ME: I’m just not sure these birthday party invitations are kidsy enough.
HE: And then what happens?
ME: [laughing] Good point.
HE: People show up in tuxedos and top hats expecting a dinner party?
He keeps me in check.
ME: I’m just not sure these birthday party invitations are kidsy enough.
HE: And then what happens?
ME: [laughing] Good point.
HE: People show up in tuxedos and top hats expecting a dinner party?
He keeps me in check.
I am the World’s Worst Dental Patient. I wish I could blame a dentist for that, but I held the title long before my 4-hour root canal a year and a half ago. I don’t really know how I got to be that way–probably my orthodontist. He had the most awful breath, and he was kinda blind, so he got up close and personal when he was hurting you. I also didn’t grow up having my teeth cleaned regularly; my first time was right before I had my braces put on in 8th grade, and my second time was right after I got my braces off five years later. So in my twenties when I decided I should be more proactive about my dental health, I quickly decided that was a bad idea, because I realized my teeth are just too sensitive for dental hygienists. Even for my friend Patti, who was my first semi-regular hygienist and was wonderful. By the time I was in my late twenties, I dreaded going to the dentist. To illustrate how infrequently I go, I have to get x-rays (which they take every two years) every single time I go in for a cleaning.
And then a year and a half ago, my fear of the dentist cranked up to eleven. My dental insurance was going to end the last day of July, so around the 25th or 26th, I went in. Now, I didn’t go in voluntarily–Frank had the dentist’s office call me to make an appointment. It had been three or four years since I’d been (some people avoid the doctor, I avoid the dentist). And since it’d been so long, I had five cavities and needed a root canal. That day, I had two cavities filled. Two days later, I had another two cavities filled, got Rickrolled in the dentist’s chair, and had the root canal, which, I will repeat, is so much worse than childbirth. Childbirth is like getting a massage compared to a root canal. The fifth cavity has never been filled.
Now. Frank has this thing about drinking water. It’s boring, and he hates it. He drinks black coffee, and he drinks anything sweet–soda, juice, whatever. As long as it has a non-water flavor. I’ve been on him about drinking water for years. He also doesn’t exercise much. He did for a while, but as soon as the baby came and our schedule got all wacky, he stopped, understandably.
So a couple of weeks ago, Frank went to the dentist. While he was checking out, the subject of me came up. He once again asked the office lady to call me. He told me that night that he had done that, but since she hadn’t called that afternoon, I hoped she had forgotten. Then Monday morning he went and got one of his cavities filled. I was sitting in bed in the morning, feeding Buttercup, and my phone rang. It was the dentist’s office. When the woman told me she had forgotten to call last week, but that Frank had just left and she told him again that she would call me, I just responded, “He is in so much trouble.”
Now I have an appointment for next week. She assured me that there will be numbing and nitrous and that they’ll be gentle with me. She also noted that the hygienist who worked on me before “was very good, but she moved to Texas, but we have some other hygienists here who are also very good.” I said, “Oh good. The hygienist who worked on me last time tried to tell me I didn’t feel pain when I did.”
Anyway, Frank came home at lunch that day. I told him I had an appointment with the dentist. He was soooo happy. “Yeah, sorry I have to make you go, but you have to take care of yourself… for your family.”
Oh. He’s gonna regret he said that. Because I looked at him with my angry face and said, “Fine. Then YOU have to take care of YOURself for your family. You have to start drinking water. And exercising.” I think he was surprised that I was as upset about it as I was. He agreed to do it. And I’ve been on him ever since.
This evening he was playing with Buttercup and asked if I’d go fill his water bottle for him. I looked at him. “What???”
“Well, if I don’t drink it, you’ll have an excuse to not go to the dentist.”
“That’s right. 64 ounces a day, dude. And after this appointment, you have to keep drinking your water if you want me to go back in six months.”
Because I’ll be watching. And if he misses one day of drinking his water… well, I’ll happily miss one day at the dentist.
*Princess Buttercup has still not arrived (that’d be kinda sorry if she had and I didn’t let you know, huh?). Contractions started 22 days ago, and I’ve decided she’s a big ol’ drama queen. I have no idea where she gets it. Occasionally, there will be something different about the contractions or the way I feel, and I’ll think, “Oh! This could be it!” So far, it’s not it. But whatevs, she’ll be here soon soon soon! I’m due Friday, and my doctor said the max he’ll let me go past my due date is a week and a half, so she’ll be here by the 18th or 19th no matter what! He’s also offered to induce me at any time. I don’t want to be induced until it becomes medically necessary. Friday I’m going to ask his thoughts on castor oil. Have I mentioned how much I don’t want Pitocin? Yeah, I don’t.
*I have one more hospital story to write, because we went three times in one week way back when. There’s an actual good chance it’ll be written, since I want it for my pregnancy scrapbook and/or the Drama Queen section of the baby book.
*I’m really enjoying making the baby book. I have 1 finished page and a few other started / mostly done pages. Ok, mostly I’m enjoying collecting scrapbooking supplies with my allowance every month and learning how to use all the stuff I’m collecting.
*There’s a consignment sale for used crafting supplies in Boise Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. So I’m torn about whether Buttercup should come before then.
*I don’t get the whole Tim Holtz thing with scrapbooking. I just don’t get it. It’s dark and messy, and while I can see the artsiness of it (some of it incredibly well done), I just don’t think it’s pretty. And everyone seems to be into it except me. I think it’s just the whole messiness of it. Looks like you just dumped out several bins of supplies and then glued them on a page and covered them in dark ink.
*The last month of pregnancy is murder on the pelvis. And the bladder. And the sleep. I now sleep sitting up in the glider.
*I’m up to 14 pounds now. After being at 7 pounds like a month ago. I seem to gain 2 a week now. Come on, Buttercup, get here so I can stay within my goal of 15!
*I’ve had every sign of impending labor except water breakage. You know, the one that counts.
*Rachel Lucas is back!!!! I both heart AND love her.
*Community is still the funniest show on TV. Also, the new Running Wilde (with Keri Russell and Will Arnett) is hilarious and has lots of references to Arrested Development. WATCH IT SO IT DOESN’T GET CANCELLED. Oh, who am I kidding? I love it, so it’s doomed.
*I’ve had this pain above my left ear (just above) for a few months now. Comes and goes. Mainly comes if I blow my nose or sniff or whatever. It started with nose blowing, because I’ve done that excessively since getting pregnant. So I dunno if it’s an ear thing or a jaw thing. I may have to consider seeing my general doc. Maybe I’ll ask her about it when she visits the baby in the hospital.
*My belly itches. No matter what time you’re reading this, my belly itches.
*Frank has become a master of the foot rub and the back rub. It’s my new favorite thing about him, and I’m hoping he’ll keep it up after the baby comes.
Last night, I was finally comfy in bed, and Frank pushed his arm under my giant maternity pillow.
ME: Uhnnnnnn. [my whiny grunt]
ME: You’re lifting me. I don’t know how you’re lifting me, since I’m a cow, but you’re lifting me.
HE: I’m super-strong.
ME: Not the appropriate response.
HE [laughing]: I can lift massive things!
He’s not even trying to pretend I’m not huge right now. Yesterday, I’m walking through the house…
ME: Ugh, I sound like an elephant stomping through the house.
HE: You have a big baby belly.
HE: Hey, those are *my* Doritos!
ME: You handed them to me!
HE: I did?
ME: Yes, I reached out for them, and you just handed them right to me.
HE: Wow, you must have me trained like Pavlov’s dog or something. I don’t even remember that.
ME: Do you want spaghetti or goulash?
HE: Spaghetti. I don’t know what goulash is, and I don’t like the sound of it.
HE: Bless you, Rowdi.
ME: You don’t have a soul, Rowdi.
ME: He’s a priest. He said hell.
HE: Priests say hell all the time.
HE: BAD. SWEETIE.
ME: You shouldn’t call me Bad Sweetie when I have a gun in my hand.
HE: Threatening Sweetie.
Even though the suit debacle is finally over, I still kind of need some stress relief. Probably lingering effects from all that shopping. I took a muscle relaxer a couple of nights last week, and they helped a little, but I donâ€™t really like to pop extraneous pills every night (Iâ€™m so happy to be down to only one regular night-time med â€“ now if we could just do something about that epilepsyâ€¦). Of course, the next step in muscle relaxation is finding a massage therapist here. Ugh, I hate finding massage therapists. Iâ€™ve had two great ones, and Iâ€™m always afraid that no one will match up to Mary (whom I once threatened to kidnap so I could take her with me when I moved) and now Vicky (my excellent Florida therapist).
In Florida, Frank used to help when my muscles were sore by bringing me a flower delivery from Publix. Alas, there is no Publix here, and I did love their flowers. I have yet to check out the flowers at the stores we do have nearby to see if they match up. But for now, I think the man should check out the online florist and find me something pretty.
Of course, my shopping-related muscle aches and all-around moodiness are not the only reason my hubby should send flowers to his sweetie. Beside the dismal results from yesterday’s big primary (seriously, do these primary voters do the slightest amount of research into their candidates, or do they just go for the guy who talks the prettiest and the one who screws over the party the most?), there was a little incident with the laundry this morning. I promised I wouldnâ€™t hold a grudge over it, because he apologized (as he always does for the same offense), but Iâ€™m thinking I deserve them anyway. See, we donâ€™t have an ironing board (gave it away before we moved, and I havenâ€™t bought a new one yet), so I make sure to get the laundry out of the dryer and fold it or hang it right away. But Frank decided he was going to do some laundry (that part was nice), and he started with the delicates, which, you know, took a good twenty minutes of coaching. And then he washed his socks next, and when I went to get some undies from the folded laundry basket this morning, I noticed that heâ€™d just thrown the delicates in a big, wadded pile on top of the folded laundry. As wrinkled as bathtub toes. Rarr. I spent a little time this morning reminding him that heâ€™s an adult now. :-) But I’m not mad anymore, so technically that’s not a grudge, right?
Warning: This post contains graphic descriptions of a most heinous act of bloody stupidity. Do not read this while you are eating.
So last night I got mad at Frank because I wanted to play Wii golf and he’s bored with Wii golf, and I was of the opinion that he should just be thrilled that I wanted to play anything at all since I don’t even like video games. Anyway, I decided to act like a big baby to get my point across, instead of just telling him, because as y’all know, I’m a woman, and we don’t act rationally when we’re mad. So we were playing Wii bowling and I just sat on the couch and threw the ball rather than actually getting up and trying. Then Frank realized I was mad and apologized after he realized I was mad that he wasn’t just happy I wanted to play anything, blah blah blah. Well, I was completely retarded and instead of accepting his apology, I told him that I didn’t want to play anything with him.
So I got up and went over to the stairs, at the bottom of which there was a bookcase waiting to go upstairs. So I grabbed the bookcase and started dragging it up the stairs, even though it was heavy-ish. I kept dragging it, waiting for him to come help me, but not asking him to, because as was previously stated, I was crazy angry that he didn’t appreciate my willingness to play any game at all with him. Of course, he was saying things like (lazily), “Do you want some help?” because I was acting like a total child. And because of that whole child thing, I was like, “No! I don’t want your help!” Because you’re a dumbstoopidhead!
So when I got to the middle landing of the stairs, I shifted the bookcase to get it in front of the top half of the stairs so I could drag it straight up. But as I moved it over, my left big toe didn’t get out of the way in time, and I dropped that bookcase right on top of my toe. Boy, that hurt like a son of a gun. So this was when Frank said, “Do you need to go sit in a corner until you calm down?” or something patronizing like that. And then I looked down at my toe. The whole top part of the toe was bloody. Which, of course, made it hurt even more. So I said, “No! I don’t need to sit in a corner, because I just smashed my toe!” And I walked gingerly up the stairs to get to the master bathroom, lifting my poor beleaguered toe up so as not to drip blood on the rented carpet (that method didn’t work).
I got to the bathroom and shut the door most of the way so Frank wouldn’t hear me crying, because if he heard me crying, how could I be angry with him later for not hearing me cry and coming to my rescue? And as I dripped blood all over the tile (and I mean ALL over the tile), I realized just how much my toe hurt. Like. The. Dickens. And I just started wailing. I pretty much had no control over that. I tried not to be loud, but that apparently didn’t work, because when I started yelping like a chihuahua, I heard Rowdi start barking. And she was wooo-wooo-woooing loudly and apparently running halfway up the stairs (the other half having been blocked by the bookcase) to alert Daddy that Timmy was in much pain in the well. Of course, we’re spraying Rowdi in the face with the water bottle any time she barks so we can break her of that nasty habit (nothing else works), so while I was yip-yapping in the bathroom, Frank was dutifully stopping the dog from barking, not hearing my pain.
I soaked many wads of toilet paper with blood until I realized my toe was never going to stop bleeding, and I was going to bleed out, right there on the loverly tile in the bathroom — what a way to go. At least Frank would be comforted by my term life insurance.
I hadn’t unpacked the band-aids yet, but I knew they were in an opened box right next to the bathroom door, so I crawled over and grabbed the band-aids and pre-soaked alcohol swabs. I cleaned my toe several times with the alcohol swabs, but the reality was I was going to die from a toe bleed which just would not stop. Oh, plus the alcohol just made me yelp louder, because holy crap, y’all. Thank goodness they weren’t peroxide swabs, or I would have died from the pain of cleaning my toe.
Here lies SarahK.
Died from sheer pain trying to clean her toe.
Survived by a husband who knew she was crazy.
And a wet-faced barking dog.
It was hard (still is) to determine just how bad my toe was/is doing. I thought I had gashes on the bottom of the toe, but apparently that was just alcohol pain that engulfed my entire toe. I had a profusely bleeding gash on the front of the toe, between the nail and the knuckle — that sucker was all purple and just wouldn’t stop gushing. There was the slash between the big toe and second toe that bled but stopped quickly, and I noticed today that the continuance of the slash goes diagonally down the top of my foot for almost two inches. And then there’s the nail. I probably won’t know for a few days whether I’m going to lose part of the nail. Nor will I know if I kinda cut off the tip of my toe or not. See, there’s a big ol’ skin bubble (yummy!) on the top of the toe, connected to the smashed-in nail, and every time I try to move the skin to see if the tip of the toe is just held on by skin or a little bit of toe meat (muscle, I guess?), the pain is too excruciating to bear, so I give up and put the band-aid back on.
I bandaged up my foot and stopped crying long enough that I could walk down and check the carpet for a blood trail (there is one), and I saw Rowdi lying on the middle landing behind the bookcase, looking utterly worried. I sat down and petted her for a minute and talked loudly (for Frank’s benefit) about how at least she tried to help me (I was now angry at the fact that Frank hadn’t put on his super-sonic hearing and discerned that I was sobbing and wailing in the bathroom upstairs). But then she started sniffing at my toe, and since I was afraid she might bite it off because pit bull mixes love the taste of human flesh, I pulled back from her and went upstairs. Frank said something, I don’t remember what, and I just yelled at him that my toe had been smashed to bits and he didn’t care if I died. Or something like that. Then I went back to the bathroom and decided I should get in the shower.
I heard Frank following me upstairs, so I locked the bathroom door. Again, I wanted to be able to unleash my full wrath on him as a ghost later (since I would shortly be dying). I gingerly pulled off all the bandages (there were four) and was just about to undress when I heard Frank outside the bathroom door saying something. “What?” said I in my pained yet still fuming voice. I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I opened the door and then turned around for the shower. I got neckid (believe me, if you’re picturing this, it wasn’t sexy, as I was covered in tears and half of my own blood, so make that little adjustment in your heads — better yet, don’t picture anything but my nasty toe) and got in the shower while big dumbstoopidhead started talking to me. I don’t remember any specifics except that I was crying and telling him how he should have listened to the bad barking dog to see if I was okay and how come he didn’t even bother to check on me knowing how upset I was and after I’d said I’d smashed my toe. He said something about figuring it was best to just let me simmah down before he tried to talk to me. And I was like, I’m not a dog who you just walk and run around in circles until she works out all her energy and aggression and why do you think I’m a dog and you’re such a butthead and go away go away go away and no Guitar Hero tonight or tomorrow! (I rethought my position on all of the above, and he’s actually playing GH right now.)
Pain does not make me more coherent, nor does it make my crazy dissipate. So then as I sat on the floor in the shower, waiting for the blood and the pain to stop, Frank brought in the big guns — Minerva. He started holding her by her front paws and making her dance for me, and then tap on the glass, then asked if I wanted Minerva to come in with me. Somewhere along in there, my toe stopped bleeding quite so copiously, and I finally got out of the shower. Of course, that was peppered throughout with, “Go away! Go away! You leave me alone!” though the intensity of my insistences quickly subsided to become vain repetitions of, “Go away. You go. Leave me alone…” It’s the dancing kitty thing — I’m a sucker for it!
Anyway, after I was out of the shower, we apologized to each other. He for not realizing he was being selfish before I went crazy (he tried to do this while I was in the shower, but I didn’t listen), and me for going crazy and smashing my toe in a fit of outrageous stupidity. I bandaged up my toe again, this time with only three bandages, and we got dressed for bed. My crazy had tired Frank out so much that he didn’t even want to read a comic book before going to sleep. I was fine for reading half a chapter of Harry Potter OTP, though.
My toe is not much better today. I’m down to two bandages, but the bleeding starts back up every time I take them off, and the nail/skin part still hurts too badly to try to figure out if the big piggy is just barely hanging on.
wRitErsbLock emailed me this morning, and in my reply to her, I said that I had smashed my toe to bits. “Why?” “Because I was mad at Frank.” Who, by the way, finished moving the bookcase into the reading room while I was in the shower. When I thanked him for doing that, he was like, “Of course I finished moving it. It’s not heavy.” RARR. Try dropping it on your toe and see if you feel the same way.
I slept several hours this afternoon in the chair in the reading room. I think all the blood loss and dehydration from crying really wiped out all of my energy. I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to ever wear a left shoe again.
Frank has just put Minerva into a decorative trunk and is trying to add Omen.
SARAHK: NO! Put her down. Oh! And get Minerva out of there! BAD!
FRANK J.: Minerva likes it in there.
SARAHK: Get her out.
FRANK J.: No. You can’t tell me what to do.
SARAHK [narrowing my eyes]: I’ll spit in your peanuts again. So there. Get her out.
Why yes, peeps, I *did* spit in his peanuts. Why, you ask? For my own sanity.
See, he spilled some of his honey roasted peanuts all over the couch and floor earlier. He started picking them up while I focused on not letting the dog eat the peanuts. After a while, I realized that he was putting the peanuts back into the can.
SARAHK: Why are you wasting a whole can of peanuts?
FRANK J.: I’m not. I’m picking them up and putting them back in!
SARAHK: No, you’re ruining what was left in the can!
FRANK J.: No I’m not.
SARAHK: Yes you are. Now you can’t eat any of them!
FRANK J.: Yes I can. I’m going to eat them.
I actually felt one of my eyeballs start to detach from the optic nerve at this point.
SARAHK: You are NOT going to eat them!
FRANK J. [picking peanuts up off the floor, NOT wiping them off, and popping them into his mouth]: Uh huh. See? I’m eating them.
SARAHK: You are so gross! Stop it! [Getting up and trying but failing to take the can of peanuts from him]
FRANK J.: No. There’s nothing wrong with them.
SARAHK: Throw them away. Now.
FRANK J.: No! I’m not going to waste them!
SARAHK: You already did waste them! You picked them up off the floor, which is FULL of dog hair, and just threw them in with the clean peanuts! You canNOT eat those!
FRANK J.: I’m eating them. And you can’t stop me.
So I walked over to the can of peanuts and spit right in it.
SARAHK: There. Case closed.
FRANK J.: You’re so mean! I’m hungry! You ruined my peanuts!
SARAHK: No, YOU ruined your peanuts. You have another giant can in the kitchen. Eat those. They haven’t been on the floor, which is full of hair and dust mites and all sorts of disgusting things.
FRANK J.: No, I’m not going to eat the ones in the kitchen. Those are for the trip. I’m not going to waste them.
SARAHK: It’s not wasting them if you’re hungry and you eat them. It’s eating them.
FRANK J.: No, because then I’ll run out on the trip.
SARAHK: Well, we might be able to find a Wal-Mart somewhere along the way and buy you another four dollar can of peanuts.
Just now, I told him that I was blogging about the peanuts.
FRANK J.: That was mean. I can’t believe you ruined my peanuts.
SARAHK: I did not ruin your peanuts.
FRANK J.: You didn’t even try to stop me from putting them back in the can. So when I started, I was watching you to see if you were going to stop me, and you didn’t so I was like, okay.
SARAHK: I was busy keeping the dog from eating the peanuts. All I had to say to her was “Shhhhtt!” and she understood. So the dog understands better than you do that it’s not okay to eat peanuts off the floor.
FRANK J.: Oh, sure. You care more about the dog than you do about me.
SARAHK: Well, she listens to me sometimes.
Ay. I don’t ask for much. I don’t request shiny rings and diamond pendants. I just ask that my husband not eat off the floor.
SARAHK: I need more Nerds.
(Frank gets up and goes to the kitchen.)
SARAHK: Don’t you think we need more Nerds?
FRANK J.: Do you know how to ask nicely?
SARAHK: Would you please get me some Nerds, sweetie?
FRANK J.: I’m not gonna ever want you pregnant if this is the way you are normally.
He loves me the best!
As y’all know, when I was diagnosed with epilepsy in March 2006, I read up on the condition–because I’m all about the research. As soon as I learned that too much caffeine aggravates the condition and the symptoms, I quit drinking Cokes. It huuuuuurt. I quit cold turkey, too. Sorta. I finished the Cokes we had on-hand, and after that, no more Cokes. Until I had my colonoscopy in March 2007, and I got a little hooked on ginger ale. It is caffeine free, and it was the only thing that settled my stomach after being on that wretched Half-Litely crap and emptying every nook and cranny of my intestines. Eventually, I stopped again, because Dr. Awesome said no high-fructose corn syrup. But then I discovered natural sodas (thanks, essay!) that are made with pure cane sugar and no caffeine, and well… I’m addicted to black cherry natural soda.
I have digressed in lengthy measure. Ok. When I was on caffeine, I needed a good hour to wake up with my first Coke or two. But ever since I gave up caffeine, it takes me approximately thirty seconds to wake up in the morning (unless I take my meds really late–no matter what, I can’t get out of bed if I haven’t taken my epilepsy meds at least eight hours earlier). The difference (after the withdrawal headaches) is enormous. I wake up, I pee, I come out of the bedroom to start my day.
And then there’s my hubby. He drinks at least one mug of coffee before he can even consider waking. It’s just better for me to not speak to him until he’s gotten past the first mug (or two). He goes half a day without caffeine and has enormous headaches and becomes Mr. Crankypants.
Well. I figured that since this is deeply embedded in his brain (as Cokes were in mine) from the time he was living at home and his dad was making his sludge-strong coffee for him, it would take some kind of drug rehab to get him to quit. Coffee’s great, of course, but decaf would be so much better for our marriage (read: he won’t be so grumpy in the mornings), right?
So I started slow. I told him to give caffeine-free Coca-Cola a try. I figured if he was bringing Coca-Cola (the nectar of life) into the house, at least if it was caffeine free, I could have it sparingly (the HFCS is not something I’ll have often as it is). He turned up his nose at first, because he apparently made the egregious mistake of drinking one of his mom’s caffeine-free diet sodas when he was younger (ugh, diet!) and has therefore always associated caffeine-free with nasty aftertasty cola. I finally convinced him that since it’s still horrible for him, due to the HFCS, he could give it a try. He, of course, told me I was right, and caffeine-free Coke tastes just like fully leaded Coke.
And any day after that on which he woke up exhausted and moody, I hinted (ok, strongly hinted) that he should consider moving to decaf coffee, because then it might not be such an ordeal to wake up in the mornings. After a bunch of “eh”s, he finally told me I could try weaning him off the caffeinated coffee.
But the kicker is this: he can’t know it’s happening. I am not to let him know when he’s on decaf coffee. He needs the placebo effect of thinking he’s having caffeine every morning. That will work fine until he goes back to work, at which point I’ll need to tell him so he’ll know that he has to bring his own magic coffee or drink from the decaf pot at work.
I started this week, the weaning. I make him six cups of coffee every day. Six tablespoons of ground coffee. I started with five caf / one decaf for a few days. Then four caf / two decaf… It will go on from there until he’s fully decaf. Every day I quiz him. “So, how do you feel today? Have you been tired today? Do you have a headache? How was your coffee?” He knows why I’m asking, but he doesn’t know where on the caffeinated spectrum his coffee lies, and he won’t, because he rarely reads my blog. ;-)
I’ll update you after he’s been decaf for a while and tell you if there was an effect… I suspect there will be.
Iâ€™m in planning mode. Planning for our future *outside Florida* (I can hear angels singing now if I listen really hard). Weâ€™re mainly looking into one city (I would tell you, but I donâ€™t want to get anyoneâ€™s hopes up â€“ I have readers there, yo, and Iâ€™m not thrilled that weâ€™ll probably be letting down the people in Austin who have been so looking forward to our arrival), but weâ€™re keeping others on the radar in case we donâ€™t get to our desired destination. So Iâ€™m looking at rent houses online (we will rent for at least six months in the new city, and oh, thereâ€™s this one house that I really hope no one rents before we get there) and making budgets for after we sell the house and move. Yes, I have budgets, plural, because Iâ€™m looking at several scenarios â€“ would you expect less of your Excel freak? Iâ€™m looking up restaurants where I can eat gluten-free â€“ in the city and in surrounding states… um, Iâ€™ll go anywhere for GF food â€“ looking at stores where I can buy gluten-free food, and most definitely looking at Google Earth to see all the closest spots for hiking. I consider anything within fifteen hours close.
Yesterday or the day before, I was working on yet another budget scenario. I told Frank, â€œWeâ€™re going to need to budget in savings for Christmas presents.â€ Seriously, I have so many savings categories â€“ 401(k), just-in-case, my next car (I am *not* driving kids around in the Explorer, and where we hope to go, we will need a 4WD vehicle), our next house, and now Christmas. Because I donâ€™t want to put *any* amount of Christmas on credit cards for later repayment. No way. Iâ€™m done. And, when I told him that? He was totally cool with it. I love my hubby. Christmas is over three months away, and he is completely on board with budgeting it in. *sigh* Heâ€™s so close to perfect.
Last year, I bought most of our Christmas presents online. Amazon, Overstock, Wal-Mart, Best Buy, Target. Iâ€™d guess I went to the store for fewer than five presents. Period. Frankâ€™s Aquaman boxers come to mind. Haaaa. This year, I expect I will do the same. I prefer to stay out of the stores when everyone else is there. Thankfully, most of the stores I used last year are on my favorite online coupon site, couponchief.com. And last year we didnâ€™t go to Texas at Christmas. We went to Texas at Thanksgiving and went to Boise for Christmas. So online shopping was most necessary. This year, we hope to make it to both Idaho and Texas for Christmas-ish visits (and we *really* want to be in one of those two states by then â€“ oh, darn, I didnâ€™t want to tell you our favorite options!), but either wayâ€¦ the online shopping will make everything as easy as it was last year. And last year Frank was making up for his eleven-days-before-Christmas Wii purchase, so this year the Christmas purchases shouldnâ€™t be nearly as extravagant. As far as I know, heâ€™s happy with said Wii and has no next-gen console buying intentions. If he does, heâ€™d better have a secret stash of cash to pay for it. ;-) We’re on a budget.
My husband is so dumb it would blow your mind, ladies. Some commercial was talking about pregnancy weight gain or something like that.
SARAHK: I’ll bet when I’m pregnant, I’ll gain a ton of weight.
FRANK J. [happily]: You’ll be big as a house!
FRANK J.: Did you just say that? I didn’t say it!
Does it amaze y’all that he won my heart? Sometimes, me too. Most of the time, no, but then he opens his mouth. :-)
Y’all, I am so shoe deprived right now. I don’t remember if I told you how I lost all of my favorite shoes… okay, “lost” is not the right word. One pair of shoes, my Crocs flip-flops, had to be thrown out, because I was flipping (alpha rolling) Rowdi, and when I did, she tried to be difficult (normally she goes down right away, because I’m the boss), and when she tried to get away (through my legs), I flipped her anyway, and she landed on my foot. My foot pushed forward under her weight, and the toe strap of one of the flip-flops busted. And I wore those suckers all the time. This did not make for a happy SarahK (that’s me).
Incident number two happened within days of the first incident. It did not involve the dog; it only involved my stupidity (and Frank’s failure to completely close a leftovers-container of SarahK’s Super-Awesome Creamy Chicken). I had opened the fridge and seen that the leftovers were not properly sealed and that this was just an accident waiting to happen. I would have preferred that the accident waited until my favorite gold-cloth-and-sequins platform shoes (they were not nearly as gaudy as they sound — they were lovely and $17) were not there. I pulled the container out of the refrigerator so I could re-seal it, but I fumbled the container, and SarahK’s Super-Awesome Creamy Chicken splattered all over the gold cloth of my shoes. I, of course, decided it was Frank’s fault and didn’t speak to him for a while.
FRANK J.: What’s wrong?
SARAHK: You ruined my shoes.
FRANK J.: I’m sorry. [He doesn't even bother to ask why, he just assumes I'm being crazy, as usual. I keep telling him I'm a woman, but he still doesn't get the bursts of crazy -- just takes his hits and apologizes for what he thinks is nothing.]
SARAHK: You should be. If you had properly put away the chicken, I’d still have my shoes.
FRANK J.: O… kay. I’ll buy you new shoes? [Poor men. We make no sense to them, but in our little heads, "you didn't properly put away the chicken" easily leads to "you ruined my shoes."]
So Frank and Rowdi owe me new shoes. I’ve been forced to not wear my signature brown clothes to church (all my favorite clothes are brown), because with the gold shoes out of the picture, I have only black and white dress shoes (and the white ones hurt my feet). Also, I’m wearing my regular Crocs when I go out and about (the “shuglies,” as my preacher’s wife calls them). They’re fine but a little too confining for my taste. I prefer the flip-flops.
I’m looking around for new shoes. So far, I’ve gone to a few stores and come out empty-handed. I hate shoe shopping more than I hate clothes shopping, and that is saying something. I don’t have wide feet, but when I accidentally get glutened and my feet start to hurt, I need wide shoes — and do you know how people look at you in the stores when you ask if they carry your shoe in “wide”? Like you’re a freak!
If I was looking for a replacement for my shuglies (which I’m not), I would consider some Bernie Mev shoes (like the Crocs, they are cute in that so, so ugly kind of way, and they look so comfy). As it is, I’ll probably just replace the flip-flops with the same exact shoes (red and black), though also I might get them in brown and light blue, since those are my main colors. I thought about ballerina shoes (equally ugly), but I haven’t seen any with enough padding to work with my wonky, temperamental feet.
The dress shoes are so much harder to replace. Black ones I never have problems with. But shoes to wear with brown are not as easy to come by (I found some gold-ish Jessica Simpson shoes that were cute enough, but I’m not sure my ankles want to be perpendicular to the ground all day).
Yeah, so basically, I’m looking online now. But the risk with buying shoes online is not knowing whether I need a 5 1/2 or a 6 (every shoe is different!). Yes, I do have tiny feet. They’re adorable; I love them.
Tammi found out about a recall for Sara Lee whole wheat bread and some store brands as well. She’s very surprised that the bread may have small pieces of metal in it.
Hey Tammi, maybe Sara Lee’s husband forgot that Sara Lee said, “Don’t put the beater for the Kitchenaid mixer in the dishwasher,” and he put the beater in the dishwasher anyway. And the next time Sara Lee used the mixer, metal started flaking off into the batter of the bread.
Not that I would know anything about that…
Anyway, I can’t wait for my replacement beater (it should arrive today, and I’m gonna name it Fred) so I can make more bread.
Frank J. gets up to go get himself some coffee, but it’s all for effect. I am on to him. I know what he’s doing.
FRANK J.: Oh. I don’t has coffee.
SARAHK: And you don’t know how to make it?
FRANK J.: I know how to make my wife make it.
SARAHK: Not today. You make it yourself.
FRANK J. [with his cute face on]: Please, pretty wife, will you make me coffee?
FRANK J.: Please? You’re so pretty.
SARAHK: I will only make your coffee if you understand that you are not making me make your coffee.
FRANK J.: I understand.
SARAHK: Do you understand?
FRANK J.: Yes. I can has coffee?
SARAHK: Fine. But only because you asked, not because you’re making me.
FRANK J.: K thx.
SARAHK: Make sure you squeeze all the air out of the ziplock bag before you put the bacon in the fridge. It’ll last longer that way.
FRANK J.: That’s an urban legend.
SARAHK: No it’s not.
FRANK J.: Based entirely in scientific fact.
Yeah, pretty much. Silly boy. He’ll do anything to get out of the extra work.
SARAHK: Did you finish cleaning the grill?
FRANK J.: Yes. You saw me cleaning it.
SARAHK: Yeah, but it didn’t take you very long to clean the grate. Did you clean it?
FRANK J.: Yeah, I cleaned it with the brush.
SARAHK: Yeah, but did you really clean it? Because when I put these burgers on the grill, these gluten-free burgers, the only way I will get gluten from them is if there is gluten on the grill already. You know, I’ve cooked a lot of na’an on that grill.
FRANK J.: Yes, I cleaned the grate. And you’re going to be killing any gluten that may be on there anyway, because you’ll be using fire.
FRANK J.: That’s how we kill everything. Bacteria, all that stuff is killed with fire. It’s the standard for everything.
SARAHK: No. You need to actually get the gluten off the grill.
FRANK J.: I scraped it. But you’re telling me that fire will kill deadly diseases but not gluten? [Nevermind that gluten intolerance and celiac have deadly complications -- doctors can say all they want that gluten intolerance doesn't have the complications of celiac, but I ain't buyin'.]
SARAHK: It doesn’t work like that. It’s not a bacterium. It’s a protein. Even if you kill it, it’s still there.
FRANK J.: No, it’s fine.
SARAHK: Well, when I end up glutened, it will be your fault.
SARAHK: Well, I’ve gone over everything I’ve eaten. My muscle aches started up good yesterday morning [Thursday], were horrible by evening, and they’re still going strong today. My nerve pain in my butt is really bad. And this morning my poo was bad for the first time in four days. I had three days of really good poo before this morning.
FRANK J.: Uh huh.
SARAHK: Considering when my symptoms started… it was the gluten on the grill that did it to me. There was no other gluten in the meal.
FRANK J.: Uh huh. [Not listening.]
SARAHK: So what I’m saying is, it’s your fault I got glutened.
FRANK J.: I’m sorry. [Completely patronizing tone, which is why I continued to nag.]
SARAHK: In the future you should listen to me.
FRANK J.: Okay.
Because maybe I know a little more about it than he does. He keeps saying he’s going to read the books, but I think he’s planning to just learn it all by osmosis.
the light blogging this week. Sorry about that. A few things. Muscle aches are keeping me down, though they are waning a bit (more on that in my medical update, coming soon). Also, I’m linking over at Conservative Grapevine this week, so I’m spending a lot of time actually trolling sites other than those I normally read looking for news. You know, I really enjoy the diary blogs. News isn’t as fun, is it (except when served with a helping of SarahK pith, of course)?
Also, I’ve been adding a few things. Advertising disclosure policy, etc, I’m sure you picked up on that. I do not intend to turn this blog into a sponsors-only blog, don’t worry. It will still be as awesome as it always was, just with a few extra posts inserted between my regular blogging. What does this mean? I’ll tell you more later (always later, right?), but it means I will be blogging much more. More of my “normal” posts, and extra content I’ll be paid to write. That’s the plan, anyway; I haven’t been approved by the services yet. But the thing is, our only income right now is blog money. Sweet, sweet blog money. And Venomous Kate wrote this doozy of a post about sponsored blogging that convinced me I need to be more proactive in getting my blog in order and going out and getting some of that sweet blog money for myself.
T-shirts, sponsored blogging, the new text link ads I’ve signed up for… we could make a living wage off blogging after all. And if we get ourselves on a daily work schedule, we could get everything working well.
Speaking of that… Frank made lunch today and is working on laundry. He’s painted all the walls, and I’m working on the finishing touches now, so he’s starting to do the daily chores so I’m not constantly interrupted by them. Can you say “SCORE”?
SARAHK: Argh! It’s like having five children! The two cats, the dog, you. Five kids!
FRANK J.: No wonder you were an accountant.
SARAHK: I’m not finished! You count for two, Rowdi counts for two, Sydney doesn’t count, because she just keeps to herself. Minerva is one for one.
FRANK J.: Nyah nyah nyah. It’s like five children! You plus the two cats plus the dog equals five!
SARAHK: YOU SHUT UP! AND GO TO YOUR ROOM!
Rowdi was already in her room. Of course, when I yelled, “Go to your room!” to Rowdi, she said, “I’ll show YOU my room!” and promptly ran and jumped on the sofa. She has been informed that she will never be invited on the furniture again so there is no future confusion between “room” and “furniture.”
SARAHK [pointing at the toothbrush dangling out of my mouth, walking toward the bathroom]: Oo ant oo aht inh eyen uh een eye eeh.
FRANK J.: What?
SARAHK: Oo ant oo aht inh eyen uh een eye eeh!
FRANK J.: I can’t understand you. What?
SARAHK [finally reaching the bathroom, spitting out the toothbrush water that I'd been hanging onto for five minutes while he held up the facilities]: You can’t do that while I’m brushing my teeth!
FRANK J.: Do what?
SARAHK: I walked out of the bathroom with the toothbrush in my mouth, and you walked in and took over the bathroom! You can’t do that when I’m brushing my teeth, and I can’t get to the other bathroom right now because the hall is blocked off!
FRANK J.: Oh. Sorry.
SARAHK [in horrified Hermione voice]: You’re doing it all wrong. You’re wasting Doritos. If you’re going to eat them like that, you shouldn’t eat the Fiery Habaneros at all.
FRANK J.: What are you talking about?
SARAHK: I need to buy you some more Nacho Cheese [I don't like Nacho Cheese Doritos, they don't have enough salt on them, so what's the point?]. You’re a waster of Doritos. The proper way to eat a Dorito is this. You lick the salt off of the Dorito. Both sides. Then you eat the chip. Then you lick your fingers. There is no point to a Dorito if you don’t taste all of the salt. Why are you even eating it?
FRANK J.: I’m going to pretend you didn’t say anything. [pops Dorito into mouth, crunches, swallows, licks fingers.]
SARAHK: Well, at least you licked your fingers. Waster.
So tell me… how do you eat Doritos? The right way? The wrong way?
Me? I look into the bag and select the visible Dorito with the most salt and eat it the right way. If it turns out to be a false advertiser, I throw it back.
Funny I don’t have a generic “neuroses” category. You’d think I’d have created one by now.
FRANK J.: You have to see this. Look at this setup. [Rewinds to the pizza boy sketch from last night on Jimmy Kimmel. Somehow we have seen the beginning to Jimmy Kimmel the last 2 nights. I'm not sure how I feel about this, since I do not care for him since he tried to come off as the next elitist pinkytoehead when he interviewed Emily Gould a couple of weeks ago.]
SARAHK: Ooh. Look at that paint color. I like it.
FRANK J.: I actually noticed it.
SARAHK: Haha! I can’t believe you noticed it.
Ladies, all it takes is constant nagging, round-the-clock home improvements, and chronic threats to paint one wall pea-soup-green. Then he’ll start to notice paint colors.
Frank had to take the toilet tank off so I can paint behind the toilet. Believe me, there is only 1 inch of space behind it. I took a picture because I know Bikermommy is not going to believe that I couldn’t have painted it without taking it off. Short of raising my non-existent magic wand and shouting “Reducto!” at the toilet, this was the only option.
Anyway, I suggested that Frank prep the area for water spillage, because even though the tank was drained as much as possible, there would be water all over the floor if he didn’t prepare.
FRANK J.: There’s not much water left in the tank.
SARAHK: You still need to have something there.
FRANK J.: It’ll be fine. There’s not that much water.
So I went back to my taping, and after a couple of minutes, the first bolt came off the bottom of the toilet tank.
FRANK J.: Uh, I need a towel!
I just jogged to the hall closet and got a big old towel. I didn’t even smirk. Of course, I smirk now as I blog this, but I kept a straight face, handed him his towel, and started to walk away. But then I saw him toss the towel down on the floor, spread it out, and stand on it to produce maximum floor-to-towel transfer. Disgusting. Did I mention he was wearing socks? No shoes?
SARAHK: Your socks are going to get wet.
FRANK J. [pretending he planned this and looking me straight in the face and grinning]: Yes, I know.
SARAHK: Wet with toilet water.
Ew. I get that it’s water that hasn’t gone into the toilet bowl, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s one mechanism and one giant bacteria farm. All I could think of was how I wanted to throw some rubbing alcohol at his feet. At his whole self.
By the way, he did take off the second bolt as I continued my taping (“I need another towel”, she remembers smugly), and the toilet tank went onto the plastic sheeting on the floor, this one an insistence rather than a suggestion. “You’re going to need a place to put that when you get it off. You should plan for that in advance.”
Just now I was walking through the livingroom to the kitchen. Because everyone makes dinner at 9 p.m. Mind you, it’s been a good half hour since he took off the toilet tank.
FRANK J.: My socks are wet.
SARAHK: You are wearing toilet water on your feet! You are so gross!
FRANK J. [grinning and taking off his socks, putting them in the laundry room]: It’s water that never goes in the toilet bowl. It’s clean water.
SARAHK: It’s toilet water. Yuck.
He walked through our bedroom, livingroom, kitchen, entryway in his toilet water socks. I’m going to have germ-farm nightmares tonight. And now that I think on it, those feet will touch me in bed tonight.
SARAHK: You have to wash your feet before you touch me in bed tonight.
FRANK J.: Ok, fine.
Yesterday Frank called a recruiter in Austin. “Please please please send us your resume. When will you be here?” I was in the garage working like mad, because I know he’s determined to leave me in Florida all by myself, and I will be a monkey’s flying cow uncle first. I asked him when he got off the phone when he told them he’d be available for work. Because you know, I’ve told him several times that we’re putting the house on the market April 15th, he can send his resume to Austin on the 7th, and we’ll plan to leave here end of April, mid-May, end of May, perhaps mid-June (because we know our house is going to sell right away, it’s all the buzz in the neighborhood). He can go end of April if there’s a job he absolutely can’t pass up, but really, I’d love us to have some time off to go to the Grand Canyon before he starts work in Texas. “So when did you say you’ll be available for work?” “I said we’d be in Austin in a couple of weeks or maybe a month.” “Do you hate me?” He had no idea why I would react any way other than pleased as punch that he’d given the correct answer. “You are just bound and determined to leave me in this hell called Florida all by myself, aren’t you?” (Please pardon my language, it’s what I said, I don’t want to lie to you.) “What? What’d I do? That’s not the right answer?”
You know, if he does leave me here by myself, I’m hiring a contractor to finish the rest of the work on the house and then spending a lavish couple of weeks at Disney (staying there in their uber-expensive rooms and everything) with a certain Prince Charming (Cinderella’s boyfriend) while I wait for the work to be done. Then while I’m selling the house, it’s pedicures and massages every day. Every day. So that job in Austin had better pay the big bucks, because I’ll be living it up down here and requiring quite the stipend. Oh, maybe when I have no showings, wRitErsbLock, sherlock, and I can hang out at the space center and use the annual pass I just got. Too bad my darling husband will be far away in Texas, chowing down on that awesome Austin food without me, not able to use his new KSC pass. Too bad, my love. Oh, and you have to leave me all but Old Faithful. You get to take only one gun with you until I come for good. You leave me to rot in Florida, you leave the weapons. The beautiful, shiny, sexy weapons. Not to mention, the beautiful, shiny, sexy wife! Slowly rotting in the Florida humidity. Yes, well, I’m gonna send you shiny, beautiful (not you readers, you–Frank) pictures of me cleaning the guns every night whilst I am abandoned here in the netherregions of America.
And since he’s helping me around the house right now, it’s project after project for him. Only he knows that I won’t let him pack stuff, because I want our things to get to Texas not broken. So he doesn’t even start grabbing stuff and throwing it into boxes, because, well, he just knows. He’s already done most of the outside work and gotten most of the stuff off the plant ledges for me (I have to redecorate them more sparingly and dust anything that goes back up there, plus we have to paint everything before anything goes back up…). So anything I come across for him, I just tell him, oh, you can do this next. He’s very efficient. My list is very long and celiactically slow-moving, though the boxes are getting packed fairly fast because I’m a much more organized person than one would think by looking at the state of things right now.
Anyway, he asked for something to do because he’d successfully removed the towel bar in the master bathroom (yes, they really did just glue it onto the wall), so I sucked in my breath and gave him very specific instructions on how to remove my clothes from the dryer. Mind you, I have nine categories of laundry, including dry-clean-only, and this is my smallest category, so there were about eight pieces of clothing in the dryer. And I gave very specific instructions. And asked nicely. “Ok, and make sure that you use only the big plastic hangers.” “Ok.” He acts like he hears what I’m saying, but he’s just pretend-listening. “And don’t smush the clothes when you hang them in the closet. They need their space.” They’re my cutest shirts. “Ok.” So I go into my closet after I’ve made an exhaustive list of everything we need at Lowe’s, Target, Walmart, BJ’s, the post office, and Big Lots. I can’t wait to put on my cutest new KSC t-shirt! It’s brown and gold, my sweetie who wants me to rot in Florida alone bought it for me with his allowance. I love it.
First thing I notice is that it is smushed. Along with another of my t-shirts fresh from the dryer. Eye roll. “I thought you said you wouldn’t smush my clothes?” See, he got distracted because there was lingerie in the dryer. I know, because he held it up and asked, “How am I supposed to know how to hang this stuff?” “Most of it is t-shirts. And if it’s lingerie, I have three hangers of lingerie, just hang it on one of those hangers. It’s not hard.” But he was still stuck on it’s black and pink and lacy. Anyway, “I’m sorry… I tried not to.” Then I noticed that everything was on wire hangers. WIRE HANGERS! They’re from the devil, you know. “Sweetie!” “What? What’d I do?” “Do you think I just say things to hear myself talk?” “What??” “I said only big plastic hangers.” “I used those until I ran out.” “That’s when you go to other closets and find more.” He usually asks in these situations. His head was still with the black and pink and lacy. “Oh. I thought you just preferred the plastic ones, but these were ok too.” “No. If these were ok, I wouldn’t have made a special point to say only use big plastic hangers.” “Then why do we have them?” Ah, quick, but I’m quick, too. “Because the drycleaners send clothes home on these. I immediately transfer clothes to the big plastic hangers so they’re not ruined. Wire hangers ruin clothes.” “Then why do drycleaners use them?” Why why why. “Because they’re cheap.” So there.
And then I see a classic example of why I just don’t let him touch the laundry ever. I didn’t take a picture, but I’ve taken a picture before. It wasn’t as bad this time, but it was on its way. I just started laughing. “Did you even try?” “I tried!” “No, you half-tried.” “I tried to try.” “You tried to half-try.”
FRANK J: Hey, Sweetie, I’m heading home now. And dinner better be waiting for me when I get there.[It's good he's joking, because I do so like his face. He has a nice face, and I'd hate to destroy such a nice face. Oh, I'm sorry. Where's that Christian submissive wife in me? What I meant to say is: 1 Peter 3:7 says "Husbands, likewise, dwell with them with understanding, giving honor to the wife, as to the weaker vessel," and that does not sound like he was dwelling with me with understanding.]
SARAHK: Yeah, that’ll ensure that dinner will be waiting for you when you get home. Ever.
FRANK J: I’m not sure what I’d do if dinner was waiting for me when I got home. I’d be so surprised, I don’t think I’d be able to eat.
SARAHK: Yeah, that too. Saying you’d be surprised, that’ll make me ever have dinner waiting for you. Ever.
FRANK J: I don’t think I’d want dinner that early anyway. I wouldn’t be hungry then.
See, I think he calls me and says things just so I’ll have stuff to blog about. Since I’m too busy to blog about 24 or to write my extensive post about why CSI: Horatio is the best Monday night television show and America should be hyped up on that instead of 24 which just isn’t doing it for me this year, and considering that my blogging about putting together bookcases and vacuuming the floors would not be the laugh riot of the decade, I think he’s just trying to help me out.
Oh, here’s another doozy: Colossians 3:19: “Husbands, love your wives, and do not be bitter toward them.”
you see what happens when you don’t listen to your wife?
i love you anyway, goofy goof.
My mother called me when I was in Boise for Christmas. “Sarah. You have to go to JC Penney for me and get Frank a present. I’ll send you the money for it, but you have to do this.”
“What is it?”
“They’re these Aquaman pajamas with feet, and they’re the funniest things, and when I saw them–” she’s laughing now “–I thought Frank just had to have them. But they only have large here, and they’re way to big. Go to JC Penney there and see if they have them.”
“Oh good grief. Alright. I’ll do it.” Because I knew, y’all. I knew she was right. He had to have them. I mean… it’s Aquaman.
So I went with Frank’s mom on the 23rd, or it might even have been Christmas Eve, I don’t remember. We went to Penney’s, and I looked for the super-secret present that I had been instructed to buy. Unfortunately, they were out of the Aquaman footed pajamas. But they did have Aquaman boxers. My word, I actually stood on line to buy Aquaman boxers. My MIL bought him some Homer Simpson boxers for his stocking, too.
So these things were on clearance for six bucks, because let’s face it. If your willy is in trouble, do you really want to entrust it to Aquaman? Help me, Aquaman! Ask a fish to swim my wee to safety! Not so comforting knowing that AC’s got your back(side), right?
Anyway. Other than his Dubya-2, guess what his very favorite Christmas present was. Yep. Those six dollar Aquaman boxers. The first day he wore them, he was practically giddy to put them on. Like suddenly his wang could talk to fish now. And then the next day, I saw him putting on his jeans, and he was still wearing his Aquaman boxers! I said, “Sweetie, you can not wear those boxers!” “Why not?” “Because you wore them yesterday! You put on clean boxers!” And the look on his face. Like a little kid whose toy was being taken away at playtime. He said, “But they’re mine!” He took them off anyway.
He is so cute, y’all. I’m telling you, I just don’t know what to do with him. Last night, there he was, getting ready for bed, and there was Aquaman, on those bright green boxers. I forgot to check and make sure he wasn’t trying to wear them again today.
I have noticed that when they go into his drawer, they are the first ones that come out the next day. Like they’re his best new clothes now.
I love that man.
for Boss’s Day! hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
I told him, “I should have gotten you flowers, because you’re the boss.”
He just laughed and said something like, “Yeah right.”
A while back, Frank and I were at the grocery store together, and we went by the frozen pizza section. Yes, I’ve decided that Totino’s Party Pizzas are once again going to be a staple in our freezer for days when I just don’t feel like cooking, since I’m having migraine season again. Anyway, that’s beside the point, this is about Frank and his silliness.
We went by the frozen pizza section, and I started to grab 2 Totino’s pizzas. They were, in my world, $1.25 each, so I picked up one for Frank and one for me. This conversation ensued:
FRANK J.: Sweetie, you have to get 4, they’re 4 for $5!
SARAHK: But we only need 2, one for you and one for me. Which kind do you want, supreme?
FRANK J.: Yes, but get 4, because they’re cheaper that way.
SARAHK: Sweetie, 4 for $5 also means $1.25 each. They just say 4 for $5 so you will buy 4 whether you need 4 or not. But they’re still the same price. Unless they specifically say that you must buy that many to get the discount. But they generally only put that on there so you’ll buy 4 instead of the number you actually need. It’s just a trick to get you to buy more.
FRANK J.: You shut up. We’re getting 4 pizzas.
However, he did go away from the conversation knowing that I’m right.
So tonight he came home with 2 bags of Nerds (individual boxes like you give out at Halloween). He brought them as a treat for me.
FRANK J.: I got you a treat at the store, Sweetie.
SARAHK: You did? What’d you get me?
FRANK J. [holding up 2 bags of Nerds and grinning ear to ear]: I had to get you 2 bags because they were 2 for $3.