PIECE AND STAY TOGETHER.”

Then I read the directions: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes”

Well, fuckitty fuck fuck.

Someone needs to invent directions for us non-patient people.

Something like: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes before even considering flipping the pan over, dumbass. Did you hear me? I said FIFTEEN MINUTES, DUMBASS.”

Then, I might actually pay attention.

Instead, I get distracted admiring the pretty picture on the front of the box all, “It’s going to look like THAT? Really? Even though I don’t have chocolate shavings or a unicorn shaped pan? Awesome.”

Anyway, lemon rock cake is what I should have called it. Last night, after Tim took a bite of my failed attempt at dessert, I was all, “So, what do you think? You like it, right?”

He looked at me, bewildered, “What flavor is this, again?

Me: Vanilla. Well, vanilla and lemon….actually, it’s vanilla, lemon and apple.

Tim: That…tastes about right.

Me: So, you like it, right?

Tim: mmmmm…so…good…and…dense”

Me: I thought you liked dense cake?

Tim: “Yah….sure do…”

He really shouldn’t try to pull one over on me. I can see through the bullshit like I can a damn glass window.

(Actually, come to think of it, aren’t all windows are made of glass…or that clear plastic stuff like on airplanes?…an example on why proof-reading is kind of important)

Back to the rock cake: Tim’s eyes were screaming all, “This. Is. Revolting. I’m totally going to regurgitate the contents of my stomach after you fall asleep.”

Don’t think I didn’t hear the toilet in the guest bathroom flush about fifty times in succession.

Oh, and remember this one?

Why do I continue to torture myself?

the neighborhood hates us

I am totally blaming this on Tim, because he picked the house before I even met him. And he blames himself, too. So I’m not alone in the accusation.

Our neighborhood hates us.

I know hate is a strong word and all…but I’m totally serious. They all want us to move. I’m surprised we haven’t had to yank any For Sale signs out of the front lawn. Actually, they just allow their dogs to shit in our yard and pee on our tree that’s about two feet from the curb. We only have two trees that are actually IN our yard…and one’s turned into a piss-pole.

I think I prefer the sign. The sign’s easier to clean. And it doesn’t leave residue. The canine excrement is way worse.

And said droppings cause severe anxiety for Maddie and Lexi. They go sniff that damn tree all, “WHO THE HELL IS THIS!?!?”  and they’ll stop and point at a foreign turd and refuse to move unless we physically force them. I mean, they’d still be frozen in that one leg bent, tail out position had I not shoved their asses to the front door.

This already has signs of turning into a mini an all-out rant. So just deal with it. Or something. Send me a sympathy card.

We live in an area where the…how shall we say…”culture” is not conducive to Tim and I.

At all.

In fact, the reigning “culture” that occupies every single house in our subdivision – save ONE who are Korean or Japanese or something - gives us the evil eye all WHY DON’T YOU JUST MOVE THE HELL ALONG? AT LEAST THE ASIANS CAN COOK.

And we would…we’re trying. BELIEVE ME, PEOPLE. It’s an all-hands-on-deck effort at this point.

It’s just not working. I have no book deal. I am not independently wealthy. No one wants to give us a house on top of a mountain for free…greedy bastards. I should start a fund. A “Get The Bold’s Out” charity. All proceeds will be tax deducitible…or something along those lines…hell if I know.

I have nothing against other races. I even dated an African American for TWO DAMN YEARS. I experienced and endured the racism that comes from an interracial relationship. It’s not fun. It really shows you the darker side of people. A side that is very scary and makes you realize that those with the best intentions on the surface are really hoarding something evil and revolting underneath the façade.

The BEST thing that came from my “taboo” relationship was that I learned not to see color. I see people. 

To this day, I still don’t notice race unless it’s either pointed out or I make a conscious effort.

What I do notice is arrogance. Arrogance and really mean people with a stick up their ass.

And apparently that’s what lives in our neighborhood…arrogant people with sticks up their asses (that their dogs try to remove during the daily walks…quite a sight, really)…even though we give out awesome Halloween candy every year AND smile and wave to their stupid ass kids who walk down the middle of the damn road and then flick us off every time we drive by like we’re in THEIR WAY.

Fuck you. Asshole.

That’s what I want to say…but I’m afraid they’ll beat me up or chase me or something. It’s already happened once…a few years ago…and had I not had some shred of commonsense I’d probably still be in a ditch somewhere.

I know. Totally harsh…but I was CHASED by a vehicle containing three VERY LARGE MALES while I was running solo early one morning. They hunted me after I cut through someone’s backyard where there was no road for them to follow…and then I had to dart inside bushes and behind trees when I realized they found me again and were gunning it down the road, trying to catch up to me. I squatted in the bushes and tried not to breathe as I watched them inch their car along, looking for me. I’ll never forget praying they wouldn’t see me…six eyes searching a tiny swath of scrub where I sat…only feet from the road.

Tim says it would have been a crime of opportunity. All I know is I’ve never been more afraid for my life. Ever. I had to creep and crawl all the way home. Two miles of sheer terror where I had to keep to the tree line and duck and cover if I heard a car. The second I made it inside the garage door without them finding me, I lost it. Literally. I broke down and starting bawling.

I now run with pepper spray and a huge sense of mistrust.

I  mean, it’s like moving to the middle of Mexico City and obtaining residence. We just don’t fit.

I don’t think we want to fit.

We want to move.

You people are mean.  And well, you’re always all, “We’re having a party. But you’re not invited. Ever.”

So we’ve holed ourselves up. Prisoner to our property. It’s sad, really.

And we’re never having an open house…because we’re afraid things will get stolen and then sold back to us at fifty times what we bought it for ten years ago…blackmail bullshit.

Actually, I think maybe we’ll give out carrots and celery this year. Stuffed in those paper Halloween bags, stapled at the top, so you have no idea you got rabbit food until you get home…and by then you won’t remember who gave it to you…so you can’t seek out revenge.

Though, come to think of it, we’ll probably get blamed for any shitty candy, whether we were the guilty providers or not.

Dear Anyone Within a 10 Mile Radius of Our House, 

It’d be awesome if this was the year you decide to stop giving out shitty candy. I’m tired of cleaning toilet paper out of the trees and wiping egg from the windows because your cheap ass gave out those disgusting fruity tootsie rolls and milk duds.

Sincerely, me.

PS: A tip for “good candy” is chocolate.

PPS: Yes, chocolate is MORE EXPENSIVE than raisins…and there are less pieces per ounce. It’s a sacrifice I think you need to make, dammit.

PPPS: No, I will not reimburse you.

the farm animal

Tim gets the shitty jobs.

All of them.

I don’t clean toilets. I don’t clean the litter box. I only wipe Lexi’s pooper hole after her ass had an explosion and required additional help if Tim isn’t home.

He is also designated bathroom cleaner.

I’m not entirely sure HOW it all worked out this way…probably went something like he just kept doing it and I continued to let him.

When I officially moved in however many years ago, he started having to deal with hair. And hair totally grosses him out. I mean, even just a SINGLE STRAND on the floor and he’ll be all, SWEETHEART! GET YOUR DISGUSTING HAIR OFF THE FLOOR!”

Me: It’s just A HAIR. And it’s clean. Geez. I JUST SHOWERED.

Tim: I don’t care. It’s gross. Loose hair is GROSS.

Me: What about YOUR LOOSE HAIR?

Tim: That’s different. I know where it came from.

(Apparently, the one’s that come off my head must instead be evil spawn from an undisclosed location, hence his severe aversion to going within five feet of them)

So, I go through this ritual every morning of sweeping up all those stray hairs as many stray hairs within my reach from the floor and throwing them into the trash.

The one place, however, that I don’t pick up my hair from is the shower.

Namely, the shower drain.

We have a stand-up only shower. There are no sensual bath opportunities in this thing. Standing room only. Actually, it’s standing room for ONE…and only one. The whole two person thing ends up leaving someone freezing their Tim freezing his ass off while the other stands under I enjoy the hot water.

Anyhow, Tim’s the bathroom cleaner, remember? Which includes the shower.

He rarely asks for my help when he’s cleaning the bathroom, and if he does, it’s to clean easy things like the sinks and the mirror. On one particular afternoon, I was doing my miniscule bathroom cleaning duties while Tim was in the shower, scrubbing it down. And he was really cleaning…he removed the drain cover and everything. Then, all of a sudden he starts gagging all, “GET ME A WIRE HANGER.”

I look over like, What the hell? You’re gagging?….and you want a WIRE HANGER?…I’d think a trash can would be more appropriate, but whatever.

I grabbed one from the closet and handed it over while Tim was green and doubled over.

Me: What the hell is that smell?

Tim: THAT’S WHY I NEED THE HANGER.

He takes the hanger, creates this mini-fishing pole thing and then shoves it down the drain.

Me: What is it that smells so bad? IT IS AWFUL! OH MY GOD…It’s permeating everything….

Tim: Just shut up and get me the trash can.

Me: So NOW you want the trash can? Why didn’t you just ask for both?

Tim: TRASH. CAN. NOW.

I huffed over all, “Fine. Whatever.” …grabbed the can and plopped it down next to the shower door. I turned around to go back to my sink cleaning and then I hear, HOLY MOTHER FUCKER…WHAT. THE. HELL….(proceed lots of gagging).

I whip around just in time to see Tim fish out this massive glob of who the hell knows what…hair… LOADS OF HAIR…mold, bits of soap…tiny flies scattering…I even think I saw a slimy, green troll abandon his makeshift lair and dive back into the drain hole.

He just stood in the shower and held it at arms length, the thing dangling off the end of the hanger, almost in shocked disbelief that it wasn’t alive and hadn’t already creeped out of its little hole in the middle of the night and ate our faces off, evil voice coming from the center of the mass all, “if I can’t have a face, neither can you.”

I just stared, open mouthed all, “WHAT. THE. HELL. You’re past girlfriends were totally gross.”

Tim looks up at me as he finally drops the thing – because that’s totally what it looked like. Thing. –  into the trash can all, “I DIDN’T DATE ANY OTHER BRUNETTES. THAT’S YOUR HAIR.”

Me: No, I totally think it’s blonde hair that got moldy.

Tim: And you are totally wrong. Would you like to get a closer inspection to determine just what color it is?

Me: Well, part of that has to be YOUR HAIR.

Tim: It’s only because YOUR HAIR TRAPPED IT and wouldn’t let it continue down the drain. Now do you see why I think HAIR IS DISGUSTING?

Me: No, now I see why I don’t clean the shower.

We dubbed the mass conglomerate of what was surely radio-active material the “farm animal.”

i’m dishwasher challenged

Though I’ve been wandering around for like, 26…almost 27 years…apparently I’m still clueless when it comes to dishwashers.

And stoves.

And toilets.

But, with the whole dishwasher thing…I mean, COME ON. Just because I put a bowl or a cup in the wrong direction or stuff three plates into the space made for just one doesn’t mean it won’t get cleaned.

It just means said utensils will get to enjoy the whole “washing” experience twice.

Or if we’re really having a bad day, three times. And when I say “we” I mean the dishes. It’s not my fault they don’t take some personal responsibility and rearrange themselves during the whole washing process to make sure they get all nice and shiny. I mean, the door LOCKS…it’s not like I can jump in to help you out and rinse off your backside.

I just had to give up on a spoon with an unidentified piece of food that was completely plastered to the “spoon” part. Had it been on the handle…wouldn’t have been such a big deal…but after seven runs, it still didn’t come off. Actually, I think it got worse…all that super-heating and then cooling caused the food bits to be hermetically sealed to the spoon.

Tim just informed me that is scientifically impossible for that to happen. Whatever. The point is - it wasn’t coming off so I wasn’t going to use it.

That’s my relationship with the dishes.

Dishwashers were invented so I don’t have to clean them.

And if they – the dishes - don’t want to work with that, then they’ll just have to sit in there forever. No skin off my back. There are PLENTY of other plates who come out nice and sparkly and I’m more than obliged to use the one’s who aren’t high maintenance all “I need special, hand washing.”

So, today is rainy…and cold. We expected the cold but nowhere did the rain get forecasted. So instead of our “plan” – which was to go run around Stone Mountain, we’re playing Home Improvement.

So far, We’ve been  to Lowe’s THREE TIMES and Home Depot once because one place didn’t have exactly what we wanted and then other didn’t have ANY of what we wanted so we had to go BACK to the other place to “make do” with what they had…and between all that, a trip back to the house because we forgot a PAINT CHIP to try to have the paint people match our wall color. Actually, we went to Lowe’s yesterday, too. So, technically, I’ve seen the inside of that building four times in less than 12 hours.

All for toilet seats.

That’s where this run-around started.

Damn toilet seats.

Today, we had to go back to get matchy handle-flusher things because the attachment things to keep the seat on the toilet were a different color than the flushy handle thing. I have no idea what the technical term is for a flusher thing…and when I don’t know the word, the function it performs automatically becomes its name.

Like the squeegy thingy.

Or the rinser.

Or the thing that does the thing that makes it go in circles.

Tim has figured out most of what I’m talking about – but sometimes, like that last one, he just looks at me all, “What the hell, woman? The thing that goes in CIRCLES?”

Me: Nooo! The thing that MAKES the thing go in circles.

Tim: A little context here…that’d be, you know, slightly helpful.

Me: Umm…you know, we saw it on TV.

Tim: That isn’t helping.

Me: I don’t remember…something about trains and then there was this little guy with a hat explaining something with the wheels and circles…

Tim: Was I even HOME when you were watching this?

Me: I don’t think so.

Tim: Then HOW is your description of a guy with a hat SUPPOSED TO HELP?

Me: It was on the History Channel…I thought maybe you’d seen it and would remember him…he was really short and wore these funny looking suspenders…do people actually still wear suspenders?

Tim: Are you asking me about the circles or are you just going off on a tangent?

Me: Both.

Tim: Go look it up. The thing that makes the thing go in circles. Type that in. I’m sure google will give you HOURS of answers.

Me: …but, the suspenders?

Tim: google.

Me: I didn’t marry you to be pawned off to google.

Tim: google is what keeps this marriage from going insane.

Me: I think you mean you…from keeping you from going insane.

 

***FOOTNOTE***

I never could find OR remember that circle thing…and I probably won’t…which is slightly disappointing…though I never much cared about trains, anyway. I DID learn, however, after ransacking the closet, that Tim doesn’t have any suspenders. As for what that means…I have not a fucking clue. I just thought you’d like to know.

you’re anal, aren’t you? well, i’m amphibious.

I’m right-handed when I write.

Everything else…I’m a lefty.

I brush my teeth, dry my hair, use a fork (and a knife, which causes a serious conundrum), wipe my *you know* all with my left hand.

Tim calls me amphibious.

Yes, we know it is ambidextrious…WE KNOW.

We’re weird that way. We say “Ca-nadia” instead of Canada and “tar-jay” instead of Target…

Think of it as keeping daily, mundane life interesting…like when you have to make up a phrase for the naughty bedroom activity…and instead of telling your kid you’re going to rip daddy’s hair out while having crazy sex, you tell him that you and daddy have to go hang pictures…or bake cookies.

I personally think the whole cookie baking is a bad idea…you know eventually your kid is gonna be all, “WHY CAN’T I HAVE AN OVEN IN MY ROOM?…And why do I never get any of those cookies? YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE COOKIES!”

(Actually, smartass, YOU DID. See your sister over there? Cookie).

Anyhow…my point has nothing to do with cookies…or babies.

It has to do with the problems my amphibiousness causes.

I put the toilet paper and paper towel rolls the “left-handed” direction and Tim will be all, “What the hell? I’M NOT THE ONE WHO CAN USE BOTH HANDS.”

Me: What? Looks normal to me?

Tim: I don’t pull off paper towels THIS WAY.

And then I watch him struggle to rip the sheet off, left-handed.

His abilities with his left hand are like my competency with math.

Math and I have reached a mutual understanding: We leave each other alone.

Tim’s the same way with his left hand. It’s just there, in case he happens to need it. Other than that, it just hangs around, like the weird, pimply kid with zero athletic ability. No one wants him on THIER team…cause he’ll space out or something, totally missing the ball, while the other team scores. Exactly. The left hand is benched unless absolutely necessary.

So, whenever I’m putting stuff away, I have to think like a right-handed person…and that causes serious mental conflict inside my brain…I’ll sit there all… WHICH WAY? HOW THE HELL DOES THIS GO?!?

And I still put it on wrong.

Every. Damn. Time.

I’ve got a 50/50 shot at the right answer…and I lose. EVERY. DAMN. TIME.

I finally came up with visual hints for myself…like, toilet paper sheets MUST FACE THE FLOOR, NOT THE CEILING when being pulled off the roll…or else I’ll continue to hear, “SWEETHEART, WHAT THE HELL? SERIOUSLY. IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT.”

And…no thanks. It took me two years to remember which direction to put his clothes on a hanger. I never knew pants could like, fling themselves onto the floor all, “YOU PUT ME ON BACKWARDS, WOMAN.”

I still cannot accurately straighten a picture – and I’ve just given up on trying. My head must be crooked, cause I’ll move it and Tim will be all, “YOU THINK THAT’S STRAIGHT?!?”

Ummm…no. I just wanted to see how many degrees of crooked would still pass your inspection.

orchids are for overrated. and buff-tober got its own page.

Do you have an orchid?

No?

Well, don’t get one.

EVER.

I suckity suck suck at keeping plants alive.

And Tim bought me an orchid in July as a “congratulations you got promoted” gift…back when I worked that “real” job, remember?

It was lovely. It was beautiful. It made me want to try and keep something green from shriveling up into a dry, brittle disaster.

Then, about three weeks ago, one of the cats Chloe decided it looked better on the ground and knocked it clear off the plant stand.

We came home to dirt spread in a three foot swath, broken stems…flowers everywhere…

Bad…bad idea to stress out an orchid.

It never fully recovered…and now…we’re not sure if it’s still alive.

Tim trimmed the stems per “orchid care instructions” he found on the internet. I refused. I told him if I touched it, it would die. Instantly.

Then he yells from the computer room all, ”It needs a humidifier…it doesn’t like moist air.”

Me: That’s like, a problem…considering we live in a place where the humidity is like, 3 million percent.

Tim: And it can’t have too much sunlight…or it can get sunburned.

Me: Are you even ON a reputable site?…are you using wikipedia?

Tim: I don’t USE wikipedia. It’s DOT ORG…Huh…and it says here if it isn’t blooming, you have to take it outside in freezing-ass weather and shock it – then it thinks the seasons changed and will sprout flowers.

Me: …the hell?

Tim: Shit. Which do you think is better? Cinnamon or melted wax?

Me: For what?

Tim: To prevent infection

Me: I’m not pouring melted wax on myself. I learned a long time ago that was a bad idea.

Tim: For the orchid. I have to put cinnamon or melted wax on the stems I just trimmed or else it could get infected.

WHAT THE HELL?

This is the result of the reputable-internet-site instructions:

The brown sticks? Ornamental decoration for the orchid. 

The thick, green things with hair clips? The orchid’s stripping pole.

The tiny, short, barely visible greenish sticks with tan tips?

That’s the orchid.

Exactly. We’ve got issues.

I’m convinced that an anal, crotchety, mean little man developed orchids as a twisted, sick little joke for his wife all, “you don’t think YOU’RE high maintenance? I’ll show you high maintenance. I’ll show you what I’ve dealt with EVERY DAMN DAY FOR FIFTY. FUCKING. YEARS.”

Well, shut the hell up internet instructions.

It’ll be lucky if it gets watered.

That’s how it goes in this house.

Survival of the fittest.

And speaking of fittest, buff-tober has its own page now.

So, for those of us wanting some healthy competition – you’ll find it over there.

I must warn you - I play to win.

***FOOTNOTE***

Thanks to a creative little idea this morning from Kid Icarus, buff-tober is becoming global.

If you want to play try to beat me…check in over on the buff-tober page.

remember? i don’t do bugs. that’s your job.

I think we’re all pretty clear on my severe aversion to little creepy crawlies.

If you’re not…well, here.

And at this moment, there is a really disgusting, slimy bug crawling across the wall. And  instead of killing it so it doesn’t populate the house with its fifty-legged offspring, I vacated the room.  If I can’t see it…it doesn’t exist.

Yes, I have a two-year-old mentality when it comes to these things. If I close my eyes and cover my ears and say “la la la” enough times, all the scary things just…disappear.

I’m also convinced if I try to smush the bugs…they’ll outsmart me and then jump onto my face and crawl up my nose or inside my ear and then my brain will turn into an insect nursery and I’ll start buzzing and Tim will be all, “I asked you a question and your response is ZZZ..MMM..BZZZ? WHAT IS THE DEAL, WOMAN?”

The bug guy came like, last week to spray around the outside of the house and now we have MORE BUGS than we did before he made his rounds. I swear it’s a conspiracy. The bug people set out food instead of detererants…so the bugs come in DROVES and therefore, the bug people STAY IN BUSINESS.

The conversation goes something like this:

Umm…Did your little bug man remove the actual problem? RE: THE BUGS?!? Cause now looks like our carpet is moving…in waves.

Huh? We just came out…shouldn’t have any bugs…but we’d be happy to come back, for a small fee, of course.

Exactly.

We just wait for the poison bait to disappear and then magically…SO DO THE BUGS.

And until that happens, I get to deal with things like last night’s GINORMOUS SPIDER.

We were watching TV…minding our own business…and out of nowhere Tim was all, “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?”

I start looking around, thinking we’re about to get lambasted, all “WHAT THE HELL IS WHAT?? WHAT!? WHAT???”

Tim’s answer was to run into the kitchen, grab a maglite flashlight from the cabinet under the sink and then shine it at a spot on the ceiling…right above where I was sitting.

I follow the light up and see a huge, hairy spider and whispered all, “STOP! You’re making it angry! It’s going to retaliate and JUMP ON ME!

Tim: Yea, I think you’re right. It looks kinda pissed. You just might want to move.

MIGHT?!

I rocket off the chair over to the couch on the other side of the room to safety all, “you know, saying things like that only exacerbates my PHOBIA.”

Tim hands me the flashlight all, “DON’T LOSE IT” and left to get backup.

Me: Did you hear me? Exacerbate MY FEAR.

Tim: Good 25-cent word for 9:30 at night. I’m impressed. Exacerbate.

Spiders don’t bother him…which is why he’s in charge of extermination.

He continued to walk over to the closet and pulled out the vacuum, all, “It’s the only thing that’ll reach.”

Me: I don’t really care what you use. JUST HURRY UP! He’s formulating a plan and sonaring his friends. I CAN SEE IT.

Tim: JUST KEEP THE LIGHT ON HIM.

Me: I AM!

Tim stealthily made his way over to the fireplace with the vacuum, turned it on and took out the hose.

Me: HE’S MOVING! HURRY THE HELL UP!

Tim: JUST. KEEP. THE. LIGHT. ON. IT.

I think I screamed when Tim finally sucked it down the tube. It took like five minutes – that spider must have known the powers of the vacuum, cause it started scurrying away (yes, it was so big it could scurry) so Tim had to chase it with the tip of the hose.

When the spider finally disappeared down the tube, Tim yanked it down, keeping the vacuum on all, DID I GET IT??

I just sat there, wide-eyed and staring, still pointing the flashlight at the ceiling.

Tim: SWEETHEART! HELLOO…..SNAP OUT OF IT.

Me: IS IT DEAD? DID YOU GET IT?

Tim: I JUST SAID THAT. Were you not listening?

No. I was busy shining the light at the ceiling and going to my happy place.

He rolled the vacuum into the kitchen to inspect the canister in better lighting and then was all, “OH! There’s legs. I see legs! HE GOT SUCKED APART! SWEETIE! THE SPIDER WAS SUCKED APART!

Me: IS IT DEAD OR NOT?

Tim: Didn’t you hear me? SUCKED. APART. Legs. Splattered everywhere!

Me: So it’s dead?

Tim: LEGS!

So, yes. Dead.

no one told me that basters were stupid

The house must be like, mad at me or something.

Or, I’m finally going to admit I lack the ability to anticipate cause and effect.

I’m going with the former.

No sense in beating around the bush…never been very good at it anyway…

I burned Tim’s fingers last night with hot sugar water.

Exactly. The house hates me.

Ummm…Oops?

NOTE TO SELF: “Oops” is not the correct response when you’ve managed to melt skin off someone’s hand WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING THEM.

You know, it’s not my fault I wasn’t given a tutorial on how to use all of the “appliances” in the kitchen.

And when I say “appliances” I mean basters.

And when I say basters I mean this one:

We may as well call it a bastard. Stupid thing got me in trouble.

See, it all started when I was microwaving a mixture of water and sugar to put on a peach crisp that I was baking. I was convinced the peaches would not produce enough “juice” and would instead be all dry and hard (here’s the recipe).

Yes, I WAS BAKING.

SOMEONE WRITE THIS DOWN.

Anyhow, the microwave started to make these clicky noises and Tim was all, “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THERE?!”

Me: “A measuring cup.”

Tim: “A WHAT?!”

He thought I meant like, the metal kind that makes microwaves explode and rushed over to take it out.

As he was climbing over the baby gate (we have to contort all cirque du soleil to get in and out of the kitchen. Thanks, Lexi), I’m all nonchalant like, “The glass kind. Geez, dude. Put your pants back on.”

Tim: “I thought you meant…whatever…DUDE.”

He decides to take precautionary measures, stops the microwave and removes my boiling concoction.

I didn’t want him taking over my little project, so I rocketed over the gate and grabbed a baster out of the utensil jar.

Tim stood there, watching me and questioning my motives (technically, dear husband, that was really your first mistake. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, you’re supposed to duck and cover).

I opened the oven and then sucked up some of the hot sugar water in the baster. Tim was on my right, the oven on the left and the hot liquid between Tim and I on the counter.

As I start to lift the baster from the measuring cup to put the liquid on the crisp, Tim goes, “You can’t do that. You have to get closer.”

Ok, people. Let’s just stop. Right there. Mistake number two.

IF THERE ARE DIRECTIONS TO BE FOLLOWED, I NEED THEM WELL BEFORE I TAKE ANY SORT OF ACTION.

I have a problem with patience and I also tend to take instructions literally.

I thought he meant that I HAVE TO GET CLOSER, so I bend my legs and get lower to the ground to get closer to the crisp sitting in the oven.

As an inadvertent side effect of my body movement, the baster went from a vertical position to a horizontal one, squirty end towards Tim, who was still standing there all, “NOT YOU! THE CRISP! TAKE IT OUT!”

And then…

HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU DAMMIT DAMMIT MY FINGER DAMMIT!!!!

No one explained to me that basters are stupid.

That basters don’t HOLD THE LIQUID INSIDE until squeezed.

When you turn the damn thing landscape direction it’s like you’ve unlocked a secret weapon.

Landscape direction equals ALL CONTAINED CONTENTS will rocket out with shocking velocity without any pressure on the little squeezy end.

As Tim was screaming and getting his fingers burned off, I just sat there, staring down at the baster all, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS THING? IT’S BROKEN.”

No, not broken.

USED IMPROPERLY.

i have finally accepted my sasquatch feet

I don’t sew. The whole needle and thread thing is lost to me. If a button pops off, I figure I’ve still got a zipper.

For all you crafty people “I-can-macramé-feathers-into-gold.”

You suck.

It’s not that I don’t TRY. I’m just challenged putting my IDEA into PRACTICE. So instead, I just oodle over your creations and buy them, much to Tim’s chagrin all, “DID YOU REALLY NEED THREE OF THESE LITTLE BAG THINGS?”

Yes. It came in three colors. And it’s a coin purse.

Tim: BUT YOU HAVE A WALLET.

Me: Well, I needed a coin purse.

Tim: You mean you needed THREE.

Me: A girl can never be too prepared.

Tim: You don’t even like purses.

Me: It’s a COIN PURSE. And I do now, thanks to my Coach collection. You did that, remember?

Tim: Ugh…

Anyhow…not the point I’m trying to make here…

Tim is the complete opposite of me.

He’s what we call special in the home ec department.

How many other men do you know that can expertly sew on buttons and stitch up dog toys?

None.

That’s how many.

He is all about patching up toys that Maddie and Lexi decided would be entertaining to dissect, like this little duck. However, little duck will not be re-joining the ranks. It’s not that the quack is beyond repair, it’s because he’s the dumbest dog toy in the history of dog toys. When Tim found it the other day, ducky brains all over the floor, he was all, “Who thought THIS was a good idea? All these loose strings…perfect for shredding…”

I looked up at him from my seat on the couch, glanced at the toy and shrugged all, “Well, we were stupid enough to buy it.”

The duck is now on the practice squad. No suiting up for him.

 

We have other plush toys (that weren’t designed as a loofah and permanently benched) that required emergency, reparative surgery before they were shredded into unrecognizable bits.

Noodle, for one, needed a frontal lobotomy and has been renamed Scar Face.

 

Pinky has never known a life without slits for eyes, the result of Tim cutting out the choking hazard hard, plastic nodules when we first bought Pinky for Maddie, which left two gaping eye sockets and required like, laser vision surgery.

(By the way, we’ve found the BEST plush dog toys are one’s made for kids – seriously. They’re like, destroy proof. We’ve never had to replace a single one).

 

His tailoring skills go farther than toys…areas where the result actually has to look pretty or be positioned in the right place.

Tim has sewn my buttons back on that popped off, perfectly stitched up holes in shirts or pants I refuse to throw away and he’s all about removing stray threads from my clothes.

He came at me once with a blow-torch all, “Let me get that off.”

I just saw flames flying in my direction and reacted.

He woke up about fifteen minutes later with a size 11 heel imprint on his temple all, “WHAT THE HELL…IT WAS JUST A MATCH!”

Well, you shouldn’t have been rapidly advancing my direction with an open flame. The brain automatically says DANGER! and then assumes the defensive position. You should know that Mr. Prepare For The Worst In All Circumstances.

Takeaway message: Snip loose threads on all articles of clothing before they reach Jessica’s body.

And yes, my feet really are THAT big. I’m 5’10 and after 26 years, I have finally accepted my Sasquatch feet.

I know, I know…Eventually, I SHOULD learn how to do it…but I’m spoiled by my own, personal, live-in seamstress. Manly Stitcher.

Tim said to me the other day, while he was putting green thread through a needle for Noodle’s procedure, “You don’t even know how to do this, do you?”

Me: “Do what? Perform surgery? I don’t do blood. Remember?”

Tim: “Thread a needle.”

Me: ” Who needs to thread a needle when I’ve got you, honey?”

Tim: “Well, what if I decide I’m not paid enough for my services and go on strike?”

Me: “Then I guess I’m going to have to walk around with jackets missing buttons and pants that only zip and the loose threads will take over my entire wardrobe…It’ll be like…It’ll be like I’M WEARING DREDS!…Know what? Stop cutting my loose threads. I want to start a fashion trend.”

Tim: “You are a complete nerd, you realize that, right?”

Me: “And that’s why you married me.”

Tim: “Opposites attract, remember?”