Help me out here, does anyone else feel like they go above and beyond for their kids only to be disregarded??
I give them the opportunity to make me proud and clean their own rooms, when that doesn't happen, I give in and clean their rooms. Then, occasionally, leave a small spot for them to finish.
Yeah, it never gets done.
They either choose to lie to me " Of course I cleaned my room!" or ignore the request altogether, hoping to fly low under the radar. Bluffing their way through the inquiry, " Did you put everything in it's place? You didn't throw it all the closet/under your bed/rolled up in a blanket, did you?".
This is where I could implode, they look me straight in the eye and say, "no, I cleaned it all.". Straight. In. The. Eye. They lie, oblivious or just down right in denial that I'm gonna go up there and investigate. They know how I roll, they've lived with me all their lives. They KNOW I'm gonna check *everywhere*, and yet they still do it.
Where the fucks the defect?!?! Is it me, or them??? I'm at a loss!
I so want to put my trust in them and believe that they respect me enough to WANT to impress/please or make me proud. It's become apparent that they don't give a shit. Perhaps the Hubsters "I don't give a shit box" has morphed into the monster's own special type of "I don't give a shit"?
Now, I have to be honest, this is somewhat of the only area where we have trouble-aside from sibling bickering, which drives me CRAZY! Their fabulous students, polite, hard working, thoughtful of others... The oldest makes the honor roll, the middle kid has multiple citizenship awards and the lil' D.S. (demon spawn), well.... He hasn't gotten expelled from preschool yet! Hmmmm....Let's just concentrate on the other two for now...
Their good kids, they just refuse to keep their room from looking like a bomb went off and the casualties are forever lost within the disaster zone.
I know Sam (the 10yr old) is gonna have a gig on Hoarders someday, he cannot let go of anything. EVER! Be it a scrap of paper, candy wrapper or obscure rock. He can't part with it! He packs his pockets full of the shit he finds throughout his day.
Seriously!
Here's a for instance: Sam had a Dr's appointment/yearly check up a few months back. The nurse wanted to weigh him after having checked his height, eyes etc.. He's about to step on the scale when I hold out my hand and say, "hand 'em over pal.". The nurse looks at both myself and Sam strange and says, "he doesn't have to strip or anything.". My hand still out towards Sam, eyeing him with the promise of a slow and painful death if he doesn't hand his "finds" over. I say to the nurse, "there's undoubtedly rocks in his pockets." she shoots me a skeptical look. When all of a sudden Sam sighs, digs in both pockets and says, "Here. I can have 'em back, right?". UGH!! God love her, the stunned nurse looks at me and laughs incredulous, as Sam hands me not one, but THREE of the largest rocks one could possibly carry in ones pocket, plus various odds and ends (twist ties from the grocery store, soda tabs, beers caps, bent paper clips, a broken pen lid. The list goes on..). The rocks?? Easily totaling a weight of 5-6lbs. "I thought you were kidding!!!", the nurse says.
Sadly, no.... That's just how Sam rolls.
Since you now know what his pockets look like, you can only imagine what his ROOM looks like! His isn't even as bad as Audrey's! His is packed tight with stuff, hers is a hurricane of shit everywhere. Truly depressing to walk into. Which is why, I insist they clean or at least attempt to clean. That would be why I *help* them. I keep hoping they'll, eventually, watch and learn. No such luck.
So, tonight I tried something different. I used the age old guilt, telling them how disappointed I am in them and how I give up my weekends so they can have sleep overs, play dates and that I deserve so much more from them than what their willing to give me. Blah, blah, blah. (which, incidentally, is what I think they heard). Yep, I pulled the oldest parent trick in the book. I made them feel ashamed of themselves-at least I think I did?! Last I checked, they were sleeping peacefully...
They'll retaliate, I know they will, because I used to! Come the morning they'll undoubtedly send me the big tear brimmed puppy eyes and promise to never let their rooms get filthy again. And I'll buy it. Why? Because their giving me puppy eyes, damnit! Who can resist puppy eyes!!!
For buying their ploys in the morning, I'll deserve a kick to the head. Ninja style.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The "I don't give a shit box".
I don't know about yours, but, my Hubster comes fully equipped with an "I don't give a shit box".
Do any of you ladies know what I'm talking about??
It's where you give him detailed information that he doesn't "remember" when quizzed on later i.e. Driving directions, cooking times/degrees for pre baked frozen meals, kids doctor appointments, extended family get togethers, or (gasp) fill him in on family/friend gossip etc...
The signs that any of this information is being "filed" away is strangely conflicting, because he looks at you as if it's registering, even nods his head in agreement or makes the appropriate facial expressions indicating he's paying attention. Yet, if asked to repeat said info at a later date, he's at a loss. Even more aggravating is when confronted or reminded of said plans/info, he *feigns*(cough) ignorance and says "Why didn't you tell me this beforehand?!" or (better yet!), mine will sputter, "What are you talking about?!", looking at me as if I'm the crazy one. Hmpf.... As if!
This is the male defensive strategy, that quite frankly, is equivalent to nails on a chalk board.
I can't tell you how many times throughout the years this has happened. One of my very close BFF's and I had an in depth conversation one day, with regards to the Hubbies and the fact that they don't pay attention to a word we say. It's also not just us, it goes along with their mothers, fathers, friends... The list goes on. She said that if the info doesn't interest her Hubs in the least, he won't retain said info, At. All. Like when a mutual friend of theirs told her Hubs that his sister was seriously ill, my BFF found out weeks later. When confronted, her Hubs said, "Oh yeah, guess I forgot to tell ya", ummm, ya think??!?! Let's clarify, it's not that he didn't care, it's just that it didn't effect him *directly*, so thereby, it got "filed".
To be fair, let's put ourselves in their shoes, shall we? You have a wife, kids, boss, parents etc... All of which are sending useless information your way. Be it, (again) family gossip, dinner instructions, Hunny do recommendations, ridiculous jokes that don't make sense or get butchered badly (by the kids of course!) or worse yet, a funny episode on Phinious and Ferb thats repeated over, and over and over again. All of this info is thrown at them, literally bouncing off their ears. They require, scratch that, they NEED a defense mechanism to survive the daily "noise" thrown at them. This is their way of coping, unfortunately, in most cases, its morphed into tuning out the old ball and chain, completely. That's why they can't remember that their supposed to take Freddy to the doctor and are outraged that we *sprung* it on them the night before!
I even threw my theory at the Hubster one day, when he was being particularly annoying, asking if whatever it was we were discussing was going to be be filed in his "I don't give a shit box". He looked at me kinda funny, to which I explained my theory. He laughed. Laughed!
Now, whenever I tell him something or mention something that doesn't interest him in the least, he walks away tossing over his shoulder, "you know what box that's going into.". Arrrgghhhhhhh!! Men are SO aggravating!
Now, all this means is that I'm missing my manual on how to reprogram the Hubster, and was hoping that one of you still had yours???
Do any of you ladies know what I'm talking about??
It's where you give him detailed information that he doesn't "remember" when quizzed on later i.e. Driving directions, cooking times/degrees for pre baked frozen meals, kids doctor appointments, extended family get togethers, or (gasp) fill him in on family/friend gossip etc...
The signs that any of this information is being "filed" away is strangely conflicting, because he looks at you as if it's registering, even nods his head in agreement or makes the appropriate facial expressions indicating he's paying attention. Yet, if asked to repeat said info at a later date, he's at a loss. Even more aggravating is when confronted or reminded of said plans/info, he *feigns*(cough) ignorance and says "Why didn't you tell me this beforehand?!" or (better yet!), mine will sputter, "What are you talking about?!", looking at me as if I'm the crazy one. Hmpf.... As if!
This is the male defensive strategy, that quite frankly, is equivalent to nails on a chalk board.
I can't tell you how many times throughout the years this has happened. One of my very close BFF's and I had an in depth conversation one day, with regards to the Hubbies and the fact that they don't pay attention to a word we say. It's also not just us, it goes along with their mothers, fathers, friends... The list goes on. She said that if the info doesn't interest her Hubs in the least, he won't retain said info, At. All. Like when a mutual friend of theirs told her Hubs that his sister was seriously ill, my BFF found out weeks later. When confronted, her Hubs said, "Oh yeah, guess I forgot to tell ya", ummm, ya think??!?! Let's clarify, it's not that he didn't care, it's just that it didn't effect him *directly*, so thereby, it got "filed".
To be fair, let's put ourselves in their shoes, shall we? You have a wife, kids, boss, parents etc... All of which are sending useless information your way. Be it, (again) family gossip, dinner instructions, Hunny do recommendations, ridiculous jokes that don't make sense or get butchered badly (by the kids of course!) or worse yet, a funny episode on Phinious and Ferb thats repeated over, and over and over again. All of this info is thrown at them, literally bouncing off their ears. They require, scratch that, they NEED a defense mechanism to survive the daily "noise" thrown at them. This is their way of coping, unfortunately, in most cases, its morphed into tuning out the old ball and chain, completely. That's why they can't remember that their supposed to take Freddy to the doctor and are outraged that we *sprung* it on them the night before!
I even threw my theory at the Hubster one day, when he was being particularly annoying, asking if whatever it was we were discussing was going to be be filed in his "I don't give a shit box". He looked at me kinda funny, to which I explained my theory. He laughed. Laughed!
Now, whenever I tell him something or mention something that doesn't interest him in the least, he walks away tossing over his shoulder, "you know what box that's going into.". Arrrgghhhhhhh!! Men are SO aggravating!
Now, all this means is that I'm missing my manual on how to reprogram the Hubster, and was hoping that one of you still had yours???
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The family bike ride, good intentions can go (bleep) themselves.
Last summer, I had brilliantly decided to take the kids on a bike ride. Mind you, I hadn't been on a bike in, oh, let's say... 5 years?! But! I had decided to buy a trailer for my bike (translation, bribed the Hubster into buying and installing one), so the little ones could come along on the adventure that Sam and I had planned.
Ha! "adventure", key word here peeps.
First we had to find everyone's helmets, that took *forever* and with much searching and whining (mostly on my part and on both accounts), we realized too late that we had neglected to buy Charlie one. No problem, with much coaxing and compliments of admiration, he gamely wore Audie's old toddler helmet, complete with princess stickers and pink bunnies. Next, we had to get the bike out of the shed. Dear God, what an experience! It was buried under everything you could ever imagine being in a shed. I dusted it off, having been full of cobwebs-hello?! I said I hadn't ridden in YEARS!! Hubster did his job, he attached the trailer. C'mon, If he doesn't dust the house, he isn't about to dust my bike!
That being said, we were well on our way, until I looked down and realized the tires we flat. So, I walk my ass into the garage, which by the way could qualify us for a gig on Hoarders. Here, I spend what feels like hours looking for my tire pump... Once found, I start going about the business of inflating my tires, with various calls to he Hubs (at work) regarding the amount of air one should pump into their tires. I'm pretty sure he would've liked to strangle me, but then, let's be honest, when doesn't he?!lol
Since the tires are all set, the bike is dusted, the trailer's hitched, helmets are on, waters bottle are in place, fruits snacks in each kids pockets and kids are buckled in (whew!) we're ready to roll! Except that I parked my car too close to the back entrance and have, unwittingly, blocked us in. Not only that, but I realized this fact too late, and now have the bike trailer tire jammed into the car's front tire and neither will give...
This is craptastic.
So, I'm out there pulling and swearing and kicking at the tires, while the kids are still precariously perched inside the trailer swaying to and fro, as I try to jimmy them loose. I know, I should've just backed the car out a bit, but, clearly, I was in the thick of things sorta speak and well, really, where were any of you with this brilliant idea when I needed it?!
Finally!!! Bike and car give way, kids hearts are racing from the upheaval and for whatever reason, I cannot get the stupid bike to ride. At all. I'm scratching my head inspecting this bike up and down for the defect, nothing looks outta place to my *untrained* eye. I give it a kick for good measure outta frustration. I get back on the bike and try peddling, nope, the handle bars still look crooked. At this point Sam is sitting on the curb waiting, somewhat patiently, for us to be on our way and the little ones are squirming in their seats in anticipation. All the while, I'm still struggling with those damn handle bars!! Why won't my bike work?! It looks bent, but I have no idea how to fix it.
This is where my kindly neighbor (whose been talking on his cell phone watching me the. Whole. Time.) comes over to offer his assistance. "You look like you could use some help." he says not unkindly, but almost apprehensive, as if he's dealing with a lunatic. Which as I said, he'd been attaching me this while time and is probably convinced I'm an escapee.
I look up flustered, "I think my bike's jammed, the handle bars won't budge an inch and the tire won't turn." he gently takes the bike from my grasp and deftly turns the handle bars around to face the *proper* direction. "Here you go ma'am, your handle bars were just backwards." His smile indicates he feels sorry or me and is still (as yet) unsure of my sanity. Now, I don't know about you all, but if I were Sam sitting on that curb, I would have driven my bike away as fast as possible so no one knew we were related. The little ones were stuck with me, but Sam at least had an out!! He stayed, loyal to a fault. Poor kid.
I was mortified as I thanked him for his assistance and mumbled that it'd been a while since I'd been on a bike. Then as swift as one can with a trailer and two toddlers hooked to the end of ones bike, I wobbly took off. With my *helpful* neighbor chuckling while calling out, "I'll just watch ya'll to make sure you make it down the street okay!"
Wow! I can honestly say, I've never been more mortified in my life. If anyone deserved a kick to he head, it would've been me that day, ninja style! This is also why my Dad is clearly precise in saying, that "to know me is to love me".
Ha! "adventure", key word here peeps.
First we had to find everyone's helmets, that took *forever* and with much searching and whining (mostly on my part and on both accounts), we realized too late that we had neglected to buy Charlie one. No problem, with much coaxing and compliments of admiration, he gamely wore Audie's old toddler helmet, complete with princess stickers and pink bunnies. Next, we had to get the bike out of the shed. Dear God, what an experience! It was buried under everything you could ever imagine being in a shed. I dusted it off, having been full of cobwebs-hello?! I said I hadn't ridden in YEARS!! Hubster did his job, he attached the trailer. C'mon, If he doesn't dust the house, he isn't about to dust my bike!
That being said, we were well on our way, until I looked down and realized the tires we flat. So, I walk my ass into the garage, which by the way could qualify us for a gig on Hoarders. Here, I spend what feels like hours looking for my tire pump... Once found, I start going about the business of inflating my tires, with various calls to he Hubs (at work) regarding the amount of air one should pump into their tires. I'm pretty sure he would've liked to strangle me, but then, let's be honest, when doesn't he?!lol
Since the tires are all set, the bike is dusted, the trailer's hitched, helmets are on, waters bottle are in place, fruits snacks in each kids pockets and kids are buckled in (whew!) we're ready to roll! Except that I parked my car too close to the back entrance and have, unwittingly, blocked us in. Not only that, but I realized this fact too late, and now have the bike trailer tire jammed into the car's front tire and neither will give...
This is craptastic.
So, I'm out there pulling and swearing and kicking at the tires, while the kids are still precariously perched inside the trailer swaying to and fro, as I try to jimmy them loose. I know, I should've just backed the car out a bit, but, clearly, I was in the thick of things sorta speak and well, really, where were any of you with this brilliant idea when I needed it?!
Finally!!! Bike and car give way, kids hearts are racing from the upheaval and for whatever reason, I cannot get the stupid bike to ride. At all. I'm scratching my head inspecting this bike up and down for the defect, nothing looks outta place to my *untrained* eye. I give it a kick for good measure outta frustration. I get back on the bike and try peddling, nope, the handle bars still look crooked. At this point Sam is sitting on the curb waiting, somewhat patiently, for us to be on our way and the little ones are squirming in their seats in anticipation. All the while, I'm still struggling with those damn handle bars!! Why won't my bike work?! It looks bent, but I have no idea how to fix it.
This is where my kindly neighbor (whose been talking on his cell phone watching me the. Whole. Time.) comes over to offer his assistance. "You look like you could use some help." he says not unkindly, but almost apprehensive, as if he's dealing with a lunatic. Which as I said, he'd been attaching me this while time and is probably convinced I'm an escapee.
I look up flustered, "I think my bike's jammed, the handle bars won't budge an inch and the tire won't turn." he gently takes the bike from my grasp and deftly turns the handle bars around to face the *proper* direction. "Here you go ma'am, your handle bars were just backwards." His smile indicates he feels sorry or me and is still (as yet) unsure of my sanity. Now, I don't know about you all, but if I were Sam sitting on that curb, I would have driven my bike away as fast as possible so no one knew we were related. The little ones were stuck with me, but Sam at least had an out!! He stayed, loyal to a fault. Poor kid.
I was mortified as I thanked him for his assistance and mumbled that it'd been a while since I'd been on a bike. Then as swift as one can with a trailer and two toddlers hooked to the end of ones bike, I wobbly took off. With my *helpful* neighbor chuckling while calling out, "I'll just watch ya'll to make sure you make it down the street okay!"
Wow! I can honestly say, I've never been more mortified in my life. If anyone deserved a kick to he head, it would've been me that day, ninja style! This is also why my Dad is clearly precise in saying, that "to know me is to love me".
Friday, January 13, 2012
My dog must truly *love* me, and here's why:
The dog in my life, insane x4.
He has an uncanny ability to crap the house at the most disturbing times i.e. Like when I'm late running the kids to school (today!!), when the unsuspecting house guest is over or (may particular fav), when he has just been outside. Wtf?! He must enjoy the fufilling feeling of humiliating me.
He also, absolutely, refuses to stay in his yard unless threatened before hand. Literally! If I lecture him before I open the door, he'll stay put. If I forgo the lecture, he must assume "game on" and disappears. Which is really fun when your neighbors bring him back to your yard, knock on the door and lecture YOU on the dangers of leaving your pets unattended. Ugh!
Now, I know, your all thinking Lisa, he's a dog' they don't understand "lectures". I say, "nuts to you!" non believers, mine must, because he lives to torture me. He knows to trot the neighborhood when, oh let's see.... I'm in my pj's, or one of the kid's are home sick, or I'm sick, when there's a snow/hail/wind/rain storm or I'm cooking dinner and lost track of time etc... Usually, he gives me one chance to let him in. If I miss that open window of opportunity, where he's standing at the back door looking in at me and I haven't hauled ass to get there (can animals count seconds?! Mine must...), he disappears.
Game on.
Then he has the balls (yep, balls!), to make me hunt his ass down and *guide* him home. Now this is where I'm sure the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (much like the Hubsters already figured out...). here I am, in my polar bear pj's and house slippers (don't judge me) pulling on his collar and he's not budging. NOT... BUDGING!!! He's 90+ lbs peeps!! He has a narrow head (and mind, but, whose judging?) and thick neck, so when you pull on his collar, it slips right off his head. He knows this, he lives for this moment. He even gamely bows his head when I come close, taunting me into making the eventual pull for it, which almost always knocks me off balance when it comes free. Stupid dog!
Thus, it becomes a battle of the wills, his will to torture me and stay outside, my will to kill him (ummm, I mean love him to pieces) and bring the brat home. Where much coaxing, threatening and *soft* nudges to the rear are implemented. Home folks, home! To his err, my(?!), warm comfy couch, that he gets the majority of, while I'm squeezed into a tiny corner! He gets waited on for meals, treats, bedtime, baths, he even gets to sleep the day away, mostly on my blanket and pillow (bastard) and go for the occasional car ride.
I want his life!
I'm totally convinced he wakes up an thinks, hmmmm, what can I do to mess with the bitch today... He hates me, and this is why he deserves a kick to the head. Because really, a kick to the rear end just isn't satisfying enough
He has an uncanny ability to crap the house at the most disturbing times i.e. Like when I'm late running the kids to school (today!!), when the unsuspecting house guest is over or (may particular fav), when he has just been outside. Wtf?! He must enjoy the fufilling feeling of humiliating me.
He also, absolutely, refuses to stay in his yard unless threatened before hand. Literally! If I lecture him before I open the door, he'll stay put. If I forgo the lecture, he must assume "game on" and disappears. Which is really fun when your neighbors bring him back to your yard, knock on the door and lecture YOU on the dangers of leaving your pets unattended. Ugh!
Now, I know, your all thinking Lisa, he's a dog' they don't understand "lectures". I say, "nuts to you!" non believers, mine must, because he lives to torture me. He knows to trot the neighborhood when, oh let's see.... I'm in my pj's, or one of the kid's are home sick, or I'm sick, when there's a snow/hail/wind/rain storm or I'm cooking dinner and lost track of time etc... Usually, he gives me one chance to let him in. If I miss that open window of opportunity, where he's standing at the back door looking in at me and I haven't hauled ass to get there (can animals count seconds?! Mine must...), he disappears.
Game on.
Then he has the balls (yep, balls!), to make me hunt his ass down and *guide* him home. Now this is where I'm sure the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (much like the Hubsters already figured out...). here I am, in my polar bear pj's and house slippers (don't judge me) pulling on his collar and he's not budging. NOT... BUDGING!!! He's 90+ lbs peeps!! He has a narrow head (and mind, but, whose judging?) and thick neck, so when you pull on his collar, it slips right off his head. He knows this, he lives for this moment. He even gamely bows his head when I come close, taunting me into making the eventual pull for it, which almost always knocks me off balance when it comes free. Stupid dog!
Thus, it becomes a battle of the wills, his will to torture me and stay outside, my will to kill him (ummm, I mean love him to pieces) and bring the brat home. Where much coaxing, threatening and *soft* nudges to the rear are implemented. Home folks, home! To his err, my(?!), warm comfy couch, that he gets the majority of, while I'm squeezed into a tiny corner! He gets waited on for meals, treats, bedtime, baths, he even gets to sleep the day away, mostly on my blanket and pillow (bastard) and go for the occasional car ride.
I want his life!
I'm totally convinced he wakes up an thinks, hmmmm, what can I do to mess with the bitch today... He hates me, and this is why he deserves a kick to the head. Because really, a kick to the rear end just isn't satisfying enough
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Hubsters "weekend" shirt... My eyes!!! Ahhhhh!!!!
So, the Hubster has a history of favorites with regards to certain clothing items. Remember my intro peeps?! Well, some of his favored items I find *slightly* offensive. I don't know, maybe it's because once he finds a favorite, he wears it to death, much like his aforementioned "weekend" shirt. Ugh!
C'mon!! Be honest, you all have the same struggles! Im not the only one with an unruly spouse, am I?!?!
**side note: The Hubs really doesn't *care* for my fashion critique(s), nor my choice in clothing for him. I know, I know, I'm shocked too!
When he initially picked it out off the rack, I thought, sure, why not?
It was decidedly tame, no abhorrent colors or patterns and it was casual, so he could wear it anywhere (I now realize, looking back, that maybe that should've been the red flag!). Well, he's worn this shirt every. weekend.
He even refers to it as his "weekend" shirt. No joke! I'm so sick of seeing this stupid shirt that once winter got here, I was thrilled to wash it one last time for the season, and pack it away deep within the dresser drawer-in the hopes that he wouldn't find it.
So fast forward to two weeks ago (we're in the middle of winter), unbeknownst to me, he must've been rummaging through his dresser drawers. We're getting ready to run errands, when he comes strutting out of the bathroom and says proudly, "look, I found a new way to wear my "weekend shirt".
Crap.
I turn around in dread and to my great despair, he's wearing that stupid (bleeping) shirt! He'd *ingeniously* placed a long sleeve thermal shirt underneath said polo. Now, I don't know about you all, but, I lack a filter at times.... Seriously, if I were a super hero, curse words and speaking before thinking would be my super weakness (because I can't NOT do it), much like cryptonite is superman's-normally i'd refer to this as my "super power" (mainly because I excel at it!), but there's really no way I can pass these traits off in a positive light... Unless timing, insensitivity and snark are to be commended....
Soooooo, I opened my mouth and blurted, "How in the (bleep) did you find that stupid (bleeping) shirt?!".
Now, he's fully aware that I've managed to *hide* his favorite items before. He *lost* his favorite florescent orange fleece pullover with the black trim, during our move home.... No idea how that happened?? As well as his trucker baseball cap. Bummer... Then there was his black skeleton hoodie. Tragic...
You get my drift, and so did he, he's not easily duped! I have to go to *great lengths* to pull one over on him, and even then, I'm not entirely convinced that I've been successful...
I must've really pissed him off with this one, because he didn't speak nor blink an eye. He just calmly took his weekend shirt off and tossed it to the ground at my feet.
Oops, my bad.
I felt horrible and (lets be honest) slightly relieved that he wouldn't be wearing it again-at least not anytime soon!? (fingers crossed, fingers crossed!!!)
Well, I haven't seen it since and I can't help but wonder if it'll make an appearance this spring?! I also can't help wondering what, (if anything??) the Hubster might decide to *hide* of mine in retaliation if he ever reads this blog?!?!
If it's my new eyebrow pencil, I'm (bleeped).
**I bleeped my curse words in this segment, because to be honest, there were just too bleeping many of them! I'd like to add, that my Hubster is one in a million, his sense of humor is at times outrageous and always keeps me in stitches! That being said, after this post, if no one's seen, nor heard from me in a while, come LOOKING!!!
C'mon!! Be honest, you all have the same struggles! Im not the only one with an unruly spouse, am I?!?!
**side note: The Hubs really doesn't *care* for my fashion critique(s), nor my choice in clothing for him. I know, I know, I'm shocked too!
When he initially picked it out off the rack, I thought, sure, why not?
It was decidedly tame, no abhorrent colors or patterns and it was casual, so he could wear it anywhere (I now realize, looking back, that maybe that should've been the red flag!). Well, he's worn this shirt every. weekend.
He even refers to it as his "weekend" shirt. No joke! I'm so sick of seeing this stupid shirt that once winter got here, I was thrilled to wash it one last time for the season, and pack it away deep within the dresser drawer-in the hopes that he wouldn't find it.
So fast forward to two weeks ago (we're in the middle of winter), unbeknownst to me, he must've been rummaging through his dresser drawers. We're getting ready to run errands, when he comes strutting out of the bathroom and says proudly, "look, I found a new way to wear my "weekend shirt".
Crap.
I turn around in dread and to my great despair, he's wearing that stupid (bleeping) shirt! He'd *ingeniously* placed a long sleeve thermal shirt underneath said polo. Now, I don't know about you all, but, I lack a filter at times.... Seriously, if I were a super hero, curse words and speaking before thinking would be my super weakness (because I can't NOT do it), much like cryptonite is superman's-normally i'd refer to this as my "super power" (mainly because I excel at it!), but there's really no way I can pass these traits off in a positive light... Unless timing, insensitivity and snark are to be commended....
Soooooo, I opened my mouth and blurted, "How in the (bleep) did you find that stupid (bleeping) shirt?!".
Now, he's fully aware that I've managed to *hide* his favorite items before. He *lost* his favorite florescent orange fleece pullover with the black trim, during our move home.... No idea how that happened?? As well as his trucker baseball cap. Bummer... Then there was his black skeleton hoodie. Tragic...
You get my drift, and so did he, he's not easily duped! I have to go to *great lengths* to pull one over on him, and even then, I'm not entirely convinced that I've been successful...
I must've really pissed him off with this one, because he didn't speak nor blink an eye. He just calmly took his weekend shirt off and tossed it to the ground at my feet.
Oops, my bad.
I felt horrible and (lets be honest) slightly relieved that he wouldn't be wearing it again-at least not anytime soon!? (fingers crossed, fingers crossed!!!)
Well, I haven't seen it since and I can't help but wonder if it'll make an appearance this spring?! I also can't help wondering what, (if anything??) the Hubster might decide to *hide* of mine in retaliation if he ever reads this blog?!?!
If it's my new eyebrow pencil, I'm (bleeped).
**I bleeped my curse words in this segment, because to be honest, there were just too bleeping many of them! I'd like to add, that my Hubster is one in a million, his sense of humor is at times outrageous and always keeps me in stitches! That being said, after this post, if no one's seen, nor heard from me in a while, come LOOKING!!!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A shout out to the Hubster!
The Hubster bought me Lynea UGG boots for Christmas!!! These babies are so unbelievably awesome, that while wearing them, they give me the illusion I'm a sexy hipster still kickin' it in my twenties.
Seriously.
I'm so enamored of them, err, *him*, that I'll even take back every mean thing I've ever said about him, or to him, in the heat of battle and it's aftermath...
*Disclaimer: Above said statement dose NOT include the following instances. Fights and or disagreements, where the Hubs is TOTALLY in the wrong. (i.e. All the time.). Arguments that span years worth of gripes that have, as yet, not been agreed upon-in my favor.
These are all considered battle tactics and cannot be compromised nor will any quarter be given. This notation must be upheld at all times-especially when accepting rockin' gifts that are undeniably well deserved...
That being said, a great big "THANK YOU" to my dearest Hubster! I promise I'll be on my best behavior going forward!
Pfttttt.... Who am I kidding?! I promise to NOT make any *promises* I can't keep! That seems more attainable... I think?! Oh, screw it! Let's just say, I have the BEST Hubs ever and leave it at that. Mwuah!
Ladies, all kidding aside, I highly recommend purchasing yourselves a pair, I'm in love! *sqwee*
Seriously.
I'm so enamored of them, err, *him*, that I'll even take back every mean thing I've ever said about him, or to him, in the heat of battle and it's aftermath...
*Disclaimer: Above said statement dose NOT include the following instances. Fights and or disagreements, where the Hubs is TOTALLY in the wrong. (i.e. All the time.). Arguments that span years worth of gripes that have, as yet, not been agreed upon-in my favor.
These are all considered battle tactics and cannot be compromised nor will any quarter be given. This notation must be upheld at all times-especially when accepting rockin' gifts that are undeniably well deserved...
That being said, a great big "THANK YOU" to my dearest Hubster! I promise I'll be on my best behavior going forward!
Pfttttt.... Who am I kidding?! I promise to NOT make any *promises* I can't keep! That seems more attainable... I think?! Oh, screw it! Let's just say, I have the BEST Hubs ever and leave it at that. Mwuah!
Ladies, all kidding aside, I highly recommend purchasing yourselves a pair, I'm in love! *sqwee*
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Towels and washcloths, there's a reason these should be as disposable as paper towels...
The 4 year old, (oh, let's just call him "Charlie", for shits and giggles) had a little trouble cleaning himself after a rather messy cleansing of the bowels. Instead of calling me in to help, Audie (the 6 year old) decides to take control. “What can I do for you honey?” she says sweetly, (as if she doesn't want to wring his little neck 20 hours outta a 24 hour day!). Charlie, clearly frustrated, “My butts dirty, I can’t get it.". At this point he's gone through a bazillion *tiny* pieces of toilet paper. Annoyed at his own ineptness, he whines, "Help me Auds?”. Ever valiant, she grabs some toilet paper. “Oh, all right." she sighs as if extremely put upon-even though she volunteered for this particular mission. "Bend over sweetie”.
After a few failed attempts, with Auds standing about a mile away and swiping tentatively in the vicinity of his rear end, he's had enough and yells, “MOM! Need a little more help here!”. *sigh*
I knew it would come to this, but, I let her try anyway and here's why:
Everyone has a "Dad" parenting moment, when they say to themselves, "lets just see what happens". Come on fellow Mom's, you know what I'm talking about! Where the Dad, Aka the responsible individual in charge *cough*, tends to observe a situation instead of stepping in to prevent the issue all together? This is usually where family "accidents" occur, you know, the ones us women tend to discuss and laugh at during family gatherings??
Such as, "Johnny was showing me how he can walk backwards, when all of a sudden he fell down the stairs! Never saw it coming!" or "Ernestine wanted to make a tent under a folding table and secured the blanket on top with a series of well placed bricks. Ingenious plan I thought, until one of the bricks fell on her head!". Okay, that last one was actually my BFF and I when we were kids, but, where was her Dad when this happened, huh?!? Clearly, that's a tale for another time...
Back to the story at hand, I walk into the bathroom and grab a warm soapy wash cloth and proceed to clean his foul ass. Mission completed, Charlie's one happy camper scampering away to play. Blissful, with the knowledge that he's now traumatized his sister forever. Two words, Demon. Spawn. Audie looks at me and in a somewhat state of shock, says (with no small amount of disgust), “I am never using that wash cloth again!". Visibly shudders, "Yuck!”.
Now I ask you, should I shatter her peace of mind and tell her every wash cloth she uses has at one time touched each of her brother’s, her Dad's and my nether regions?! I could be kind and let her live with a false sense of security, but then thats not how I roll.
**Messing with the kids, not quite as enjoyable as envisioning a mental kick to an annoying persons head, but nonetheless gratifying!
This latest episode at the homestead Asylum, got me thinking, Auds has an astonishingly good point! Towels and washcloths should definitely be made to be disposable. By disposable, I mean burned, bombed and destroyed, never to be seen again. When washing/drying your face/hair etc.. have you ever thought, (just THOUGHT?!) about the disgusting crevices that that particular piece of cloth has journeyed on various parts of your families/house guests bodies?!
Peeps, there's a reason these should be as disposable as paper towels. Because really, does a washing machine ever *truly* make you forget, that the towel your drying your hair with was used only a week or two ago, to clean up Cindy's puke or (in our case) Charlie's poopy butt?! I assure you, I now avoid that particular wash cloth like the plague.
Which leads me to yet another observation, (of which is far worse), using hotels and hospitals complimentary towels/washcloths, that multiple strangers have used on the disgusting crevices of THEIR bodies?! Yikes!
Happy showering! *snicker*
P.s. Don't even think of kicking me in the head, that's my thing! ;)
After a few failed attempts, with Auds standing about a mile away and swiping tentatively in the vicinity of his rear end, he's had enough and yells, “MOM! Need a little more help here!”. *sigh*
I knew it would come to this, but, I let her try anyway and here's why:
Everyone has a "Dad" parenting moment, when they say to themselves, "lets just see what happens". Come on fellow Mom's, you know what I'm talking about! Where the Dad, Aka the responsible individual in charge *cough*, tends to observe a situation instead of stepping in to prevent the issue all together? This is usually where family "accidents" occur, you know, the ones us women tend to discuss and laugh at during family gatherings??
Such as, "Johnny was showing me how he can walk backwards, when all of a sudden he fell down the stairs! Never saw it coming!" or "Ernestine wanted to make a tent under a folding table and secured the blanket on top with a series of well placed bricks. Ingenious plan I thought, until one of the bricks fell on her head!". Okay, that last one was actually my BFF and I when we were kids, but, where was her Dad when this happened, huh?!? Clearly, that's a tale for another time...
Back to the story at hand, I walk into the bathroom and grab a warm soapy wash cloth and proceed to clean his foul ass. Mission completed, Charlie's one happy camper scampering away to play. Blissful, with the knowledge that he's now traumatized his sister forever. Two words, Demon. Spawn. Audie looks at me and in a somewhat state of shock, says (with no small amount of disgust), “I am never using that wash cloth again!". Visibly shudders, "Yuck!”.
Now I ask you, should I shatter her peace of mind and tell her every wash cloth she uses has at one time touched each of her brother’s, her Dad's and my nether regions?! I could be kind and let her live with a false sense of security, but then thats not how I roll.
**Messing with the kids, not quite as enjoyable as envisioning a mental kick to an annoying persons head, but nonetheless gratifying!
This latest episode at the homestead Asylum, got me thinking, Auds has an astonishingly good point! Towels and washcloths should definitely be made to be disposable. By disposable, I mean burned, bombed and destroyed, never to be seen again. When washing/drying your face/hair etc.. have you ever thought, (just THOUGHT?!) about the disgusting crevices that that particular piece of cloth has journeyed on various parts of your families/house guests bodies?!
Peeps, there's a reason these should be as disposable as paper towels. Because really, does a washing machine ever *truly* make you forget, that the towel your drying your hair with was used only a week or two ago, to clean up Cindy's puke or (in our case) Charlie's poopy butt?! I assure you, I now avoid that particular wash cloth like the plague.
Which leads me to yet another observation, (of which is far worse), using hotels and hospitals complimentary towels/washcloths, that multiple strangers have used on the disgusting crevices of THEIR bodies?! Yikes!
Happy showering! *snicker*
P.s. Don't even think of kicking me in the head, that's my thing! ;)
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Styling mishaps, a lesson learned.
Okay, so one of the things I *really* wish my Mom would've imparted, words of wisdom wise, was to never, ever, under any circumstances, should you over pluck, nor *shave* your eyebrows.
I'm sure you can figure out where this is going?! Basically, it comes down to this, I'm an idiot. No, I'm not judging myself too harshly, trust me. I remember looking in the mirror during my teens thinking, hmmm, my eyebrows are a bit fuller than I'd like. Yet, it was the late eighties and no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, so I figured I was fairly safe. Now we've entered the very early nineties, and still no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, but for some obscure reason, I got it into my head to *fix* them anyway. Here's where things go terribly awry....
I didn't know one was supposed to pluck or wax the offensive hairs and having decided that I needed to resemble Demi Moore to the full extreme, aside from having her pixie cut from Ghost, I was going to shape my eyebrows.
My BFF had come over to hang with me, over the years she'd gotten used to my styling mishaps. So when she walked in and stared at me, it wasn't out of character for her to notice something was slightly "off" in my appearance.
She looked me over rather intently, so perplexed was she at trying to figure out what I'd done. "Why do you look different?", She was really frustrated. Smashing my bangs to my forehead with her hand she eyed them critically, "Did you cut your bangs again?!" she accused.
Side note, since I was very small, I'd aggravate both my Mom and our beautician by cutting my own bangs and by cutting I mean butchering... My BFF knew me so well!
With her hand still smashed to my forehead eyeing the trim line of my bangs, I replied, somewhat in disgust at her criticism, "No!" then calmly, "I shaved my eyebrows.". She was utterly dumbfounded, "you shav-?!?!". She couldn't even finish the sentence so stupefied was she by my casualness, given the hack job I'd done.
To this day, when I recall this conversation, I crack up and almost wet myself from the remembered incredulity on her face, that I could do something so stupid! Not to mention giving her props for willingly being seen in public with me!LOL!!!
Okay, twenty something years later, I don't find my eyebrow mishap as funny. I mean it's a funny story, there's no doubt, but man the regrets I have!
First of all, no one ever tells you that your eyebrows thin as you age, nor that they'll grow back at odd angles, or that they'll never truly be reshaped accurately again. This is why I have to draw or fill mine in every time I leave the house. Also, like a dumb ass, I've been known to ask the Hubster if I look alright before we leave for any given event. What a big mistake that is, because his response is always an unfailing *innocently* inquired, "Sure, but did you intentionally draw your eyebrows on crooked?". Or when we're at Walmart and I say to the Hubs, "Hey, don't let me forget my eyebrow pencil.", he says, "Why not just cut your losses already?" and my favorite, when he has a long gray eyebrow hair and I repeatedly ask him to let me pluck it, he deadpans, "I've seen what you've done to your own brows, there's no way your touching mine!". Kick to the head folks, ninja style.
While I give him points for being humorous (because he really is funny!), he's also intelligent enough to know NOT to make me draw in my angry brows! .\/.
So, this is why my daughter and I will have a LONG ass, *in depth* talk about never waxing, over plucking and above all NO shaving of said eyebrows. Best advice I can give, is have them professionally done, or leave 'em the Hell alone and if you see me coming at you with a razor, run like the wind!!!!
I'm sure you can figure out where this is going?! Basically, it comes down to this, I'm an idiot. No, I'm not judging myself too harshly, trust me. I remember looking in the mirror during my teens thinking, hmmm, my eyebrows are a bit fuller than I'd like. Yet, it was the late eighties and no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, so I figured I was fairly safe. Now we've entered the very early nineties, and still no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, but for some obscure reason, I got it into my head to *fix* them anyway. Here's where things go terribly awry....
I didn't know one was supposed to pluck or wax the offensive hairs and having decided that I needed to resemble Demi Moore to the full extreme, aside from having her pixie cut from Ghost, I was going to shape my eyebrows.
My BFF had come over to hang with me, over the years she'd gotten used to my styling mishaps. So when she walked in and stared at me, it wasn't out of character for her to notice something was slightly "off" in my appearance.
She looked me over rather intently, so perplexed was she at trying to figure out what I'd done. "Why do you look different?", She was really frustrated. Smashing my bangs to my forehead with her hand she eyed them critically, "Did you cut your bangs again?!" she accused.
Side note, since I was very small, I'd aggravate both my Mom and our beautician by cutting my own bangs and by cutting I mean butchering... My BFF knew me so well!
With her hand still smashed to my forehead eyeing the trim line of my bangs, I replied, somewhat in disgust at her criticism, "No!" then calmly, "I shaved my eyebrows.". She was utterly dumbfounded, "you shav-?!?!". She couldn't even finish the sentence so stupefied was she by my casualness, given the hack job I'd done.
To this day, when I recall this conversation, I crack up and almost wet myself from the remembered incredulity on her face, that I could do something so stupid! Not to mention giving her props for willingly being seen in public with me!LOL!!!
Okay, twenty something years later, I don't find my eyebrow mishap as funny. I mean it's a funny story, there's no doubt, but man the regrets I have!
First of all, no one ever tells you that your eyebrows thin as you age, nor that they'll grow back at odd angles, or that they'll never truly be reshaped accurately again. This is why I have to draw or fill mine in every time I leave the house. Also, like a dumb ass, I've been known to ask the Hubster if I look alright before we leave for any given event. What a big mistake that is, because his response is always an unfailing *innocently* inquired, "Sure, but did you intentionally draw your eyebrows on crooked?". Or when we're at Walmart and I say to the Hubs, "Hey, don't let me forget my eyebrow pencil.", he says, "Why not just cut your losses already?" and my favorite, when he has a long gray eyebrow hair and I repeatedly ask him to let me pluck it, he deadpans, "I've seen what you've done to your own brows, there's no way your touching mine!". Kick to the head folks, ninja style.
While I give him points for being humorous (because he really is funny!), he's also intelligent enough to know NOT to make me draw in my angry brows! .\/.
So, this is why my daughter and I will have a LONG ass, *in depth* talk about never waxing, over plucking and above all NO shaving of said eyebrows. Best advice I can give, is have them professionally done, or leave 'em the Hell alone and if you see me coming at you with a razor, run like the wind!!!!
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