As you may remember, The Husband and I were exploring options for saving money by doing without unnecessary things, things like food, water, and cable. (Just kidding about the cable.)
I called Direct TV and spoke to their Customer Service Specialist (not Representative, Specialist) about cutting back on some of our service options (come back and read THAT POST later). Anyway, we determined that I could save eleventy gazillion dollars if I got rid of almost all of our channels. I told them we had to keep Cartoon Network and HGTV.
The Husband, of course, freaked out right away. “We MUST have sports,” he said, like someone (normal) might say air to breathe, “sports are a non-negotiable.”
Funny, turns out sports were, in fact, very negotiable, as Zaprana and I had just negotiated sports away. I had to call Direct TV right back and speak with Daniel about reinstating sports.
Crisis averted. Later that evening, I settled in with a nice bowl of popcorn and a glass of white wine, ready to watch the almost-season finale of Top Chef. Imagine my horror (yes, that’s the right word) when I clicked on 273 and the screen was black, except for a little box in the lower right corner that read, “Channel Unavailable.”
Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. I started hyperventilating like I was on an airplane that was nose-diving into the Pacific Ocean. Okay, that’s an exaggeration: Atlantic Ocean.
My show was scheduled to start in 15 minutes, how was I going to fix this catastrophe?! I dialed the (by now memorized) number and spoke with Tiffany. She assured me that she could fix the problem and add the Bravo Channel to my existing plan that Zaprana had set up for me, which as you may recall, was The Skeleton. After speaking with Daniel earlier, I was already up to the Bronze Plan, and now this latest chat with Tiffany was pushing me into (most likely) Platinum territory.
“Tiffany, I don’t care what it costs, get me Top Chef.”
“Yes, ma’am, no problem.” I could hear much clicking of keys and much draining of my bank account. “Try the channel now.”
I did as instructed, and felt vaguely illicit, as if Tiffany had just suggested I meet her on a street corner with a briefcase full of unmarked bills. “Yes, yes … I see it … yes, it’s back! They're making pancakes for Pee Wee Herman!” It took every fiber of my self-restraint to not leap up and scream for joy.
I hung up on Tiffany so I could watch my beloved Chef-testants compete for the ultimate title of Top Chef top four.
The thrill of this moment would wear off soon enough. The very next morning, to be precise.
I turned on the TV, innocently enough, to Boomerang so the kids could watch some cartoons (hey, TV police, it was NOT a school day! Okay, so it was actually a school day). Imagine my dismay when I noticed the channel name was in faded light blue (instead of the normal dark blue) on the menu option selection, and black all together when I clicked on it. There was that dreaded message again: “Channel Unavailable.”
Here’s the deal, Direct TV: if I cannot have a channel because I am too cheap to pay for it, I do not want to see any reminder of it! Do not leave a ghost version of the channel behind to mock me (“Oh, if you only had more money, you could have these channels, too! Ha! Too bad you don’t!”).
My sons and I have long chats about a scary issue in school called bullies. Bullies are mean, and bullies taunt people for no reason. That’s right: Direct TV, you are a bully.
MOV
Thursday, February 9, 2012
659. The Conspiracy Continues
The cleanser, the skirt, the car—where does it end? Today, the jeans.
I put on my black sweatshirt and wiggled into my favorite pair of jeans. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice.
“I see London, I see France …” chirped The Husband, having most likely learned the song from our two elementary-aged sons.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, as I discreetly checked that my zipper was up.
“You have a hole in the back of your jeans, wait—turn around. Make that two holes.”
I put my hand to the back of my jeans near the pockets and I felt the holes in question.
“Not a big deal,” I shrugged, “that’s the style with jeans.” I reached in the cabinet and got out the cereal for Tall and Short.
“Mommy, you can’t wear those!” squealed Short as he bounded into the kitchen. “I can see your undies! They’re white.”
Now I began to panic. If both The Husband and Short noticed the holes, they must really be obvious.
In the space of merely a few short weeks, I was feeling betrayed yet again. How dare my favorite comfy jeans go and die? I had only had them for about five years, and they had been expensive: they set me back about $39 at the Gap. They had always done their part: kept me covered, kept me warm, and kept me from having to go jeans shopping for another pair.
It wasn’t the money or the time that was an issue: I was dreading the actual trying-things-on part of the jeans equation.
After The Husband left for work and the kids went to school, I put on my khaki pants (which did not look as good as the jeans and sweatshirt combo) and drove to Nordstrom. I hesitated to walk in, after what happened last week (come back and read THAT STORY in a sec), but thankfully no one recognized me. I tried on approximately 957 pairs of jeans—none of them fit. I started with what I knew to be my size (10). Their 10’s were cut way too small. I had to switch to the wrong size, 12, which did fit, barely. They were not flattering. And they were $200 each. After trying on all 957 pairs, crying for half an hour, washing my face in the ladies’ room, and getting a free cappuccino, I went to Talbot’s.
Talbot’s was even worse. Every pair of jeans was low-waisted, which is not a good look for me. Next up, Macy’s. The day progressed from bad to worse. Although Macy’s jeans were well-priced (most pairs under $50, on sale), nothing fit well. I was so upset by the shape of things, I didn’t know if I should go run five miles or drown my sorrows in an ice-cream sundae.
I think we know by now which one I chose.
After lunch, I decided to go to my old standby, Target. I was getting depressed and despondent; I hoped that Target would know how to fix my mood. I ended up trying on just six pairs of jeans, all of them men’s. Why had I not thought of this before? The men’s jeans were cut higher, and one glorious pair actually fit me.
I looked at the price, and could not believe what my eyes were telling my brain: $19. Less than a large pizza, which was sounding unbelievably appealing right now.
I folded up the pair and walked up to the register to buy them. The checker scanned the jeans. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said sympathetically, “these jeans are mismarked. They are not $19. They are on sale for $12. Sorry for the confusion.” I wanted to kiss her.
But, just at that precise moment when I thought my bad luck spree was finally over, she had to go and say something so incredibly mean and bitchy, something that made me seriously question if I can ever shop at this particular Target again: “I love that you’re buying oversized men’s jeans instead of maternity. A lot of pregnant women do that nowadays.”
MOV
I put on my black sweatshirt and wiggled into my favorite pair of jeans. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice.
“I see London, I see France …” chirped The Husband, having most likely learned the song from our two elementary-aged sons.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, as I discreetly checked that my zipper was up.
“You have a hole in the back of your jeans, wait—turn around. Make that two holes.”
I put my hand to the back of my jeans near the pockets and I felt the holes in question.
“Not a big deal,” I shrugged, “that’s the style with jeans.” I reached in the cabinet and got out the cereal for Tall and Short.
“Mommy, you can’t wear those!” squealed Short as he bounded into the kitchen. “I can see your undies! They’re white.”
Now I began to panic. If both The Husband and Short noticed the holes, they must really be obvious.
In the space of merely a few short weeks, I was feeling betrayed yet again. How dare my favorite comfy jeans go and die? I had only had them for about five years, and they had been expensive: they set me back about $39 at the Gap. They had always done their part: kept me covered, kept me warm, and kept me from having to go jeans shopping for another pair.
It wasn’t the money or the time that was an issue: I was dreading the actual trying-things-on part of the jeans equation.
After The Husband left for work and the kids went to school, I put on my khaki pants (which did not look as good as the jeans and sweatshirt combo) and drove to Nordstrom. I hesitated to walk in, after what happened last week (come back and read THAT STORY in a sec), but thankfully no one recognized me. I tried on approximately 957 pairs of jeans—none of them fit. I started with what I knew to be my size (10). Their 10’s were cut way too small. I had to switch to the wrong size, 12, which did fit, barely. They were not flattering. And they were $200 each. After trying on all 957 pairs, crying for half an hour, washing my face in the ladies’ room, and getting a free cappuccino, I went to Talbot’s.
Talbot’s was even worse. Every pair of jeans was low-waisted, which is not a good look for me. Next up, Macy’s. The day progressed from bad to worse. Although Macy’s jeans were well-priced (most pairs under $50, on sale), nothing fit well. I was so upset by the shape of things, I didn’t know if I should go run five miles or drown my sorrows in an ice-cream sundae.
I think we know by now which one I chose.
After lunch, I decided to go to my old standby, Target. I was getting depressed and despondent; I hoped that Target would know how to fix my mood. I ended up trying on just six pairs of jeans, all of them men’s. Why had I not thought of this before? The men’s jeans were cut higher, and one glorious pair actually fit me.
I looked at the price, and could not believe what my eyes were telling my brain: $19. Less than a large pizza, which was sounding unbelievably appealing right now.
I folded up the pair and walked up to the register to buy them. The checker scanned the jeans. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said sympathetically, “these jeans are mismarked. They are not $19. They are on sale for $12. Sorry for the confusion.” I wanted to kiss her.
But, just at that precise moment when I thought my bad luck spree was finally over, she had to go and say something so incredibly mean and bitchy, something that made me seriously question if I can ever shop at this particular Target again: “I love that you’re buying oversized men’s jeans instead of maternity. A lot of pregnant women do that nowadays.”
MOV
Monday, February 6, 2012
656. My World Is Conspiring Against Me
This has been an emotional time for me. As you may remember, Nordstrom recently discontinued my face cleanser, and then I was having bitter flashbacks to that time when my Magical Perfect Skirt of the Universe had to go and die. I was bereft.
Now this. My dear 10-year-old Toyota Highlander, whom we had lovingly babied with many Benjamin Franklins and a new engine and new brakes, was oozing some sticky, unrecognizable gook, a liquidy concoction that smelled of factories and underground resources. The Husband told me I had an oil leak.
I did what I always do in situations like this: cry. After I fixed up my runny mascara, I went to visit the one person I knew who is very smart about cars. I can ask him any car-ish question, and he will pause, and then spit out an answer, most likely an expensive one. This person’s name is: Our Mechanic.
Our Mechanic mostly deals with The Husband, but The Husband had to go to work so he was entrusting me to remember what to say. We both knew that I was forgetting the technical terminology as The Husband was saying it to me. I was like a spy scrambler filter decoder in reverse, but evilly congealed with my extensive airplane knowledge garnished from my decade of service as a United Airlines flight attendant:
“MOV, tell Our Mechanic that we smell oil burning, and ask him if we should replace the valve cover gaskets because we’re concerned about the possibility of overheating and leaking into the engine,” became “MOV, tell him the hydraulic engine lifter of the wheel flap cover is potentially combusting overheated fuel into the wing of the cracked cylinder turbo ignition carburetor block spinner mechanism and the converter fuselage transmission thingamabob brake system might potentially crack the thrust indicator depressurization and explode while you’re driving.”
This was not the explanation Our Mechanic wanted to hear. “WHAT? Your car is going to explode?”
He just confirmed my worst fears: “Are you saying my car is going to explode?! While I’m driving it?!”
“No, you just said that.”
I could feel my mascara starting to run again, this time from the raw emotions of almost being killed by my own ungrateful car.
“Can you fix it, then? Please?” I pleaded, as I wiped my face with my tear-stained Kleenex.
“MOV, I’ll do my best.” He took the keys gingerly out of my hand and set them delicately on the counter, as if they too might explode.
As I walked out of the shop, I overheard Our Mechanic talking to another employee, presumably about me. “She’s a good customer,” he whispered, and I braced myself for what would surely follow, “but she should use a different face cleanser. That one she’s using leaves ugly black streak marks all over her face.”
MOV
(“My Other Vanity”)
Now this. My dear 10-year-old Toyota Highlander, whom we had lovingly babied with many Benjamin Franklins and a new engine and new brakes, was oozing some sticky, unrecognizable gook, a liquidy concoction that smelled of factories and underground resources. The Husband told me I had an oil leak.
I did what I always do in situations like this: cry. After I fixed up my runny mascara, I went to visit the one person I knew who is very smart about cars. I can ask him any car-ish question, and he will pause, and then spit out an answer, most likely an expensive one. This person’s name is: Our Mechanic.
Our Mechanic mostly deals with The Husband, but The Husband had to go to work so he was entrusting me to remember what to say. We both knew that I was forgetting the technical terminology as The Husband was saying it to me. I was like a spy scrambler filter decoder in reverse, but evilly congealed with my extensive airplane knowledge garnished from my decade of service as a United Airlines flight attendant:
“MOV, tell Our Mechanic that we smell oil burning, and ask him if we should replace the valve cover gaskets because we’re concerned about the possibility of overheating and leaking into the engine,” became “MOV, tell him the hydraulic engine lifter of the wheel flap cover is potentially combusting overheated fuel into the wing of the cracked cylinder turbo ignition carburetor block spinner mechanism and the converter fuselage transmission thingamabob brake system might potentially crack the thrust indicator depressurization and explode while you’re driving.”
This was not the explanation Our Mechanic wanted to hear. “WHAT? Your car is going to explode?”
He just confirmed my worst fears: “Are you saying my car is going to explode?! While I’m driving it?!”
“No, you just said that.”
I could feel my mascara starting to run again, this time from the raw emotions of almost being killed by my own ungrateful car.
“Can you fix it, then? Please?” I pleaded, as I wiped my face with my tear-stained Kleenex.
“MOV, I’ll do my best.” He took the keys gingerly out of my hand and set them delicately on the counter, as if they too might explode.
As I walked out of the shop, I overheard Our Mechanic talking to another employee, presumably about me. “She’s a good customer,” he whispered, and I braced myself for what would surely follow, “but she should use a different face cleanser. That one she’s using leaves ugly black streak marks all over her face.”
MOV
(“My Other Vanity”)
Sunday, February 5, 2012
655. Black Hole and Billy Joel
I can’t remember exactly when I bought it, it doesn’t really matter now, what matters is that I wore it everywhere. It was perfect: black, swingy, lightweight wool, just below the knee, side zip, lined (did I mention it was lined?!), flattering, like I said—perfect.
I think it was Ann Taylor? Maybe Nordstrom brand? Or Target? Definitely not from Saks, I never shop there—too expensive. But anyway, the tag came off a long time ago, so I don’t even know what size it was. Probably a 10, but it could’ve even been an 8.
It was my go-to skirt. Interview? Yep, grab the black skirt. Dinner plans? Black skirt. Teacher conference? What else. You could dress it up (black cashmere sweater and pearls) or dress it down (cropped denim jacket and cotton tank top). You could wear it in winter (heavy red sweater and ribbed wool tights) or summer (sea-foam blue linen top and strappy sandals). It was one of those things where even if you were genetically fashion-challenged, like me, you just could not go wrong.
The Husband pulled me aside at Nate’s party. “Sweetie, I think you have something on your butt. Is it a piece of fuzz?”
I went to the ladies’ room to try to figure out the problem. I twisted my head around and strained to look. I spun around to the other side and tried to glimpse my own rear end. I was like a dog chasing its tail. I couldn’t tell what was going on, even with the mirror, so I finally had to flip the skirt around so the back was in the front. That’s when I saw it.
A small hole. Not quite a rip, but on its way.
How had this happened?!? It’s not like I backed into a sharp hook or a knife or something, I would’ve remembered that. I thought back to when I got dressed. The hole definitely was not there then. I retraced everything that I did since leaving the house: got in the car, drove over here, parked, took out the umbrella, walked down the block. There was nothing dangerous that happened, no precise moment I can pinpoint (unfortunate choice of word, I know) when I might have jabbed at my beloved skirt with something deadly. The umbrella seemed a likely candidate, but The Husband was the one who carried it, not me.
Fast forward to now, in the ladies’ room: I was still at the party, so what could I do? I flipped the skirt back so the front was in the front again. Thank God I had on black tights, at least the hole was not quite so visible.
I tried to have fun at the party, but the damn hole kept popping into my mind, like a stupid Billy Joel song that you hear when you are changing stations on the car radio. First, was the hole going to keep getting bigger, like, right now this evening? Gaaahhhh, I didn’t want that to happen. I kept tugging at my sweater, pulling it down in a weak attempt to cover the hole. Second, was this something that could be fixed later—could my precious skirt be saved? Third, had anyone (besides The Husband, I mean) noticed the hole yet? Would someone here see it and make a snide comment about my obvious fashion-cluelessness?
When we finally left the party, the interrogation began. “When did you first notice the hole, Sweetie?”
“What are you talking about?” asked The Husband while adjusting the radio back to the Billy Joel song, “Are you still obsessing about that small hole in your skirt?”
“Obsessing? You think I’m obsessing? Damn right I’m obsessing. Did you see it before we left the house?”
“No,” he broke into song, “We didn’t start the fire, and it’s been always burning since the world was turning …”
“If you saw the hole, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Geesh, Hon, I noticed it for the first time at the party, right when I told you.” He paused to turn the song off, realizing that talking over me was futile. “No one even saw it. When we get home, you can fix it. And if you can’t fix it, just buy a new skirt. Really, it’s not a big deal. Who cares?”
Who cares I thought, He has the audacity to say Who cares? I care. This was my Magical Perfect Skirt of the Universe, of course I care.
When we got home, and after I now had five more new Billy Joel songs in my head from that CD The Husband snuck into my car when I wasn’t paying attention, I took the skirt off and examined the hole. It had spread like a fissure that eventually becomes the Grand Canyon. The reality was: no more perfect black skirt.
I balled it up and threw it in the trash. I was afraid if I hung it back up, it would mock me. Or worse, I would forget about the hole and mistakenly wear it again to something really crucially important and essential, like a job interview, and then make a horrible first impression and most likely not get the job.
It’s funny that I was thinking about jobs right then, because the very next morning, the phone rang and it was the HR lady at a job I’d been applying for calling me back for an interview that day.
I forget what I wore, but I was humming Uptown Girl.
MOV
I think it was Ann Taylor? Maybe Nordstrom brand? Or Target? Definitely not from Saks, I never shop there—too expensive. But anyway, the tag came off a long time ago, so I don’t even know what size it was. Probably a 10, but it could’ve even been an 8.
It was my go-to skirt. Interview? Yep, grab the black skirt. Dinner plans? Black skirt. Teacher conference? What else. You could dress it up (black cashmere sweater and pearls) or dress it down (cropped denim jacket and cotton tank top). You could wear it in winter (heavy red sweater and ribbed wool tights) or summer (sea-foam blue linen top and strappy sandals). It was one of those things where even if you were genetically fashion-challenged, like me, you just could not go wrong.
The Husband pulled me aside at Nate’s party. “Sweetie, I think you have something on your butt. Is it a piece of fuzz?”
I went to the ladies’ room to try to figure out the problem. I twisted my head around and strained to look. I spun around to the other side and tried to glimpse my own rear end. I was like a dog chasing its tail. I couldn’t tell what was going on, even with the mirror, so I finally had to flip the skirt around so the back was in the front. That’s when I saw it.
A small hole. Not quite a rip, but on its way.
How had this happened?!? It’s not like I backed into a sharp hook or a knife or something, I would’ve remembered that. I thought back to when I got dressed. The hole definitely was not there then. I retraced everything that I did since leaving the house: got in the car, drove over here, parked, took out the umbrella, walked down the block. There was nothing dangerous that happened, no precise moment I can pinpoint (unfortunate choice of word, I know) when I might have jabbed at my beloved skirt with something deadly. The umbrella seemed a likely candidate, but The Husband was the one who carried it, not me.
Fast forward to now, in the ladies’ room: I was still at the party, so what could I do? I flipped the skirt back so the front was in the front again. Thank God I had on black tights, at least the hole was not quite so visible.
I tried to have fun at the party, but the damn hole kept popping into my mind, like a stupid Billy Joel song that you hear when you are changing stations on the car radio. First, was the hole going to keep getting bigger, like, right now this evening? Gaaahhhh, I didn’t want that to happen. I kept tugging at my sweater, pulling it down in a weak attempt to cover the hole. Second, was this something that could be fixed later—could my precious skirt be saved? Third, had anyone (besides The Husband, I mean) noticed the hole yet? Would someone here see it and make a snide comment about my obvious fashion-cluelessness?
When we finally left the party, the interrogation began. “When did you first notice the hole, Sweetie?”
“What are you talking about?” asked The Husband while adjusting the radio back to the Billy Joel song, “Are you still obsessing about that small hole in your skirt?”
“Obsessing? You think I’m obsessing? Damn right I’m obsessing. Did you see it before we left the house?”
“No,” he broke into song, “We didn’t start the fire, and it’s been always burning since the world was turning …”
“If you saw the hole, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Geesh, Hon, I noticed it for the first time at the party, right when I told you.” He paused to turn the song off, realizing that talking over me was futile. “No one even saw it. When we get home, you can fix it. And if you can’t fix it, just buy a new skirt. Really, it’s not a big deal. Who cares?”
Who cares I thought, He has the audacity to say Who cares? I care. This was my Magical Perfect Skirt of the Universe, of course I care.
When we got home, and after I now had five more new Billy Joel songs in my head from that CD The Husband snuck into my car when I wasn’t paying attention, I took the skirt off and examined the hole. It had spread like a fissure that eventually becomes the Grand Canyon. The reality was: no more perfect black skirt.
I balled it up and threw it in the trash. I was afraid if I hung it back up, it would mock me. Or worse, I would forget about the hole and mistakenly wear it again to something really crucially important and essential, like a job interview, and then make a horrible first impression and most likely not get the job.
It’s funny that I was thinking about jobs right then, because the very next morning, the phone rang and it was the HR lady at a job I’d been applying for calling me back for an interview that day.
I forget what I wore, but I was humming Uptown Girl.
MOV
654. Restraint
I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again really.
Oh, good, it’s locked.
I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t.
Oh, good, it’s locked.
I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
652. Marianne Walsh Interviews Me
Marianne Walsh, über-talented writer for Chicago Parent magazine, contacted me to do an interview about writing and publishing my book, Mom's Had A Rough Day. I have followed Marianne’s blog, We Band of Mothers, for a long time, so I was thrilled that she would want to talk with me. The email exchange went something like this:
Her: Can I interview you for an article in Chicago Parent?
Me: OMG, yes! Is the magazine going to pay my airfare? Will there be a photographer? Should I buy a new outfit?
Her: No. No. And yes (no reason not to buy a new outfit!). But it’s a phone or email interview.
Me: Oh. So I could be in my jammies and no one would really care?
Her: Pretty much.
We finally settled on an email interview (translation: I did not want her to write negative things about my kids screaming in the background), and I thought it went well. I only forgot to send the attachment twice.
So without further ado, I give you the interview. (Thanks, Marianne.)
MOV
Her: Can I interview you for an article in Chicago Parent?
Me: OMG, yes! Is the magazine going to pay my airfare? Will there be a photographer? Should I buy a new outfit?
Her: No. No. And yes (no reason not to buy a new outfit!). But it’s a phone or email interview.
Me: Oh. So I could be in my jammies and no one would really care?
Her: Pretty much.
We finally settled on an email interview (translation: I did not want her to write negative things about my kids screaming in the background), and I thought it went well. I only forgot to send the attachment twice.
So without further ado, I give you the interview. (Thanks, Marianne.)
MOV
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
649. I Married A Brain Surgeon
At least that’s what he told me on that special day a dozen years ago when he signed the marriage certificate: “Honey, I’m a brain surgeon.”
Maybe those were not the precise words he uttered, maybe he actually said, “Money? I’m not a brain surgeon.” My worst fears were confirmed yesterday evening at approximately 5:02 PM.
The Husband waltzed in the door a few minutes before five. I casually asked him if he could dump out the giant bucket that has been under our kitchen sink since the drain broke three days ago and the plumber cannot come until Friday. The bucket is very large, very full, and very heavy.
The Husband, being strong, kind, and accommodating, said, “Sure, Sweetie, no problem.” Then, while still wearing his nice work clothes and tie, he proceeded to take the bucket and dump it right back in the exact sink that was having the leaking problem. The sink with no bucket (currently) under it to catch the excess water.
In his defense, not all the water came splashing down on the area directly under the sink. No. Some of it came splashing down on the extra dishtowels stored nearby and some even managed to drench our back-up supply of paper bags. The floor itself was a major victim of the pouring incident, and The Husband’s dress shoes may or may not have been negatively impacted by the deluge.
The Husband learned years ago after our toddler son Tall started going around saying SHIT SHIT SHIT to not swear in front of our children anymore. The Husband knew, in the back of his brain surgeon mind, that swearing was called for in this case, but Rated-G swearing, not HBO-type swearing.
“GOD BLESS AMERICA!” he bellowed as the flood began while our kids blissfully watched cartoons in the next room, far-fetched cartoons about hapless coyotes accidentally jumping off of cliffs or electrocuting themselves, “WHAT THE HEAVENS IS GOING ON???”
I stood there and laughed. What else could I do? I finally handed him a few damp dishtowels, then said helpfully,
“Oh, Sweetheart. I can’t believe you made the same mistake two days in a row.”
MOV
Maybe those were not the precise words he uttered, maybe he actually said, “Money? I’m not a brain surgeon.” My worst fears were confirmed yesterday evening at approximately 5:02 PM.
The Husband waltzed in the door a few minutes before five. I casually asked him if he could dump out the giant bucket that has been under our kitchen sink since the drain broke three days ago and the plumber cannot come until Friday. The bucket is very large, very full, and very heavy.
The Husband, being strong, kind, and accommodating, said, “Sure, Sweetie, no problem.” Then, while still wearing his nice work clothes and tie, he proceeded to take the bucket and dump it right back in the exact sink that was having the leaking problem. The sink with no bucket (currently) under it to catch the excess water.
In his defense, not all the water came splashing down on the area directly under the sink. No. Some of it came splashing down on the extra dishtowels stored nearby and some even managed to drench our back-up supply of paper bags. The floor itself was a major victim of the pouring incident, and The Husband’s dress shoes may or may not have been negatively impacted by the deluge.
The Husband learned years ago after our toddler son Tall started going around saying SHIT SHIT SHIT to not swear in front of our children anymore. The Husband knew, in the back of his brain surgeon mind, that swearing was called for in this case, but Rated-G swearing, not HBO-type swearing.
“GOD BLESS AMERICA!” he bellowed as the flood began while our kids blissfully watched cartoons in the next room, far-fetched cartoons about hapless coyotes accidentally jumping off of cliffs or electrocuting themselves, “WHAT THE HEAVENS IS GOING ON???”
I stood there and laughed. What else could I do? I finally handed him a few damp dishtowels, then said helpfully,
“Oh, Sweetheart. I can’t believe you made the same mistake two days in a row.”
MOV
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