Husband is an excellent driver. He can back a trailer with the greatest of maneuverability skills and has never been in an accident. Actually, he taught me to drive and I’d like to think I’m a decent driver, as well. Still, I’m a woman and sexism is alive and well when it comes to driving.
Last night, we went bowling with Sister and Sister’s Fiance, who will be known as D in this post. In order to sit in the back and watch some ridiculous video about farting, they wanted me to drive. On a side note, this video involved women sniffing each other’s farts and they used my auxiliary port to connect the phone to my car’s speakers. It made for an amusing drive, especially since I only had the audio side of it. Sorry to those of you who have a maturity level higher than that of a 10-year-old.
Anyway, I get stupidly self-conscious when I’m the driver and the boys are in the car. Both of them are critical of Sister’s and my driving skills and I always feel like they’re analyzing every move I make. This isn’t in my head. When we went over a set of railroad tracks a little faster than I meant, I saw the look they shared in my rearview mirror. You know, the one that says, “Only penises should be behind the wheel.” Sometimes they even make comments out loud. “Yeah, that’s why I installed the premium brake pads,” Husband remarked to D when I made a turn. Sister and I just roll our eyes and ignore the comments. There is some truth to what they’re saying and we know it. After all, I may never have caused a wreck, but I did pull the bumper off my old car by backing into a friend’s flower pot in their driveway.
This morning, Husband was driving and started to make a right turn to park on the side of the street. As he turned, I thought, He’s turning awfully sharp. But I didn’t say anything. A few seconds later, there was a loud thump as the right side of the car lurched onto the curb and back down. We pulled over to park and I stared at him in disbelief. He NEVER does anything like that.
“What the hell? Did you really just drive on the curb?”
“Whoops…” was all he said in reply.
“I never want to hear you mock my driving again,” I retorted.
“Oh, well. I’m sure it’s fine. I hit it on the flat part. There’s no way it did anything.”
I opened the passenger door and heard an unmistakable sound.
The look of horror and embarrassment on his face was completely worth any trouble the flat tire would cause. We got out and inspected the damage. Somehow, the curb had put a hole in the side wall.
Fortunately, Husband is extremely handy (he’s actually a mechanic) and was able to change the tire with no issues. When we got home, he looked up the price of a new tire and told me, “Well, I guess tomorrow when I get off work, I’ll take your car in to get two new tires.”
“Damn right you will,” I said. “You’re the one who broke it, after all.”
When we had those crazy windy storms a couple weeks ago, we lost our trash can. It was my fault because I left it outside and forgot it was out there until I saw it flying away as I watched through the window. Husband has been teasing me mercilessly since then, insisting that I owe him a trash can and I need to save my pennies until I can replace it.
He now says that we’re even. An eye for an eye, a trash can for a tire.
Husband has recently decided he’s a minimalist. Of course, he didn’t use that word for it, and I had to explain what “minimalist” meant when I told him that was what he was going for.
Coincidentally, I had discovered The Everyday Minimalist on Pinterest the day before. My typically anti-reading husband read about five posts before diving in head first and declaring that he wanted to purge all the junk from our home.
Awesome. Anyone who knows me knows that I love the trash can. I love to throw away useless crap, and even sometimes, crap that really isn’t crap and that I wish I still had. On the flip side, Husband is one of those people who owns more stuff than many people three times his age. It’s baffling, really. Probably about 10% of the stuff in this house is actually mine.
Thus began our quest to go through the contents of the house and sell it all. Husband was convinced that we had a personal gold mine of possessions and that the eBay community would be tripping over themselves to get to the computer before it was all gone.
We started in the game room. Neither of us could bear to part with our vintage game systems, which include the Intellivision, Atari 2600, Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Nintendo64, and original XBox. However, we did realize that we had about 30 games that we never play. Husband and I are not sports fans, so all of the sports-themed games went into the sell pile. Eventually, we put most of our CDs, records and a few VHS tapes in there, too. (Except for the signed copy of a George Jones LP. Husband couldn’t bear to part with it.)
For years, I have been begging Husband to part with The Silly Shelf. The Silly Shelf is – you guessed it – a shelf. It contains the most ridiculous of trinkets and toys from Husband’s lifetime. It has made its ugly home in our bedroom and makes one think that a 12-year-old boy lives there, rather than a married couple. Here is a breakdown of the type of items on this shelf:
- A radio in the shape of an orange
- A rubber pile of poop
- A “Fart Fan”
- A plastic cat that dances when you squeeze the buttons on the side
- Numerous Bart Simpson trinkets
- A Homer Simpson watch that says “Mmmm…burger” when you press it
- The Taco Bell chihuahua
- A block of soap with a Troll suspended inside
- About 25 similar treasures
Unfortunately, when Husband’s father heard that we were parting with The Silly Shelf, he couldn’t bear to see it go away. He asked to keep the treasures, which means they’re still around. Le sigh. Anyway, they’re out of my bedroom.
So, we continued our quest into the office closet. This is another area where Husband and I have disagreed upon what should be there. His software, which consists of mostly floppy disks for DOS games, has taken up an entire shelf in our closet for years. Thankfully, he kept about 5 of his favorites to play on the 486 computer that’s in our bedroom and put the rest in the pile.
Since Husband works during the day and I’m on summer break, he put me in charge of the Sales Department. I began to scour eBay for the worth of our beloved treasures. Honestly, I was kind of excited. Yes, I thought. We’re going to get rid of all this junk and get a ton of money in return!
In the words of Dwight Schrute…
It’s all worthless. The completed listings were filled with red (non-selling) prices, such as $1.99 with free shipping. In other words, we’d have to pay someone to take this crap from us. So, does anyone want a copy of Madden ’94 for Super Nintendo?
I’ll even throw in a fake rock made of foam.
I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m a lazy piece of crap.
This isn’t exactly a world-stopping revelation. In college, I would stay up until 3 am and go on 4 hours of sleep because I was too lazy to get out of my chair and go to bed. Most of my big papers were begun around 9 pm, the night before they were due. These days, I usually wait to do laundry until Husband is on the verge of turning his underwear inside out. I’m currently drinking a glass of wine from a bottle that I
wrestled the cork from opened using an automatic cork remover. Yes – I pressed a button and it pulled the cork for me. It’s awesome. And let’s face it ladies – I know I can’t be alone when I say I don’t exactly shave my legs regularly during the winter. It helps to keep me warm. (Insert cringe from all male readers.) Due to laziness and lack of inspiration, I haven’t posted on here in a few months, even though the original goal was to post about once a week.
However, last night was the kicker.
I started to consider purchasing a robotic vacuum and thought, Ok, maybe I really am a slob.
It seems like a wonderful concept. You press a button and little Wanda (the name is a work in progress) goes spinning around the room, sweeping up your Cheez-It crumbs from 8 consecutive episodes of The Office last Sunday afternoon. As many reviews stated, “It looks like a drunk person vacuumed your house.” Excellent. I’m almost sold.
A friend’s review stated, “…It was mentally disabled and just kept getting stuck under things. Then it broke 6 months later. Robot vacuum fail.” Yes! Why wouldn’t I want to spend $300 on that kind of entertainment?
Admittedly, this was brought on by the fact that my sister got one of these as a Christmas/birthday gift from her fiance. (The only gift that makes the combined Christmas/birthday thing ok) She has a cat and a dog, both of which shed approximately 542 pounds of fur each hour. Naturally, I became insanely jealous after hearing her constant praise of El-Neato, and how nice it is to come home from work and hear your personal maid sweeping your bedroom.
So, my husband did what any kind, loving man does and gave me a guilt trip about wanting it.
“If you want it, go ahead and buy it,” he said. “It’s completely up to you. After all, you always get what you want. I can’t even think of the last thing that I asked for. I’m going to go outside and work, and you can decide what you want to do while I’m gone. My car jack is broken, but if you really need this vacuum, I won’t get another one.” He even said it so sincerely, with a smile on his face.
All was well, though, because today I checked my phone at work and read a text from Husband which read, “I will sweep the house tonight.” And he did. Every square inch of it. He says he would rather become the vacuum than spend $300 on one that might break in 6 months. I need suggestions for a name.
Also, it’s time to go shave my legs.
Just look at it. I know what you’re thinking.
It’s terrifying, right?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been irrationally repulsed by babies. I’m not sure why. I mean, I don’t remember a baby ever doing anything to me. It’s not like I had this traumatic experience in first grade when a diaper-clad thug mugged my “Strawberry Shortcake” lunchbox from me, wielding a diaper pin as a weapon.
Yet, when someone brings their newborn into a gaggle of squealing women, I’m always the one who steps outside the circle, avoiding that inevitable question:
“Do you want to hold her?”
No. I do not want to hold your child. She can’t even hold up her own head. There is approximately a 94% chance that I am going to end up having some sort of bodily function on my clothing, and the worst part is that I don’t know from which orifice it could erupt. Also, I value my hearing and the sounds that come from that tiny mouth could give a banshee a run for its money.
I’ve been married for almost three years. I’m at that point in life when it’s expected that I’ll procreate at any moment. From the second a woman leaves her wedding reception, her job becomes Professional Incubator. You can’t even eat too much and comment that you feel a little sick, or else everyone begins assuming you’re With Child. About 6 weeks after my wedding, I walked into a family gathering and the first thing that was said to me was, “Why aren’t you pregnant yet?”
Why, hello. Nice to see you, too.
Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’m not a mother hater. In fact, I am quite the opposite. Anyone who is willing to welcome one of these screaming, sleep-depriving, hungry beings into their home has all the respect in the world from me. The idea of babysitting overwhelms me so much that I’ve never done it. I haven’t even changed a diaper or fed a baby before.
But it’s so different when it’s your own! You’ll see!
Now you’re thinking, “Crap! Now what am I going to write as a comment?”
Maybe that’s true. Maybe it is different, but at this point, I don’t want to find out. You see, I value my sleep very much. When I don’t have to be any where, I tend to sleep about 10-12 hours a night. I get very angry when said sleep is interrupted. I also enjoy making spontaneous plans and going on random adventures with my friends. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I’m far too selfish and I have no plans to change that fact.
Also, I’m not too keen on the idea of pregnancy.
I imagine it as being similar to the part in Alien when a creature bursts out of her stomach. It’s common knowledge, thanks to my last post, that I need to eat a sandwich. Something tells me that stick-figures were not built for child rearing. I think the big deciding factor was the moment I learned the definition of the word episiotomy. If you don’t know what it means, don’t look it up.
You can’t say I didn’t tell you so.
We need to start adding chlorine to the gene pool.
It’s a fact. Too many people have spawned without taking the gene pool into consideration. I would like to do the world a favor. After all, in the last four months, my husband has initiated a bouillon cube sucking contest and my friend and I took pictures of ourselves with pretzel stick walrus teeth.
It’s probably for the best.