The Husband began my day for me with delight by popping out a one liner that made me laugh out loud in a big guffaw:

I'm standing by the bed. I'm getting ready to go to work. I've opened my jewelry box and spread it out. I'm bent over, picking through it, trying to find a gold bracelet he gave me for my birthday. He walks up to the end of the bed and in his best Marlin Perkins "Wild Kingdom" off camera whisper says:

The female of the species carefully grazes her territory, picking through the succulent fruits of her labor.

This man, after all these years, makes me laugh out loud. Sweet!

Labels: husband

Two copies of all the photos: ten years worth of pictures and the new "this is what we own" pictures all on the laptop and the 2 gig drive - the drive in the "Gotta Go" bags. A thousand stupid souls on Galveston.

One of the NEW things I've heard that I've never heard with a storm before: On Boliver, the officials have sent out a request to those who are still there that they take a permanent black marker and write their social security numbers on their forearms so that their bodies can be identified after the storm. If that doesn't say "You're a dumb fuck" I don't know what does.

Me? Doing laundry. Digging stuff out that has been in baskets for a few weeks, and stuff that has been actually lost for a while. I don't think I even knew that I own six pair of bed sheets. I did find a few socks that The Husband has been missing. And I've been wondering where that blue sweaater has been.

I want to pack an extra box of amunition in my "Gotta Go Bag", but I'm unable to decide if it should be magnum or not. This has really struck me. Holy cow. I am such a Texan. Hmmmm... tracers, magnums, wad cutters, or just specials?

Oh! And don't forget q-tips and the Chanel No.5. There are some things a girl just has to have.

Labels: headlines, husband, personal urban drama, texas

Ever laughed so hard you almost peed your pants when you'd been out of bed less than 20 minutes?

The phone rings - it's a friend of me and The Husband's. We don't get to talk with this friend often because he's been "in country" for abut 5 years now. Not "in" this country. In THAT country. Actually, in THOSE countries. He was in Afghanistan for about three years or so. Then he requested a transfer to Iraq because the living conditions there are better. Wow, huh?

Anyway - this friend of ours is a guy The Husband grew up with - they've known one another since young childhood. The Husband is a very conservative man, although he isn't a right wing fanatic. He's a fanatic, just not that way. I don't think. I could be wrong. Stockholm and all that, you know.

This buddy is a raving, drooling lunatic fringe leftie. I won't even say Democrat because that's too conservative. I won't say Unabomber because A) he's not that smart an B) He's not that energetic.

So Lunatic Fringe Buddy calls this morning and The Husband is chatting with him. You wanna know how wild this modern world is? This buddy was calling from Iraq, about 12 miles from the Iranian border. Now don't go getting all "We're going to bomb the Mujahdeen!!!" crap on me, OK? Because this Fringe Buddy? He's with one of those contract companies. (Remember when the military used to peel its own potatoes? REMEMBER GOMER PYLE???)

Not that this guy is running a food wagon - he's a tech geek - but none the less he's there. So Fringe and The Hus are chat chat chatting. (Remember the weirdness of this world? They're CHATTING aimlessly from Houston to 12 miles from the Iraqi border.)

I'm not really listening, but I hear something about Fringe Boy and the Iraqi National Defense Form Training Center. I can't help but add in to the conversation "So you're becoming more Republican everyday?" and I totally crack up. Then I say, "He's a Lunatic Fringe Liberal profiting off the American Industrial Military Complex!"

Damned I'm funny.

Labels: headlines, husband

This might look painful. And it was. A little. OK, a lot. And I was resistant to pain meds.

Me: I don't LIKE codeine!
Husband: TAKE THEM! TAKE LOTS OF THEM!
Me: But I can take it. I'm strong. (Just give me a bullet to bite down on!)
Husband: (Standing at side of bed, hand full of pills.) TAKE THE DAMNED PILLS CAROL TAKE THE DAMNED PILLS.

Eventually he started just sneaking them into the meds I normally take every morning. He's a good man.

Labels: husband, medicine, personal urban drama

I know it's going to sound like a joke but really - do you want the United States Navy's recipe for scrambled eggs? First, I shit you not, the United States Navy HAS a written recipe for scrambled eggs. That's right. It's written down. It has rules. And oh, yeah, it feeds 100.

Sometimes, at 1 a.m., a girl is curled up in bed with her laptop and her dog, innocently surfing around, and she runs across the strangest things. How can the whole world not be schizophrenic when sometimes all we set out to do is get a big mug and things end up like this?

It is cold in Houston (low 40's). (Shut up.) I want hot chocolate. We don't drink coffee. We have a few mugs that have come into our lives here and there, but only one of them is big enough for hot chocolate. This is a problem when it's dirty. Wash it, you say. Bah! Humbug!

What if The Husband and I BOTH want hot chocolate at the same time, hmmmmm Mr. Smarty Pants? What then??? Hmmmm?

So we're in the market for some oversized ceramic mugs. And I'm surfing around, thinking hmmm mug... hmmm big mug... hmmm really big mugggggg. I'm finding a mug here and there. But most of them are, well, cute. They have bunnies, or flowers, or other CUTE crap on them. I don't want cute. Finally, I run across a mug (on Ioffer) that is big and it isn't cute - it's a John Deere mug!! I think whoa now that's a MUG!

Alas, there is only one. But it gets me thinking and I'm thinking I should get some cool mugs. And that means Navy, of course. 'Cause, you know, sailors. Of course. Or firemen. Hey!! I just thought of that. I'll go back and look at that later. But back to the food thing. Because if we start on the firemen thing this story will never get told and I SHIT YOU NOT it's worth hanging around for.

SO. Navy mug. I find the Navy website. Did you know the Navy has a POSTURE? Of course you did. I am looking for something like the.... Navy gift shop. Yeah. That's it. But it doesn't appear that the Navy thinks branded key chains and tea towels are nearly as important as well, doing Navy stuff. So if they HAVE a gift shop it isn't so obvious. They do, however, have something called an Information Index, so I go there and have no luck with random guesses - merchandise, gifts, store, etc.

I start methodically going through each letter. From Z backwards. There is all sorts of fascinating stuff here. If you want to know - I mean REALLY know - how to behave in regards to the Stars and Stripes go click on U. And if you are interested in "Resources to help you deal with life's issues" (AGAIN I shit you not) go click on N and look at Navy One Source. Is this the Softer Side of Service, or what? But with N I'm getting ahead of myself.

I was going backwards from Z and I got to R. I was looking for SOMEHWERE TO BUY A BIG MUG, remember? That's where this all started. All I wanted was a big assed mug without a bunny on it. So I clicked on R. And right there, for all the world to see - can you BELIEVE Al Queda hasn't taken over yet - is a link to Recipes, Navy.

Yeah, I know!!! I thought the same thing!! I thought - bwwwahahahahahahaha. Are you KIDDING ME? They think people WANT these? Like you muster out and just can't wait to get the little woman to recreate for you that great mystery meat dish you always had on Thursdays while you were in uniform? Puhlease. And there's the disclaimer right by the link that says "NOTE: Feeds 100" sort of like "Danger there be monsters there" or something. Like ooooh well that's scary it feeds 100???? Oh don't click it, Martha!!!

But of course I had to click it. And, yeah, AGAIN, I shit you not, the Navy is SERIOUS. It's not Betty Crocker let me tell you. It's the Naval Logistics Library NEXCOM Recipe Repository. I mean holy crap. And if you've ever seen a worse little piece of shit clip art hamburger in your life I want to hear about it. So go on and do a few searches but FIRST, search for scrambled eggs because REALLY TRULY there is an official, written, codified, approved, detailed, specific, (but apparently not too secret) recipe.

By the way, I searched for hummus and bok choi. Neither of them are there. They do have a recipe for snail, but it's not the animal. Apparently it's a pastry. That I've never heard of.

Now I'm going to go look into that whole fireman thing. I know HFD has an awesome calendar. Now THAT'S a mug. (Hardyharharhar.)

Oh, PS. The SEALS have their own web site, too. Shhhhhh.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

Sometimes a radio talk show will make you just flat out laugh like an idiot.

Yesterday it was Chris Baker. Just to amuse himself, he had opened up the show to Chupakaaaaabra, Bigfoot, Lady of the Lake, UFO freaks, etc. So this Rube calls in to talk about this guy he knows who had a Close Encounter a number of years ago.

Chris and The Rube talk about this guy for a while. The Rube tells about how he and the guy were out in the woods one night "wearin burt orange 'cause ya know we dint want tu get shot" when the guy went off by himself for a bit. He came back with a wild story about a UFO. The guy was covered with what later turned out to be radiation burns "he'us burt'n stuff liek-at". Apparently The Rube still knows this guy so Chris was asking about the guy, how his current health is, is he married, what kind of work does he do, etc.

THEN Chris asks "So is this a well rounded guy?" and - I swear I just totally swear I actually felt it coming - The Rube thought about it a moment and then answered "Naw he's about 6'4".


And now for something completely different:
P.S. Happy Anniversary to The Husband and me.

Labels: headlines, husband

I do not freaking care what he says. It is all his fault.

If it weren't for the fact that he did this great thing that made me very proud of him, I wouldn't have gone to the grocery store to buy the Crunch 'n Munch as a congratulations present.

And if I hadn't bought the Crunch 'n Munch to congratulate him, I wouldn't have had to get it out of the car.

And if I hadn't needed to get it out of the car, I wouldn't have been naked in the garage, leaning over the passenger door of my zoomzoom, stretching to reach down into the floor well to get the bag the Crunch 'n Munch was in when I heard the automatic garage door opener start to open the garage door.

And if he hasn't hit his remote to open the garage door when he pulled into the driveway, I wouldn't have had the fastest string of thoughts ever in my life shoot through my brain - Garage Door! Opening! Carol! Naked! In Garage! RUNHIDE!RUNHIDE!RUNHIDE!

So it is his fault that I had this chemical flight reaction - there was no "fight or flight" - what the hell would I have fought? - of jerking up from the inside of the car and attempting to twist my left leg to the left and sprint to the left all at the same time because the only cover in the garage was to the left - at the back of my little zoomzoom. There was no way I could make it to the door into the house in time.

The problem is that, when my lizard brain flipped my body to the left to run from utter mortification, the sound that came out of my ankle was POP.

And that is why it is my husband's fault that I am propped up in the living room with my horrifically painful ankle on a footrest, happy that I have a stock of legally prescribed opiates on hand at all times. Happy that after I was recovered enough from The Accident that instead of getting rid of my Durable Medical Equipment I thought, you never know when you're going to need a cane, or a walker, or a wheelchair. Cause, well, ya know.....



It's all my husband's fault.

Labels: husband, medicine, miata, personal urban drama

The alarm on The Husband's side of the bed went off about fifteen minutes ago. No need to check your calendars. I'll vent the collective outrage right here. It's SUNDAY. Why the HELL is the alarm going off? Is Spike coming for brunch?? I haven't made any of those disgusting cucumber and watercress sandwiches. How can I host a brunch?

The alarm went off (On SUNDAY. Before NOON.) because The Husband's baby sister has bought a permanent dwelling and we are supposed to drive hell and gone out there to express our joy at her new home and share our sympathy as people who will owe money to a bank for the rest of our lives, too. I am assuming of course that she took a traditional 30 year mortgage instead of an ARM because if she didn't then she'll only owe the bank for about 48 months after which she'll be on our doorstep, blaming the "predatory lenders" because she was too stupid to read a piece of paper. Yeah I'm so happy and sympathetic, what with being up before noon on Sunday and all. Party whoo hoo. She better have good food.

As I throw off the covers and sit up on my side of the bed I say:

Me: I just thought of something. I don't have to go to this thing.
Him: Whaaa?? Yea you do.
Me: But you hardly ever go to the things I have to go to that do you don't want to go to.
Him: Hey I went to that thing at your sister's house - that Christmas thing or whatever it was.
Me: That's it, though that's the only thing.
Him: Well all the other stuff you want me to go to is with your friends.
Me: HEY. It's not my fault that The Sister is the only blood relative I have who isn't dead!

THEN he tells me we have to leave the house in 45 minutes.

Oh skipping through the tulips happy happy joy smiley sunshine sweetness world peace and no one will ever have to eat burnt toast again!

I told him 45 minutes just isn't going to happen.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

I won't inflict upon you all the long, long details of the dream but I will give you the strangeness of the end:

For some reason I had been forced to live in a VA hospital in a room with an ancient nun and a very old man who had a Santa Claus beard and belly. There was some discussion with the nun about how I'd been in worse VA hospitals, that this one just wasn't that bad.

While all the furniture in the room except the beds appeared to be lovely old antiques (something the old nun and I had a long, detailed discussion about) the beds were actually ironing boards and I spent a lot of time trying to decide what height I should have left mine at, and if I should have slept with my head at the narrow or the wide end.

My last thought before going to sleep that first night was how sad it was that I would miss The Husband so much forever, and how I should have treasured all those nights I got to hear him snore beside me because never again would I be able to gently (well, alright, not always so gently) and tell him to roll over, that he was keeping me awake, damned it.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

I was out for supper this weekend with a few lady friends. One of them, Mel, loves me dearly but declares that she has no time to read AC because when she is at work she "WORKS". My thought is, well, yeah. But it's not like she lives in a cave so, if she really loved me, should could read me at home.

The other two ladies said they both read me regularly. One of them, Lisa, I know reads me at work (even though I know that when she is at work she also WORKS).

The other one, She of the Loveliest Hair, Mrs. VDH, well, I have no idea where she reads me. But she started complaining that I haven't been posting enough lately. And then Lisa started complaining, too.

I complained back that I'm not getting the love. I told her that if my loyal public would leave me loving comments, i.e. "Hey Carol Damned You Post Already", I might be inspired to spew more often. To which, she and Lisa both declared: WE ARE LURKERS. Well damned. I'm getting no love from them. But here I am, giving it to them.

This is the latest randomness. I don't normally do randomness, but that's all they're getting.

When I got home tonight and walked into the house from the garage, I smelled food. It's nice to come home and be greeted by the smell of The Husband having supper almost ready.

Hey, you - in the big black SUV who almost rear ended me so you could get around me in traffic today? Yeah, you. You're the same guy who cut off the little red Honda Civic in the lane next to me so you could get in front of them, too. Didn't you feel like a big man when we both pulled up behind you at the red light? Yeah. All that maniacal driving got you way far ahead, huh?

My ZoomZoom has been in the shop for about a week because it had developed a leak at the apex of the driver's side window, the wind screen, and the top. They had to replace all sorts of rubber pieces. I had a loaner. There is a lot of room in a Mazda 3 but there isn't any ZoomZoom.

Exiled Cult member Celeste was in town last week from Virginia for a short visit. I love hugging her. She's tiny and she smells wonderful. She gives great hug, and her hair is like silk. She has the greatest smile, and she hugs like she never wants to let go, even if she just saw you yesterday. Also, her shoes are great. We all miss her.

Cult Leader Susy left me again last Wednesday. I've been really snippy to her because I can be, but I did bring her a dozen roses on Monday. When I dropped them off at her new office the receptionist asked if she should tell Susy who had left them. I told her that no, Susy would know. I'm thinking the receptionist thought maybe I was a girly stalker. Every time Susy leaves me I make sure she has flowers the first day at her new job no matter how snippy I am being. This makes THREE. Bitch.

The 4 year old nephew of one of our Honorary Cult members drown last week. All the horrible things you can think of accompanied that along with some things you couldn't imagine. For instance. On the online version of the Houston Chronicle readers can leave comments. Folks who read the first news story about it left the most vile comments, such as "Why was the mother at work and not at home with her child?" etc. Just disgusting stuff.

Moleskin really works.

I was really sleepy this morning while I was in the shower. I didn't even take the time to dry my hair before I left for work. I had the windows down in the car and I was finger combing my hair, trying to get it to dry. It was very silky because I am using a new kind of conditioner. It felt so good I started to worry that I hadn't remembered to wash the conditioner out of it. I concentrated really hard but I just couldn't remember. Hmmm. Work conditioner into hair. Shave legs. Scrub face. Rinse conditioner??? RINSE CONDITIONER??? Am I going to look like I used Brylcreem all day? Thankfully, no. I apparently am capable of bathing from start to finish even when I am asleep.

I've taught The Black Dog a new trick that is absolutely HELL for him. I take a chicken flavored rawhide. I place it on my left shoulder. (He and I are both on the bed when I'm doing this.) I make him sit at the foot of the bed while I'm at the head of the bed. I make him sit and stay. HE QUIVERS. He mourns. His tail vibrates. His nose sweats. I say, "Stay". I move the rawhide around a bit just to torture him a little. I'll let this go on for three or four minutes before I say "OK!". MAN does he move! But then he very, very gently lifts the rawhide off my shoulder and lays down to kill that hard piece of cow. He's a good dog.

I got a wild hair and bought a bright red purse on eBay the other day. Can't wait til it gets here. Enough of this oh so chic black crap. I want to glow in the dark.

There, Mrs. VDH and Lisa. Happy now?

Labels: cult, husband, miata, personal urban drama

The Husband just called me on his cell phone.

Me: Hello?
Him: Honey?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Can you hear this? (holds phone away from him)

(I hear rushing water in the distance.)

Him: Did you hear that??
Me: Yeah.
Him: Isn't that cool??
Me: ??
Him: That's Niagara Falls!!

Don't ask me why when he gets home his remote control for the garage door won't work, or why he can't find the charger for his electric razor, or why the back of the chair he sits in at his computer reclines a lot farther back than it did when he left, or why every pair of his socks is mismatched, or why his 12-pack of Coke was left out on the kitchen counter to get warm, or why only MY movies came in the mail from Netflix, or why he's out of shampoo, or why there aren't any of HIS flavor of Pop-Tarts left, or why there is sand in his pillow cases, or why his toothbrush taste like horseradish...

Labels: husband

There is a tangible difference between quiet and silent.

As I walked through my house this afternoon it was silent. Not only because there was no noise. It not only sounded silent. It felt silent. It looked silent. It was blank. Now I know how The Husband feels.

It isn't all that unusual for me to take a weekend here or there in the fall or spring and go to Austin. I hang out with my brother, drive around in the hills, take the Black Dog with me to enjoy the cool air and chase a new breed of squirrel. I always miss The Husband, and I am always happy to get home and have a big hug. But it is always me going away and coming home.

It isn't at all unusual for me to get home after work before The Husband. I come in the house, turn off the alarm, drop my keys on the key table. I greet the Black Dog, undress, grab a diet Coke. I'll run my email, maybe take a shower. I'll call The Husband to check his ETA or he'll call me to see if I want him to bring supper. It is quiet, but there are things that are going to happen.

That is the difference between quiet and silence. Quiet is short - it is a few moments or a few hours. Silent is long. It is days or weeks or longer.

This is the first time in our fifteen years together that The Husband has been the one to leave. Oh, a few times he would drive down to Victoria to visit his Dad for a day. But he was just an hour or so down the road and, if I wanted to, I could hop in the car and go join them. That was different. This is the first time he's really Been Gone.

So this is what it feels like for him when I leave for a few days. This is what silence feels like. The Husband got on a plane this morning and flew to Canada. He's gone to a business conference. I'm proud of him that he's worked hard and that he got the promotion that put him in the group of people that have to go to conferences. But silence feels strange. It's not necessarily bad. Just strange. And this with having the Black Dog to jump up on me! When I go to Austin, The Husband doesn't even have that to welcome him home.

When I was a young girl and my Dad first started traveling a lot for business I had no idea what it was like for my Mother. Those first trips to Moscow were a few weeks long, but then they stretched to months at a time. I can't imagine The Husband being gone for a month. He'll be back on Thursday. That's only four days. I can't imagine months. What would I do with my heart?

I hope he brings me something cheesy with a maple leaf on it.

Labels: husband

This morning I awoke before my alarm clock rang. Don't you hate that? I was snuggled down deep in warm blankets. The Black Dog was stretched out along my back. He felt like... a big warm black dog. The bladder won the sleep or get out of bed argument. Don't you hate that?

The Husband and I are grousing around the house. It has rained in Houston for 40 days and 40 nights. Huge, street flooding, lightning laden, thunder filled, dog scaring rain. As I took my first sip of my morning Diet Coke, The Husband walked through the living room. "Is it going to rain today?" he asked.

"It will rain, dear husband. It will rain with great waters sloshing through the bayous just before it is time for us to leave work for lunch. It will continue raining so that the streets are flooded and the traffic is backed up, the cars populated by frustrated, angry, stupid drivers just before it is time for us to come home. There will be locust and plague."

He said, "I have to go take a shower."

I think - why? Just wait for the locust and plague.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

So! Camping. This is our second time at Garner State Park. The state of Texas has a great state park system and The Husband and I have enjoyed many of them. Garner happens to have been our second choice for the location of our wedding - there is a pavilion there with a beautiful outdoor circular dance floor with an inlaid stone design that hovers over the edge of the Frio River. We ended up going with our first choice, outside of Fort Davis on Blue Mountain, and we are glad we did. But I digress.

We left Houston on Monday. How many ways can I describe rain? Drizzle. Splashsplash. WOOOSH go the 18 wheelers at 90mph in a 70mph zone where they should actually be going 50mph because visibility is only about 4 feet. RAINHARDRAIN. I-10 is so much fun in a torrential thunderstorm. Oh, did I tell you it was raining? And we had a tent? And plans to sleep in a tent? In the woods? WITH THE RAIN? Yeah, we were amazed at our brilliance, too.

Past San Antonio. Gee. It is still wet. Wet as in hail. Hard hail. Is all hail hard? In my experience, yes. It seems harder when it is hitting the hood of your husband's shiny car, which he thinks should remain show-room new looking until it dies at 300,000 miles. So there is a little stress in the Honda.

Into Hondo. Damned that's a nice town. Mainly because the people are nice. Just a little rain. BUT STILL, rain. Leaving Hondo, I remark to The Husband that it would be nice to live in a town where the people are so nice. He remarks that Hondo has a large, active Christian influence. I remark back that this isn't necessarily a bad thing. I go on to observe that an active Christian community can result in fewer flip offs in traffic (which by the way, there isn't any traffic in Hondo), less murder, rape, and mayhem. Less spitting of chewed gum onto sidewalks. The Husband remarks that in order to fit into such a community one would have to not be a hoyden. He says this implying that I would not fit into such a community. I remind him that I gave up my hoyden days almost two decades ago, about the same time I gave up wearing black suede come-fuck-me pumps and going without underwear. He just looks at me knowingly. I would have kicked him if my knee still worked so I could move my leg that way in a moving car.

Passing through Sabinal, the heavens open and the glorious God's bright sunshine greets us, shining through a Columbia blue sky with friendly white puffy clouds. Yeah, we're camping damned it. And you can't stop us!

We have a camping strategy. We camp in the spring and in the fall. Now, we haven't camped since the accident so I am special happy happy about this trip. In the spring we always plan adventure for the week after spring break and before Easter. Our experience has proven that during this time, state parks are damned near empty. Garner has about 350 sites for tent campers and vehicle campers. It's a big park. It is bordered by the loveliest quite little river, the Frio (yes, it lives up to its name). We trolled the park deciding which site we wanted. We counted about 20 sites in the entire park in use. WE LOVE THAT! We chose Live Oak and damned if we didn't choose the best site in the park. There were three other campers in this area, all grouped way far away from us, all Winnebago people who were traveling together. So basically we had the whole damned place to ourselves.

For three days. Until God came back with the rain. Yeah, you remember the rain, right? AS IN WET? IN A TENT? On Wednesday afternoon the park host came over to check on us.

"How you folks doing?"
"Great!"
"You know the RAIN is gonna come back tonight?"
"No, we aren't listening to anything. Didn't bring a radio or a phone."
"Well they say it's going to be bad starting about midnight and then it will be really bad all night and then tomorrow, well, maybe you folks want to break camp tonight. Seeing as how ya'll are in a tent and all."

HEY. We have driven to Alaska. We have dodged black bears on the road, survived 18 wheelers loaded with fresh trees hurtling down the Cassiar as if the devil was chasing them when in truth they just really wanted a hot cup of coffee, navigated the Maw Of Hell in California, made in rain in Death Valley. You think we're afraid of a little wet? WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' WET. Oh, wait, that doesn't make sense.

Let's just say that I learned something about myself on this trip. I learned that I should be ashamed of all those years I made fun of people who live in mobile homes when tornadoes come. I learned that people who live in Coleman tents when tornadoes come are more better stupider.

Labels: husband, texas, vacation

The Husband (who's skin is paler that the most upper crust Victorian femme) got a nasty sunburn on the back of his legs this weekend. I sprayed the hell out of it with Solarcain on Sunday. That stuff was in the air and it made my tongue go numb. It's still numb. And tastes nasty. I know you were dying to learn this.

Labels: husband

Everyone's favorite physician blogger (well, mine at least), Dr. Charles, has introduced the lay world to what is for most of us a new word: Eschara. It is a public record of private people's personal history as documented by the scars on their bodies. Take a peek at the memories invoked by the marks. Join me and my right wrist by sharing some of yours.

Labels: accident, bloggers, husband, medicine

My husband is a damned Mookie stealer.

There are very few things my husband and I actually share a genuine common interest in. We both like to blow things up. We both like ice cream. We both are inordinately fond of The Black Dog. We both love a good road trip. I'm working hard here to think of anything else except....Survivor. Yeah. We're that pathetic. A TV show is one of our few common interests.

We've watched it together from the first season. The person we want to win never does. Granted, he usually roots for the girl with the biggest boobs and I usually root for the guy with the best shoulder/arm configuration. That's OK with both of us even though it makes him an idiot. After the first couple of seasons, The Husband's Best Friend started watching. This evolved to a Thursday night tradition of The Husband and I at home with the TV and The Best Friend at his home with the TV, all of us having a phone at hand. The instant Survivor breaks for commercial The Best Friend uses speed dial and The Husband answers his call before the phone even rings. During the commercial break they denigrate, insult, dissect, and roast whatever happened since the last commercial. I serve as the peanut gallery.

This year about 30 minutes before the Big Opening, The Husband suggested a wager. He got The Best Friend on the phone and the three of us hammered out a detente. We settled on the following:

At the end of the first show we would each pick four players in a round robin with no duplication. There will be two opportunities to win.

1. The first player that each of us chose will be the first opportunity. The person whose first choice is voted off the earliest looses and has to take the other two, "The Winners", out for supper.

2. At the final four, there will be a count of each person's original four picks and the person with the fewest players left from their original four is the looser and has to take the other two, again, out for supper.

Seeing as how all three of us are opinionated, obstinate, argumentative, and (in the case of The Husband and The Best Friend) pig headed, it took a lot of back and forth to settle the terms of the wager.

During the show we all three took careful notes, scoring, judging, guessing. For some of the players it was pretty easy. They got a lot of air time and we got to see a couple of them act like total asses. A few of the players got no air time at all and we weren't even totally sure of their names when the show ended. But we all had to make our choices. Before the show started, we had The Best Friend's wife pick a number from 1-1,000 and we had to each guess a number to determine the order for the round robin. The Husband got to go first, then me, then The Best Friend. If past history was a guide, I felt great because The Husband would go for the boobs but NO. The rotten bastard broke all precedent and took my Mookie. He KNOWS how I feel about that particular shoulder/arm male configuration and I think he did it just to piss me off. Let me tell you the next time I cook supper for him it's gonna have a LOT of jalapeno as a main ingredient. He'll regret taking my Mookie. Although I do have to give him a little slack since it looks like the best boobs on the show actually belong to the girl who quit just before kick off because of her panic attacks. Gonna have to think on that one.

So this is where we settled. I better win. And that Mookie stealer is going to have to take me for boiled shrimp.

The Husband's Picks:
1. Mookie
2. Edgardo
3. Rita
4. Yau Man

My Picks:
1. Anthony
2. Alex
3. Stacy
4. Earl

The Best Friend's Picks:
1. Erica
2. Boo
3. Michelle
4. Rocky

I can tell you we all thought that Jessica would be the first to go so this might be a tight wager! And I promise, our lives do not normally revolve around a TV show. Except mine. When ER is on.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

I am in the midst of a grass crisis. No, not the kind that makes you eat a whole bag of Oreos and yell out "Freebird!!" at inappropriate moments. The kind that, when unattended, makes your neighbors say nasty things about you. They begin to point and whisper. The YARD kind.

I've bragged in the manner that the Bible will tell you will come back to bite you in the ass. I've bragged about my Braulio. He is the shizzle of all yard guys. We hired him about six years ago, when he left a flyer stuck on our front door. When we moved into the house seven years ago we set out (against my good, rational advice) to Tend To Our Own Lawn. My husband waxed poetic about how, when he was a wee boy, he Tended His Family's Lawn. He remembered it through misty childhood magic. I knew that his memories were similar to those that a heroin addict has when he's jonesing. But sometimes there is no talking to a man who is thinking "Let's Buy Power Tools!"

So off to Sears we went. We bought a weed whacker. We bought a lawn mower. Granted, The Husband did bow to my insistence the we buy an electric mower since I didn't want oil, gas, and NOISE in our garage. The first couple of months The Husband lovingly Tended The Lawn. Remember, we moved in at the end of September so summer was almost over. By the time March rolled around the Tending was getting done with slightly less enthusiasm. By May, when we had started to reach 1,000% humidity and 190 degrees Fahrenheit, The Tending of the Lawn became something akin to what I imagine it must be like to make a two-year old recite the Gettysburg Address while matching his Geranimals shirt and shorts to his Barbie socks. Not a pretty sight.

By June we had given the lawn mower to The Husband's mother and hired Braulio, The Wonder Lawn Guy. At first it was a little awkward. Braulio didn't speak very much English. There was a lot of smiling, head nodding, and pointing. There was some misunderstanding about how often we needed his services. But over the years we settled into a delightful relationship. Braulio took ownership of our lawn. He mowed when it needed it. He didn't when it didn't. We trusted his professional opinion. Occasionally our paths would cross and we noticed that his business must be very successful because he was upgrading his equipment and had hired an assistant. Ah, the American dream in action. Work hard. Build a business. Become a success story. A couple of years ago when I suffered a few injuries and was no longer about to tend to the bush trimming and ivy annihilation, he started doing that, too. It was like having an elf. We left for work. We came home to a groomed lawn. We stuck a check in the front door jam. MAGIC.

We learned over the years that Braulio takes a vacation from just after Thanksgiving to just after Christmas. We assume he goes home to Mexico to visit his family. In January he always show up and tends to the leaves, trims whatever has dared to grow in what is supposed to be this fallow season, and occasionally climbs on a ladder to clean our gutters. WE LOVE BRAULIO. We always leave a big bottle of expensive booze as a holiday gift when we put out the last payment before his vacation. A few years ago we gave him a raise without him asking because we appreciated his service so much.

It is February. We haven't seen Braulio since the third week of November. I started worrying about three weeks ago. I started speculating. Now I am despairing. The Husband and I talk. Maybe he is pissed off at us for some reason? Maybe he went home and isn't coming back? Maybe he got some huge commercial contract and has heartlessly dumped us puny little residential customers? The Husband thinks he got caught up in and ICE raid and has been asked by the US Government to Just Go Home Damned It And Don't Come Back.

All I know is that it's February and we have leaves hell and gone all over the place. We have weeds starting to sprout in the back yard. The ivy is about to take over the western hemisphere. The bushes on the east side of the house have blotted out the sun.

Regardless of the reason the Braulio has deserted us, we have reached the point where we started. The Husband is talking about buying a lawn mower. I am talking about institutionalizing him. I am a week away from giving up. I got our civic club's monthly newsletter on Monday. There is an ad in there for a neighborhood family that does lawn service. If my lawn elf hasn't come by this Monday I am calling those suckers. I'm missing my Braulio, but I'm excited at the possibility that I might get a lawn elf that speaks English. I am torn. I miss my elf. I have crabgrass. And the neighbors are starting to point and whisper.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

Ain't Skeerd? Oh man I wish I'd thought of that. Rick over at Obsession has cracked me up.

First, his brilliant observation that both the garage and the kitchen are home to power tools in reference to my quest for the perfect toaster oven. (Cue the manly Tool Time grunt of happiness.) What he doesn't know is that a few years ago for Christmas I asked that my husband get me a new jig saw and a new set of saw horses. (Manly Tool Time grunt, again.)

Also, he unwittingly participated in an act of synchronicity. No one has ever before questioned the origin of my choice of "Ain't Chicken". Until now. Last week my buddy Lisa (Hi, Lisa!) asked why I had chosen this particular nome de plume, and now Rick has wondered to the whole world why I didn't choose Ain't Skeered. That, my friends, is synchronicity. So now, for all the people for whom this is obviously a burning issue (along with why the HELL Paris Hilton is so fascinating) is the thrilling scoop.

I've been subjecting the Blogosphere to Ain't Chicken for about four years now. When I first set out to rant to the world, I decided to include a photo of myself as part of my template. Since this blog is more or less "anonymous", I didn't want to show my wrinkled, grey haired self to the world. Also, I didn't want to burn its retinas. So I chose one of my favorite pictures of myself (look - over there on the left). Damned I was a cute kid. I mean, DAMNED.

Thus the origin of the name. It's got a clever double entendre which no one gets because it is so personally obscure.

First, I am indeed a dare devil, Mr. Rick man. Ever been towed through the air by a boat with only a silk parachute keeping you from becoming shark supper? Ever braved the Maw Of Hell in California? Long story but both my husband and I admitted to all our sins while promising God that if he would just keep us from falling off the side of that mountain in a mud slide we would be better people and floss every day. And we apologized for that time we had sex in a public stairwell. Oh wait that last part wasn't with my husband. But it WAS before we met so it's OK, people (Hi Beauboeuf!* Haven't heard from you in years. Call me!). Have you tried paddling through a Louisiana swamp in a pirough trailed by a hungry mob of alligators? OK I'll admit I incited the mob by throwing marshmallows to them but hey that's part of the FUN! You know that woman at your office who everyone thinks hasn't had a bath since Atlanta burned? Let me at her. I'll tell her in the nicest way possible that she reeks and that being near her is like letting a new whole generation learn what mustard gas smells like. And she'll walk away grateful! And I was the only one at Uncle Jack's funeral who was willing to say that all the people walking around talking about him like he was a saint were just hypocrites. He was a son of a bitch when he was alive and just because he was laying there in a coffin didn't mean anything had changed.

Oh, the other part. I've digressed. See that picture over there of the unbearably cute girl? It was Thanksgiving. I was three. See that thing on my head? We made those at Sunday bible school out of paper bags and construction paper. Everyone thought is was a chicken head. BUT NO! It was a TURKEY head. It was Thanksgiving. Get it? Turkey head? Ain't Chicken? GET IT? Go now and laugh amongst yourselves.

*Yes, I had sex with a man named Beauboeuf. Shut up.

Labels: ac, bloggers, husband

I got a note on an email list in my mail today that Amazon is having a 48 hour sale. So I popped over to check it out. I'm currently on the hunt for a new toaster oven but, being the annoyingly picky person I am, (have you READ the post about my waffle iron?) I will not accept just any toaster oven. It's not about the brand, it's about the features. Envision Scarlett standing in that potato field, that dainty fist raised in the air, dramatic and glorious Selznick sunset at her back, shouting to the heavens, "As God is my witness, I will never buy a toaster oven that doesn't have a rack that pulls out when you open the door again!" The Amazon sale is a bust.

But one of the follow up messages left me really wondering. Someone had replied that they were interested in the Lodge dutch oven. Someone else exclaimed that they had recently been at Costco and noticed a sale on a couple of Lodge skillets, a 10" and a 12" set, but that they didn't have lids. The last line of the message is what gave me a "Huh?" moment. It said... "No lids, but a great buy if you need new cast iron!"

Who the hell needs NEW cast iron? I mean, it's like herpes, isn't it? Once you've got it, you've got it for life, eh?

I have it. No, not herpes. I think. I have my grandmother's 12" Lodge skillet, and my grandmother's Lodge dutch oven. I'm pretty sure she got the dutch oven from her mother. Need I tell you that when the time for getting into The Will came in our family, the skillet and the dutch oven were more hotly contested than the pearls and the family bible? (I am sad to say I lost out on the cornstick pan. The Sister got that one.) There is a slight chance that the dutch oven is where the family's riches were hidden during the War of Northern Aggression, but I am pretty sure that is just family hooha. Unlike the story about Grandaddy Taylor's wood still. Ahhhhh, Mississippi.

Any southern girl worth her deviled egg tray learns how to season cast iron before she learns how to con her way out of a speeding ticket. (Hint: One involves cleavage and one doesn't. One still works the same way it always has, the other not so much with the advent of female peace officers and free online porn.) One of the first big arguments my husband-to-eventually-be and I had was over my iron skillet. The man washed it. With SOAP. It's a wonder he lived through the night, I swear.

My point being, I guess, two-fold.

1. Who the hell ever needs NEW cast iron? Season that shit and get on with it. The older it is, the thicker the crust gets on it, the better the onions will caramelize, you idiot.

2. As I write this and remember the arguments The Husband and I used to have about washing The Skillet, I realize that it is redundant to own both a Ruger .357 and a Lodge 12".

Labels: cooking, husband

Confirmed that Chuck (referred to as my "Second Husband", who will get custody of me if my current husband ever dies or decides to leave Texas) will be joining the festivities tomorrow night? CHECK

Got all the stuff to make the BEST banana pudding ever, which will be my culinary contribution to the festivities at T-Ray and Lori's tomorrow night? CHECK

Cranium Turbo with fresh clay (YES, Husband, we WILL play and you will LIKE IT). CHECK

$187 of seriously dangerous fireworks (never transported into the city limits but taken directly from the Black Cat Store on 290 to be stored legally at T-Ray and Lori's who live out in the county)? CHECK

Fire extinguisher which I am betting big cash that we will need since Lori has a new "INDOOR" turkey fryer that she will roll out for its inaugural fry tomorrow night? CHECK

Ready for 2007. CHECK

Labels: cooking, husband, personal urban drama

It's the morning after Christmas (thus the above date). The Husband had to get up and go to work this morning (slight bitterness because he works for a Canadian company {Eh?} and all the folks north of the border get today off for Boxing Day). I didn't (no job = not having to get up and go to it). The Black Dog and I snuggled in until almost 10am so that was nice (sorry, Honey!).

So this morning my mind is on:

1. Belgium or regular? I grew up in a house with a waffle iron. I'm old, so it was the old kind of waffle iron. The thin waffles with lots of small ....waffles. I asked for a waffle iron from Santa. Santa came through! But I sent Santa the wrong link to Bed, Bath, & Waffle Irons. Santa got me a Belgium iron. I, being an ungrateful waffler, whined. Yeah, I'm ashamed. But it's NOT the same. After extended discussion with a Santa who knows NOTHING about waffles it has been agreed upon that there will be an After Christmas Exchange. I'm just afraid to go do it today because all I want is a regular waffle iron while all the other millions of people who will be driving on I-10 today and going into the stores are actually after the 70%! Percent! Off! Christmas! Items! Two! Days! Only! stuff.

2. The fantastic banana pudding we brought home in the care package from yesterday's Christmas FEAST at my sister's house. It didn't make it til morning. Got eaten about 11pm last night, in bed with The Black Dog and a good trashy crime novel. Wish I had some for breakfast.

3. It's sunny out there, but I know it's too cold to drop the lid.

4. Do I have clean underwear or do I have to do laundry today?

5. Synthroid and Levothyroxine are NOT the same drug regardless of what the FDA says. With most drugs, things like antibiotics and such, generics are totally the way to go. But with a hormone that is measured in MICROgrams, um, no. Because of the allowable range of deviation within each pill, a generic can have a good bit more or a good bit less of active ingredient. Because pharmacies are always going to buy the cheapest drug available on any given purchasing event, it's hard to get the same generic manufacturer consistently and each manufacturer is going to be slightly different not only in active ingredient but also in fillers. Got a infected itch? Get the generic. Got a hormonal imbalance that can screw with YOUR WHOLE LIFE? Get the brand. C'mon. The co-pay difference isn't THAT much. And it doesn't take that long for your doctor to write "Brand Medically Necessary" on the script.

6. If you're laying in bed Christmas morning enjoying the warm covers and bedmates, and you hear a siren pass by in your neighborhood, take a moment to be thankful for the professionals in that vehicle: the police officers, the firefighters, the paramedics, the EMTs. They're up saving people's lives while you're laying in bed thinking about cornbread dressing and that cool cranberry sauce that comes out of the can in the same shape with the same can marks on it that you've been eating for 40 years.

7. I know you've heard it before but, Diabetes is not to be trifled with. I got a call last night from an old friend. He is, again, in the hospital being carved up. He's been diabetic for decades. The first couple of decades he blew it off because He's A Tough Guy. The third decade he began having to stick himself with needles ever day (probably should have been doing it for years but Denial Isn't A River In Egypt), he had his first of many heart attacks, and started to lose feeling in his feet. In this decade, about eight years ago, he had a good bit of one of his feet chopped off because he got an infection, didn't care for his feet, and ended up with green and black flesh. THIS is not a good thing. This year, on Christmas eve, his son rushed him to the emergency room because he was seriously not right. He had developed blisters on his thigh, big nasty ones. They came on quickly, and progressed from worrisome to disgusting in a matter of hours. Two hours after hitting the ER he was in surgery where he was getting chunks of his thigh carved off. Eight hours after that he was getting carved on again as the infection moved fast up his leg. Last night, he was being watched closely for further movement of the infection. The next thing to be carved off if the infection keeps moving north will be his MAN PARTS. It's that bad. Staph is SERIOUS stuff. Especially in a diabetic whos numbers regularly come in at 300+, who has a poor diet, who is stubborn, overly macho, and (Love you guy, but...), flat out STUPID about how he takes care of himself. When I visited him in the hospital a few years ago when he had part of his foot removed, the first thing I said when I walked in the room was "What the hell's the matter with you? How stupid can you be???" I'm probably taking a drive down to the VA tomorrow and I'll probably tell him the same thing. Amazing that he loves me, still.

8. I miss my Mom and Dad.

9. On New Year's Eve, The Husband and I will be over at a friend's house blowing stuff up (they live in the county) and playing Cranium Turbo. I'll partner up with Ray and as long as he doesn't get a little too happy (read: DRUNK) we're gonna kick everyone's ass.

10. Don't do it. Regardless of how sweet and pretty and loveable and charming those two greyhounds that you spent Christmas eve with are, DO NOT adopt one. Even though your sister-in-law's fiance has two at his kennel who are retired from racing and ready for Forever Homes. There's hardly any room in your bed now with you, The Black Dog, and The Husband. If you get a greyhound you'll have to start sleeping on a blow up mattress in the living room.

Labels: cooking, husband, medicine, personal urban drama

So The Husband and I are sitting in the living room last night. He is channel surfing* and I am web surfing. The Black Dog is curled up on the sofa dreaming of eating yummy cats. We hear this big THUMP up on the roof. Then a little thump. We look at one another with questions in our eyes. I say, "Santa?" even though it's early for that sort of thing. Then The Husband says, "Bird?" and I think, Damned that's one hell of a bird! There are no California Condors on the Gulf Coast as far as I know. Then I suggest, "Maybe a joist in the attic fell and we're both gonna die when we get the repair bill?"

The Husband goes out to the yard and, in his best House Inspector manner (by the way, just as a hint, he IS NOT a house inspector - we leave that to Muzikdude). He comes back in and declares the roof to be free of fictional characters, massive flying animals, and anything else that would obviously cause us to do the impossible - find someone to crawl up on our roof on Christmas weekend and fix a big ass hole. Since the ceiling isn't caving in we assume there is no need to go up into the attic and personally hold up a joist.

A couple of hours later we are watching the local news. The Pretty Face says, "The Space Shuttle has successfully landed in Florida after having flown over Texas leaving a very impressive sonic boom in its wake." The Husband and I look at one another and say, "Cool".

*Hint: There is nothing and yeah I mean NOTHING worth watching on TV the Friday night before Christmas (even for a man who has seen Tremors 42 times) so hey, just give it up and go clean the kitchen , OK?

Labels: headlines, husband

Two things I'm pretty sure I've never said to anyone before:

1. I'm talking with my sister on the phone. She recently had someone cut her gut open and take some original factory parts out of her. We're talking about her incision, and she is telling me about a little drainage she's experiencing. I ask her: "Itching? Burning? What color is it?"

Later in the same conversation we're talking about the pending invasion of Houston by Comcast, and the exit of Time-Warner. We are both going to lose the email addresses we've had for years because of this. I am griping because I know I won't be able to get mine - it starts with my initials which also happen to be a word that lots of teenage girls like to use for their log-ons and has a number after it. My sister's is actually her first initial, her last name, and then a number. I'm giving her suggestions for a new email address and I say:

You should choose "itchyburningpussgirl@comcast.net"

2. The Husband and I are going to bed last night. We have an ongoing disagreement about how high up on the bed the Heat Shield Pillow should be. The Husband puts out enough BTU's while sleeping to power the Eastern Seaboard, and I like to prop my right leg on a pillow when I'm sleeping on my left side so we always have a pillow between us. I like the pillow down around hip level so it's where my knee will be. He likes it up at shoulder level because he likes The Black Dog to sleep in between us at hip level and the dog is so neurotic he won't get up on the pillow. So last night I push the Heat Shield Pillow down to hip level, I grab The Black Dog (50 pounds) and plop him down on top of the pillow. The Black Dog apparently didn't care for this flight of fancy. He stuck his front legs out in front of him totally stiff to act as landing gear. Unfortunately I landed him a bit too close to The Husband. One of his paws impacted my husband's chest with great force. This created a very disturbing muscle spasm in his chest which scared the crap out of me. Can one induce a heart attack by sharply hitting someone on the chest with a dog foot? Eventually The Husband assured me that I didn't need to call 911 and we both tucked in to go to sleep. I felt very guilty. The lights were off, the covers were pulled up. Laying there in the dark, I said to him:

I'm sorry I stabbed you with the dog.

Labels: husband

Sometimes it is hard for someone who didn't grow up with you to understand why some things that might seem mundane and insignificant can make your face light up with memories of magic.

My poor husband.

The Sister, The Husband, and I went out for lunch together today. In between the mozzarella sticks and the garlic mashed potatoes I remembered something I hadn't thought of for literally decades. I said "Hey! Remember the boxes of magic fruit???"

My sister laughed out loud. My husband thought we had been smoking something funny. "Magical FRUIT?" he said.

I told him how every Christmas a box of magic fruit used to come to our house. Our dad worked for Baker Oil Tools back then and one of the holiday gifts the company sent home each year was a big box of fruit. It had two layers of fruit. Both the bottom and top layer were cushioned by trays of pressed paper, like the stuff they make egg cartons out of. Each tray had rows of cup shaped depressions and each depression held an individual piece of fruit. The fruit was huge - much bigger than the fruit our mom bought at Sacco's Grocery Store. The fruit was shiny as if each piece had been polished by an elf somewhere. The fruit was the most flavorful I've ever tasted. Sister specifically waxed poetic about the pears.

The box was always the same - a mix of big red apples, fragrant large oranges, and luscious yellow pears. It was special because it was a holiday tradition in our family, it was mysterious because Daddy brought it home from work instead of Mother bringing it home from the grocery.

But it was magical because on each of those pressed paper layers, random pieces of fruit were gently wrapped in a colorful piece of tissue paper. The papers were red, blue, yellow, or green. Tissue paper wrapped fruit??? To a 6 year old girl, that's magic.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

The Husband decided yesterday to get back at me for the three months I was in a wheelchair a couple of years ago during which he was required to respond to my every need, such as washing my hair, cooking my meals (read: multiple trips to Jack In The Box for fried jalapenos), changing my tampons (remember the "for better or worse" part of those marriage vows??), and doing my laundry. His technique for revenge involved slipping on a wayward dryer sheet in the laundry room and either tearing every tendon attached to his knee or breaking his tibia (a little bit) in the EXACT same place I broke mine. He's not writhing in pain unless he tries to actually use the leg, and OF COURSE it is a holiday weekend so we're waiting until Monday morning to get him to our beloved doctor's office for x-rays, painful examinations, and probably yet more narcotics. (Good thing neither of us have to take pee tests anytime soon.)

We are Suburbanites. This means that there is very little foot traffic in our neighborhood, and even less unexpected knocking on our front door. If someone knocks on our door it is either someone we are expecting or someone we probably don't want to talk with in the first place. So this afternoon, "Knock Knock Knock". As usual, when someone DOES darken our stoop The Husband and I yell to one another, "Are we expecting anyone?" to which the answer is almost always, "No". Since he's all gimped out, I went to answer the door.

It turned out to be two young women who proceeded to explain that they are working on a project for their high school speech class. They said they are required to interact with members of the community and learn how to "talk with the public". They asked me a few questions including things like "Do you own your own business?", "Do you deal with the public in your job?", "Do you wear feathers up your ass and crow at the full moon while squirting your feet with French's mustard?". OK, that last one I made up.

They then presented me with a card that listed a variety of Must Have Consumer Items including subscriptions to magazines NO ONE has ever heard of, cheap dollar store children's toys, and ugly - I mean butt ugly - hair decorations. They explained that the "public" is being asked to choose one item in support of their mission. I gave the card back to them and told them I didn't want to choose an item. The spokeswoman of the duo said "But you have to!"

I said, "Let me give you a tip. This will help you in your future dealings with the "public" and also with any sales work you do in the future. Don't tell people who you are trying to sell cheap crap to that they "have to" do anything." The young future titans of business looked confused. The hang back and let the blonde do the talking girl piped up and said, "But everyone has to choose one."

I explained that first, I am not "everyone". I am a private citizen upon who's property they were trespassing and that second, there is no situation in life in which anyone MUST choose one of anything. A person can always decline to choose one regardless of what it is - a car, a spouse, a criminal defense lawyer (one will be provided to you), and most especially not a cheap trinket being pushed on unsuspecting homeowners who own weapons marked with the word "magnum".

For some reason, they decided that was a good time to leave. Maybe it was my breath. I hadn't had time to brush my teeth yet what with washing my husband's hair, cooking his meals, and changing his tampons. OK, I made that last one up, too. THANK GOD.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

My husband gets on a tear every few years and decides to build something. A couple of years after we first became roommates, he decided to build a remote controlled airplane from scratch. He filled our entire apartment with balsa wood dust and the smell of a heat gun and various glues that I am sure were toxic to bunnies and other things that have lungs. But the plane was a great success and he had fun flying it. Until some other guy with a plane took off nose straight into the air and flat out tore the wings off Husband's handmade beauty.

A few years later, he decided to build high power rockets. This of course meant lots more wood dust, in addition to glue fumes, paint fumes, and the acquisition of some very exciting explosives and fuse lines. I freely admit that I had a great time driving out into the country with him, the car loaded with enough rocket motors to blow up another federal building. We would get to the farmer's fields or big dry flats out in the middle of nowhere and be joined by fifty or a hundred other crazy people who had brought there own high explosives. We would spend the day in the sunshine watching grown men play with their big dangerous toys. My personal joy came from the bad outcomes. The rockets that shot fifty feet in the air and then went horizontal. The rockets that blew up on the launch pads. The motors that ejected from the rockets and set fields on fire. Those were especially fun because the big strong men in shorts and no shirts grabbed huge jugs of water, ran wildly into the fields, and doused the fires before they caused death and destruction. Some of these rockets were so big they were launched from gantries and required FAA clearances for plane diversions. Great times. All that ended when the BATF changed the rules about who could have access to the big rocket motors. We aren't exactly anarchists, but we didn't want to establish a armory and have it certified and inspected by The Gub'ment. So no more rockets.

Now it's radio controlled speed boats. As usual, he can't go to a hobby shop like a normal sane person and buy a shiny ready to go beast. Nooooo. He has taken over the kitchen table with yet more balsa wood dust, glue fumes, power tools, and intricate blue prints. Today, his best buddy came over and the two of them just spent over an hour talking about rheostats and rigging electrified hotwires to shape the foam ballasts. They're working out how to do all this hopefully without causing anyone's death. So they come up with a hairbrained scheme. They decide upon a jig construction. They head out into the garage and gather some scrap wood, the sawhorses, various limb removing power tools, and no written plans or genuine idea of what they're doing. They decamp to the backyard and begin their mad scientist adventure.

So they're out there sawing and talking and cutting and rearranging and planning and generally taking their fingers for granted. I am in the living room on the sofa with The Black Dog reading a book that I'm finding tedious. I hear some wood break, then I hear silence. Next, the back door bursts open and The Husband blows through it, followed by The Buddy. The Husband says "Time for Plan B!" The Buddy says, "Yeah, Plan B".

I look at them and say "Plan B?? Shit man, you two didn't even really have a Plan A. You two are like Lucy and Ethel but a little more dangerous."

The Buddy says, "No we're more like Tim and that sidekick guy on that Tool Time show."

I think of all the mishaps and disasters that were featured on the show and say, "Somehow you think that's supposed to be better???"

ADDENDUM: So in the time it has taken me to type this they have apparently re-thought Plan B. They just came into the house from the back yard. Husband said, "Now we have a plan!"

I say, "What do you mean NOW you have a plan. What happened to Plan A and Plan B??"

Buddy says, "Well Plan B wasn't really a plan."

Husband says, "And this isn't Plan B. This is Plan A.1".

I just smile and they say, "What?"

I say, "I'm trying to think about where LifeFlight will land, and if we get a Frequent Flyer Discount."


On another note, I made my first ever from scratch quiche today. I meant to take a picture of it for you all but, you know, I ate it instead.

Labels: cooking, husband

It's amazing how lucky I am. My husband should be dipped in 24 carat gold. My friends are such kind, funny, loving people that I often wonder what the hell they see in me. My dog? He's just brilliant. I was lucky enough to be born in the USA and also to be born a girl child. (Want to get out of gym class? Go up to the male coach, grasp your pelvic area, scrunch up your face - he'll point you over to the bleachers 'cause he just DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR about your vagina. Car need a new battery? Go to the auto parts store and pretend to be blonde.) I've talked about him before, but I just have to say again that I also hit the jackpot with my doctor. I mean, understand, in the last two years I've seen more doctors than most of you will see in your lifetime, but my "medical home" is my PCP's office and he rocks. No white coat syndrome here. He's smart, he's conscientious, he's nice, patient, funny, and sincere. Best of all? He's human and not afraid to show it.

Today I was back in his office (AGAIN) and had to admire him for what I think is his best trait. We were talking about this BFP* I'm experiencing and after listening to me and talking with me he sat back and commiserated with me by saying "I don't know". I think that's a hallmark of a quality physician. Because it's just a fact that regardless of who you are - there are THINGS YOU DON'T KNOW. And I can respect you if you admit it. And if you're really delighted that I brought you home made cream cheese and cinnamon coffee cakes with orange glaze. Afterall, everyone likes to be appreciated.

*BFP = Big Fucking Problem

Labels: husband, medicine

It's wedding anniversary time again. We're* retreating to a lovely little yellow beachhouse down on Boliver. I have a special talent for planning vacations and having one of two things happen. First, it usually rains. I swear. My husband and I got rained on in Death Valley. Twice. Second, if it doesn't rain (and sometimes even if it does) SOMETHING happens to be happening wherever we're going and I usually don't find out about it until I've already put down a non-refundable deposit. Often the something isn't a whole hell of a big deal for example, planning to go to Anahuac the same weekend as GatorFest.

But sometimes, just sometimes (thank all deities), the thing that is happening happens to include an estimated 300,000 yes THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND people riding HAWGS. Yes. I booked a romantic four day vacation on the Texas Gulf Coast for the same weekend that the Lone Star Rally will literally ROAR into town. And by town, I mean Galveston, Texas (the birth place of Barry White).

Galveston (the island) is on average about two miles wide and about 32 miles long. It's normal population is about 60,000. This weekend it will be 360,000. This might be poetic since the city of Galveston was second only to Ellis Island for the number of immigrants processed durring the whole Neil Diamond Coming to America thing. But you know what? They didn't come on motorcycles with glass packs.

This is a quote from the website of one of the vendors from last year in reference to their white palm cowboy hats:

Tighten the Stampede Strap & it's a Texas motorcycle helmet.

It's the toughest, most resilient hat known to the American Cowboy! You can crush it, twist it and mash it into your saddlebag - then wet it, shape it and wear it dancin', to the gala, to the cook off -

Hell, wear it to bed - It's a kick ass hat!

Three observations:

1. MOTORCYLE HELMET?
2. Honest to GOD people here really do wear cowboy hats to galas. But they're usually black. That hats, not the people. Not that black people don't go to galas. They do. And even THEY sometimes wear cowboy hats. Also black.
3. I am sad to say I did once know a man who wore his hat to bed. And not to be sexy, either. Because it can be. Sometimes.

* "We're" usually includes the Black Dog but this time he's being lovingly cared for at home. He loves it when his aunt comes to dog sit. He's too neurotic to kennel.

Labels: husband, texas, vacation

Last night the Husband and I went to a friend's house for a little get together. When I arrived, the friend's 7 year old was in the yard playing with his 9 year old friend.

They said hi, I said hi. The 9 year old started talking about my car (because it is, indeed, massively cool). I said, referring to their scooters or skate toys or whatever the hell it is that all the kids are riding now, "Great evening to play outside - nice that it's not a million degrees!"

The 9 year old said, TOTALLY SERIOUS, "If it were a million degrees, we'd all be burnt to a crisp."

THEN HE SAID: "555,000 kelvins would make life on Earth impossible!"

I take a deep breath. I say, "What grade are you in?" He says, "4th grade."

I say "Did you just calculate the conversion of 1,000,000 degrees Fahrenheit into kelvins in your head?" He says, "Yeah?", as if my question made me the simple mindedest person he'd ever seen drive a cool car.

I said, "When I was in 4th grade, we were learning our multiplication tables, and I failed the class."

He looked sadly upon the dinosaur with the cool car, yes, he gazed at me with utter compassion and pity.

I said, "OK. I'm going to play with the adults now."

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

I'm standing at the foot of our Valhalla bed, getting dressed.

The black dog and the husband are both still IN bed. The black dog looks at me, crawls a paw or two closer. He stretches, opens his mouth wide, and give me a big, tonsil view of a long, loud yawn.

I look at him and say "Yeah. Yawn at me. That helps."

The husband rolls over and says "It's like a diseased person biting a carrier."

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

Oh. My. God.

This is a clarification. Not a retraction, because it was in inside joke, but a New York Times class clarification.

TRENT TOMLINSON IS NOT GAY. NOT GAY. NOT GAY. NOT GAY.

AND PIRATES ARE SEXY. HOT, SEXY, RIP MY BLOUSE OFF WHILE WE STAND ON THE BOW OF HIS SHIP SEXY!!!

I wasn't asked to post this, but I learned that my husband got a note from a relative who SOMEHOW found this spot and read what I wrote about Trent below and was maybe offended by it.

Trent and his family are some of the kindest, warmest, most welcoming, genuine people I've ever met and I absolutely regret and apologize if anything I wrote might have even in the smallest way upset or offended any of them. I am blown away by Trent's talent, creativity, and hard work. I am thrilled for his success and hope he ends up bigger than Elvis.

TRENT: NOT GAY! NOT GAY! 100% ALL AMERICAN MIDWEST CORN-FED GRADE A STRAIGHT!

The gay pirate remark became a joke between my husband and I after Pirates of the Caribbean came out, because of the similarities between Johnny Depp's character in the movie and Trent's style. THAT character was, by the way, NOT GAY. He was in fact patterned after Keith Richards who, if you are a faithful reader or know me, is my not-so-secret I Would Leave My Husband For This Man heartthrob and has been for 27 years. And he isn't gay, either. Nothing wrong with BEING gay, THESE GUYS JUST DON'T HAPPEN TO BE.

So ladies, feel free to chase him across the country and throw your underwear up on the stage at him. HE DESERVES IT! Cause he Ain't Gay! Or a pirate!

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

My brush with up-and-coming fame:

This guy, Trent Tomlinson, is my husband's cousin. The last time I saw him perform we were in the basement of an uncle's house in small town Missouri celebrating my husband's grandparent's 65th wedding anniversary. Trent played for them and it was great fun. Now he's got a real live record contract, he'll be opening for Bon Jovi in Nashville on Valentine's Day, and he's got a real live video. He still looks like a gay pirate (with great shoulders), but he sure can make music!

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

I'm going on record today as saying: Sex Is Good.

And surprise, afternoon, don't have to work for two weeks, lets just hang out in bed all day like beached whales afterwards sex is REALLY good.

Ho ho ho, indeed.

Labels: husband, personal urban drama

Thanksgiving was nice. A roasted turkey breast, creamed spinach, Toradol, Darvocet, cornbread, dressing, cranberry...the usual.

Christmas will be nicer. Less pharmaceutical, but nice. The Husband and I have decided to buy each other no presents this year. We will instead spend the money we would have spent on gifts (him: jewelry store) (me: geek crap) on a road trip to visit his 248 year old grandparents on their huge assed cotton farm in the bootheal of Missouri. We went up there about four years ago so he could See Them One More Time Before They Died but they haven't, so we're going again.

We both come from families with great road trip traditions. My family once drove to Montana from New Orleans by way of Omaha. Get a map. You'll see why we made fun of Daddy til the day he died over that one. For years, the Husband's family made a monthly pilgrimage from Houston to Missouri in a VOLKSWAGON BUG with the Mother, the Father and THREE children. IMAGINE. It's amazing that any of the children will even get in a car as adults.

And then there was that Thanksgiving trip I took with my father, step mother, one sister (and not the good one) and a step brother in a Lincoln Town Car. I think my mother knew my dad a lot better than my step mother did because she never let him buy a car with electric windows. She KNEW that he couldn't leave a gadget alone and sure enough, on the way back to Houston from Laurel, Mississippi, during an ICE STORM, Daddy was tormenting those of us in the back seat by rolling down the side window and locking it so it couldn't be rolled up until we were screaming in freezing, wet agony. After about 4,000 miles of this sort of fun, the window got stuck 3/4 of the way open. Times like this call for using Baby Of The Family Cute for all it's worth and I did get to move as far away from the open frrreezing rain hole as possible and still stay in the car. The step brother got stuck sitting by the ice and I always thought that was somehow appropriate because he always encouraged Daddy's "playful" side.

Ahhhhhh, family.

Labels: husband, vacation

Two things tonight:

I took a top-down moonlit drive just now. I wore a light sweater and turned the heat on lightly warm, blowing onto my feet. I have fantasies that this is what it feels like up north as the cold comes in, but with a lot more color and bite. We feel this so rarely. We have the occasional ice storm, but usually in late January, early February. We often spend New Year's wearing shorts.

So tonight is a harbinger of the best top-down driving this part of the world has to offer: it is coming, it is here (for a few days anyway).

Also:

A prior post has caused discussion and surfing, accusations and skin diagramming. The Husband reads the Blog. The other night he wanted to know: What Picture? Referring to my breast cancer post. I told him that was the whole point. I couldn't find it!

This morning, the Husband exclaimed from his computer chair, "You did post your picture!"

Did not. Couldn't find it.

"This is YOU!"

So I go in there and my HEAVENS this man has lived with me for fourteen some-odd years. He doesn't know? I pointed.

See these freckles? That's not me.

He pointed. THAT one is yours!

I point. But look - not the other two. I point at the screen and at my bare arm.

I point other bare things at him. And LOOK. I'm much bigger than her. SHEEESH!

He does not relent.

This evening, a friend of mine called. Also a friend of the Husband, but they were never engaged so he's more my friend than the Husband's. While the guys were talking it occurred to me that this friend might have one of the red-bra pictures. Our relationship was of that time period.

So I ask the husband to ask the friend: Does he have one of the red bra pictures?

Husband looks at me. Husband asks friend.

Husband laughs and reports: He says no, but that he has some of the green teddy pictures.

I retort: We didn't have a camera with us that time.

Labels: ac, husband, miata, personal urban drama

My husband and I share an alarm clock. Each night, he brings it to my side of the bed (OK maybe that's not true - usually he picks it up from his bedside table and throws it at/to me). I set it for my wake up time and go to sleep. He sleeps later than I do so in the morning I re-set it for his wake up time, place it on his bedside table and go about my day (that's right - while the bastard lays there and snores).

This morning when the alarm went off I could hear it in my sleep. It sounded really far away - like over on the other side of the bed. And yeah that's really far away if you knew what our bed was like. Oh alright here's our bed (the first time my brother saw it he said "That looks like that place where Vikings go when they die - Valhalla!" We just call it The Plateau.):


Anyway, I was still asleep but I was listening to the alarm go off and I was thinking "What? WHY???" so I woke up enough to shove my husband in the shoulde