Thursday was our 4th wedding anniversary. Mr. Husband and I have been together for 8 years. I think it’s gonna last. Go team go. We had dinner at Ruth Chris steak house. Ate a fabulous filet mignon. For dessert a chocolate explosion and Irish coffee. Oh the deliciousness.
Husbands are good stuff. Well mine is. I wouldn’t settle for less anymore. If you are married it’s a good idea to step back once in a while and make a mental list of the good things. When they’re on the sofa unshaven and foaming at the mouth over a foot ball game is probably not the time though.
Mr. Husband buys me flowers He hugs me when I cry. He’s given up trying to ask me why or tell me not to. He moves heavy stuff around. He’s great for hiding behind when some weirdo comes to the door. Husbands make an excellent excuse. For example, someone asks me about something and I don’t want to do it or go there, I can stall with “well let me talk to my husband about it.” That excuse is wearing thin though, because those who know me well know that he couldn’t/wouldn’t stop me if I’ve made up my mind.
He puts air in my car tires. He threatens fax machines with a handgun on my behalf. OK, to be fair we heard a noise and thought it was a home invasion. But seriously, is there anyone out there that who has not wanted to kill a fax machine? They are such a pain.
Just for a hoot I Googled the word husband. I was rather shocked by the hits that showed up. After the usual dictionary definition of the word husband the very next link was “9 Signs Your Husband is Gay.” Is that really the number one question about husbands these days? Logical dictates that you sort this stuff out before the marriage. Who knows. I would want to know if I was the strawberry in my fiance’s champagne before we tied the knot. It was an article from the Huffington Post so maybe that shot it to the top of the search engine.
The next link on the list is myhusbandisannoying.com. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to devote an entire blog to how annoying your spouse is. To much concentrating on the negative for my taste. Mr. husband annoys me at times. But, I’m certain that I annoy him on a regular basis. A sure sign is that he rolls his eyes, huffs off to his office and closes the door.
Next in line was How to be a Good husband at wiki-how, followed by Money Stress: How to Talk to Your Husband or Wife About Money Matters. That’s one that Mr. Husband and I squabble about occasionally. Fortunately for us it’s more of a control issue than actual amount of money involved.
Next on the list is cheating husband, and then spanking a husband. Excuse me? Evidently there is one flavor of domination where the wife is boss and spanks the naughty hubby. Not my cup of tea. I have enough work being the boss of myself, thank you very much. And then there is the runaway husband. That’s just sad. Unless violence is involved and you are running for your life, it’s an honor-less, chicken shit way to end a relationship.
So anyway, hoorah for husbands. I love mine and that’s the truth!
One of my sisters who lives in New Orleans is lucky in a lot of ways. A handsome loving husband, 2 wonderful boys and the big one: You can kick your unwanted belongings to the curb whenever the mood strikes you. At any hour of the day or night. She doesn’t have to wait for the dreaded “bulk trash” window that comes once a month here in Dallas. This window comes and goes and our junk piles up.
This all came to me in the dark in bed last night. It’s 90 degrees outside and I’m laying there in full length pajamas under a blanket shivering. The ceiling fan is on so high that I fear it will take flight and decapitate our cat. Another fan is on the floor blowing at Mr. Husband and the air con is turned down to zizz. There is probably frost on the windows. But this is all righted by a sound machine puking the soothing sounds of a rain forest. Why you may ask? Well Mr. Husband may end up with a bead of sweat on him. Horror of horrors. I don’t want to get out of bed to ease up the air con because I might trip over something.
Sometimes I wonder if my main reason for wanting to travel is to get away from all the electrical gadgets and clutter. After 8 years of living with Mr. Husband I am beginning to suspect that he may be a high-end hoarder. It’s to the point where if I hear a crash and the sound of something breaking I yell “thank you Jesus!” and jump up to do the happy dance. I might even get to throw it away. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket on those lucky days.
I have fantasized about having him kidnapped and the ransom would be to donate 25% of the stuff in this house to charity. That would mean that I would have a fighting chance to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without breaking a toe. At first glance one would not think a hoarder lives here. Our stuff is nice, everything is clean and dusted once a week. It began to grate on my nerves when I discovered that there is not one place in the house where I can lay down and do yoga without hitting my foot or hand on something or rearranging furniture.
“No, thank you” is a perfectly acceptable phrase in the English language and one the hub-man has not mastered. Well he knows how to say no to me, but I hold this title unopposed. If family member wants to give us a another hunk of furniture, kitchen gadget, or gee gaw, it is not because it’s a cherished family heirloom. It’s because THEY DON’T WANT IT.
Hello … if they wanted it or had room for it they would keep it. But, not only will Mr. Husband accept it, he will go get it. Easy way for them to get rid of stuff. The Salvation Army doesn’t even do home pick up anymore.
Can a hoarder and a minimalist find happiness in the same house? Most of the time we manage it. But it’s a constant battle and renegotiation. I am beginning to suspect that Mr. Husband is afraid to leave the house for fear that when he returns something might be gone. It would take him a year and half to figure out what it was, but he would. I just know it.
Never put a wine glass in the garbage disposal. Why, you may ask? Well it doesn’t work, duh! OK, it seemed logical at the time. An older friend swore to me on the ashes of her mother that putting coke bottles in the disposal would keep the blades sharp and was therefore good for it. The fact that we were well into our second bottle of wine at the time may have increased her degree of earnesty. Also my gullibility, but let’s not go there.
Months after receiving this pearl of wisdom, I was alone one evening entertaining myself in grand style. A glass of wine, a bottle of Clairol number A8. Didn’t want hubby of 2 years to know I color my hair. He never noticed the roots, of course. Yeah right. Anyway, I’m dancing around the house feeling all spunky with my forehead, hair and ears painted auburn, I dropped the damn glass. It shattered all over the kitchen floor and panic ensued. Oh crap, what to do with the evidence? Why was this “evidence”? Why was this a bad thing? Am I an airhead for breaking a wine glass while drinking wine? Those are all questions for another day.
Back to the main issue; why it didn’t occur to me to just sweep it up and pitch it I have no clue. Brilliant deduction led me to put it in the garbage disposal, stem and all. Turned on the garbage disposal and heard horrible noises that rank somewhere between a man slamming against the mirror in one of those Hollywood western bar fights and a car crash. Then silence followed by the ominous hum of a jammed disposal. My solution to this problem was to pretend that it didn’t exist. The next day my DH asked why there was a wine glass stem in the garbage disposal. I feigned ignorance. He was smart enough not to press the issue. Ah discretion is the better part of valor and marital bliss.