skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Why did I even ask?
It's not like Dave is one of the Property Brothers.
He's NEVER had opinions of my home decorating projects. The only reason he knows I'm redoing the powder room is that he tripped on the ladder.
"Why is there a ladder in the bathroom?" he asked.
I had to remind him that I was stripping the wallpaper.
"Oh."
And I could have totally predicted his answer anyhow, when I attempted to show him the canvas art print I was thinking of buying for the "new" powder room.
"You don't need a picture in the bathroom."
Actually, it reminded me of my late Dad. After visiting my sister's new home he told me how impressed he was with it. "You know, Loulie, she's got a picture hanging in her can!" He chuckled, shook his head and said, "Imagine that. A picture in the can."
I looked at Dave and flatly told him that I was absolutely hanging a picture in the can bathroom.
He grumbled, "What a waste of money."
I wonder what he would have said had he actually looked at the picture that I attempted to show him.
I think I'm going to go ahead and get it.
He'll never notice it, anyhow.
Dave called me a bad loser.
I AM NOT A BAD LOSER!!!!
I'm, actually, a very good loser. I'm so experienced at losing that I've gotten quite good at it.
But this time the judges got it wrong.
Okay. Technically, I did lose.
But the thing is, I really should have won.
The judges made an egregious error. Not unlike the referees at every Bills - Patriots game since 2000.
Perhaps the idiots judges did not understand that they were judging an "Ugly Holiday Sweater Contest."
Not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt Contest.
Please believe me when I tell you that the competition was rather lame. There were many very Cute Holiday Sweaters, one Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt, and my Ugly Holiday Sweater.
I was not even aware that there was a prize for the ugliest holiday sweater that afternoon, when I randomly carefully attached garland and Christmas ornaments to one of Dave's old sweaters.
(I am quite the seamstress, after all.)
But when I stepped back to examine my masterpiece, I realized that it looked kind of cute.
Like Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.
So I search the house high and low for some way to make my cute holiday sweater ugly.
When I found my bag of assorted plastic bugs I knew that I'd hit pay dirt. What could be uglier than a cute holiday sweater with bugs crawling all over it?
Nothing.
(Certainly not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.)
And it was not an easy feat sewing those guys on that sweater. Especially the ones with all the legs. Let's just say that there's nothing more frustrating than a tangled mess of insect legs and thread.
(Except, of course, unfairly losing an Ugly Holiday Sweater contest.)
When the drunken blind judges announced that Tiffany was the winner, I stepped back gracefully to let her own the spotlight.
Then I wandered back to Dave, informing him that my sweater was way uglier than Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt. Which is when he called me a bad loser.
"I want a recount," I whispered to him.
But then I looked at Tiffany. She looked so happy in her cute holiday sweatshirt, basking in the glory of having unfairly won the Ugly Holiday Sweater contest with her counterfeit ugly sweater.
I remembered that this is the holiday season. The season of giving.
And those imbeciles judges just gave Tiffany the gift of the Ugly Holiday Sweater award.
Merry Christmas, Tiffany.
I
approached the Phuket Fish Spa with determination, prepared to stick my
feet into an aquarium containing throngs of tiny scavenger fish
commissioned to nibble and suck away my dead, dry skin.
In preparation for my visit, I had consumed two large Changs.
I should have had eight.
The Fish Spa attendant greeted me and I shrewdly negotiated a price of $400 Baht for 10 minutes.
She took my money and motioned for me to take a seat at the edge of the aquarium.
I dangled my feet above the murky water. The fish looked up at me, their tiny, greedy mouths watering.
I tentatively moved my feet closer to the water. One millimeter at a time.
Dave was like, "Stick'm in! You're wasting money!"
I inched my feet downward.
Closer still.
I was about 7 minutes into my 10-minute Fish Spa treatment, and still about 2" from the water, when the Fish Spa Attendant reached over and SHOVED MY LEGS INTO THE WATER!
I screamed.
And my feet responded like a jack-in-the-box, catapulting several fish into the seedy looking bar across the street.
Meanwhile, daughter Linda and brother-in-law Mark were thoroughly enjoying their fish exfoliations in the adjacent aquariums.
And they began to apply peer pressure.
Calling me a wimp. And other unfair, unnecessary names.
I tried. Oh, how I tried. I really did. But every time my heels touched that water, and I locked eyes with those flesh eating monsters, I screamed.
A crowd began to form.
I had an audience.
And I realized that I had to give the performance of my life.
From out of nowhere came an unexpected surge of Adrenalin. I took a deep breath and lowered my feet into the terrifying tank.
And I successfully achieved my goal.
Just kidding.
I'll get a Fish Spa next time I'm in Thailand.
But I'll need a LOT more alcohol.
I usually outsource my do-it-yourself projects.
I'm not proud of that. But when God blessed me with my extra pogo-sticking/jump rope gene he had to sacrifice another. There went my DIY gene. (And perhaps my cooking gene.)
Last night I had a huge project looming in front of me. And it had to be finished by Friday.
Which left no time to farm it out. If it was going to get done, I would have to do it myself.
The project required a screwdriver and a screw.
I checked in my garage workshop to see if I had the necessary tools.
Of course, I didn't.
I asked Dave if he thought Food Lion would have the tools I needed to complete my project. He told me probably not.
Damn. I'd have to drive to Walmart.
I pictured myself looking for the tools in Walmart. All those aisles. It was overwhelming.
I was about to give up when Dave reminded me of my roots. Blaine Clyde. My Dad. Who changed his own oil. Who took things apart just to put them back together. Whose genes I did not inherit.
Was I adopted??
I decided to go to CVS. I knew it would cost more, but time is money. And I became fast friends with the salesclerk who helped me search all over the store and finally find the tools I needed.
When I got home I opened the package and pulled out the miniature screwdriver and the minuscule 5 screws. I picked up my favorite one-armed pair of sunglasses, its amputated arm, and went to work.
It was the most challenging project I've faced since I stripped wallpaper in 2015.
Unfortunately, the eyeglass repair kit did not include an electron microscope. The itsy-bitsy notch atop the teeny-tiny screw that the $#&%# screwdriver fits into was invisible to the naked eye.
And I had to turn that stupid screw to reattach the amputated arm!!
Now, I have very small hands. But it was near impossible to grip the Barbie Doll screwdriver and hold it in place in the notch while turning the damn-nappid screw.
(I may have made up that last word. It's my prerogative.)
The screwdriver kept slipping and stabbing my thumb. I needed 6 stitches.
(Okay, I'm exaggerating. Again, it's my prerogative.)
However, I am pleased (and proud) to announce that after 29 attempts and just 2 band aids, I was successful.
I'm pretty sure I wasn't adopted. And Blaine Clyde would be proud.
Here's the deal with retirement. I'm around Dave. A lot.
Truth be told, that is the one thing I was a wee bit worried about.
Yes, we've been married for um... let's see... 2017-1985=32 years.
OMG! That's almost 1/3 of a century!
But I've never been around him so many hours at at time.
The first few weeks of retirement went fine. We coexisted quite well.
That is, until 4:36 PM on Monday, November 6, 2017.
I decided to work on a jigsaw puzzle. And I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack. Because I LOVE THAT MUSIC.
Dave was upstairs on the computer.
Admittedly, I had cranked up the volume. And I was singing along.
"What is that????," my irritable, uncultured husband bellowed from upstairs.
"Hamilton," I declared. Although, honestly.... Who does not recognize that amazing music?
"That is horrendous. It hurts my ears. Turn it off, please."
Now.... you can insult my clothing. And my haircut. And certainly, my cooking. But you have crossed the line when you insult Hamilton.
We engaged in a passionate argument about the merits of Hamilton vs. his taste in music. Which is not good.
I even pulled my trump card.
"When we were dating you told me you liked plays." (I remind him of this ever few years when he complains about me dragging him to a play.)
After a few minutes I got tired of arguing so we made up. I agreed that I would use head phones when I listen to Hamilton in the house.
But I've got news for him.
I will certainly listen to Hamilton with my head phones on.
But if he thought Hamilton was bad, wait until he hears me singing along.
My daughter and her soon to be husband have decided that their next adventure should be teaching English in South Korea.
I stand in awe of their bravery.
They could give a hoot about the fact that South Korea is within spitting distance of North Korea. With that annoying leader Kim Jong Un and his hobby of firing missiles in an attempt to perfect his country's nuclear missile technology.
Kimmy called to share the news that she and Luke have an upcoming SKYPE interview for teaching positions at a South Korean school.
I offered to help them prepare for the interviews, but she declined my help. I reminded her that I've been interviewing job candidates for decades and that I could be of great assistance.
But she and Luke don't need my help.
Sigh.
(I always turned off the beater.)
Just in case they change their minds, I've pulled together some recommended answers to a few potential interview questions.
Q. How do you handle a disruptive child?
A. I would spank the brat and hang him from the ceiling by his shoelaces. If he had been exceptionally naughty, we would play pinata.
Q. What is your approach for a classroom of children with different abilities?
A. I would make the smarter kids teach the dumb ones while I snort cocaine.
Q. What are your strengths as a teacher?
A. Yes.
Q. What are your weaknesses?
A. I have no weaknesses. Except my fingers are too short.
Q. Can you prepare your own curriculum?
A. Yes. I am actually a very good cook. And curry is one of my favorite ingredients. Curry and vodka.
Q. What challenge have you faced in the past and how did you overcome it?
A. OMG! One time I was doing laundry and I accidentally let a Kleenex in the pocket of my jeans and it got all over my expensive Old Navy t-shirt. There was white fuzz everywhere! I had to use packing tape to get it off.
Although Kimmy was not interested in my recommended interview responses, I was able to provide one interview tip before she hung up.
"What is it, Mom?" she asked.
"Since you insist," I said. "Remember to have a few drinks before the interview. Or more than a few. It will relax you."
I was just about done packing when I heard Dave shouting.
"What the heck is this?" he bellowed from the kitchen.
"What the heck is what?" I responded helpfully.
I was double checking my list in the bedroom. Toothpaste. Check. Toothbrush. Check.
"This," he repeated, at an even louder decibel. Which I thought impossible.
"I don't know," I said. Deodorant. Check. Corkscrew. Check.
"What the hell????" he said.
Which, in my opinion, did not require an answer. Puzzle book. Check.
Dave entered the bedroom, holing up his golf shirt. It had a big white X on it.
I recognized that big white X.
"What is this?" he repeated.
"An X," I said, stating the obvious. Then, taking an aggressive stance, "Did you put your golf shirt on top of my Bills shirt?"
"I put it on the kitchen counter," he said.
"And apparently, right on top of my Bills shirt!!!!!" I ran into the kitchen to assess the damage. My Bills shirt was relatively intact.
Thank God.
I explained to Dave that the X came from white fabric paint. I had crossed out the "Rex" on my End the Hex Rex Bills shirt with white fabric paint, since Rex Ryan was no longer the Buffalo Bills coach.
It made perfect sense.
But Dave thought it was MY fault that he put his golf shirt atop my Bills shirt.
We had a healthy debate in terms of who was more irresponsible: me for putting my Bills shirt with wet fabric paint on top of the kitchen counter to dry, or him for putting his golf shirt on top of the Bills shirt with the wet fabric paint.
I hadn't planned on taking my Bills shirt to Arizona because the paint was too wet. Which was no longer the case.
Bills shirt. Check.
