“Hubs, A customer gave us a basketful of Samoans today. Wasn’t that nice?”
Uhmm. I doubt they gave you a basketful of Samoans.
(annoyed eyeroll). “Uh, yeesss. They. Did.”
“Hubs, A customer gave us a basketful of Samoans today. Wasn’t that nice?”
Uhmm. I doubt they gave you a basketful of Samoans.
(annoyed eyeroll). “Uh, yeesss. They. Did.”
My hubs is the smartest person I know. Really. Like before the internet, I could just ask him a question and he would know the answer; unless my question had to do with bodily fluids, and then he would look horrified, grimace, wretch, and then walk away really fast and pretend not to hear me.
But as smart as he is, Hubs still has his duller moments… Like this morning when I called him at work, and asked him where he thought we should put our Christmas tree this year…
Guess what? Jack just told me the Bauers don’t get a Christmas tree! And guess why not…?
“Uhmm. They’re Jewish?”
Yeah! How did you know? How weird is that?!
“Uhmm. I saw the big gold Star of David tattoo on Lee’s forehead.?! It’s not weird Hubs. It’s just Jewish.”
Yeah, but THEY ARE JEWISH and I didn’t even know! But I guess they are from Cincinnati…
(laughing) “Oh yeah, Cincinnati, that big Jewish place. You know Sherlock, Jewish people ARE integrated. And they look like you and me, so how would you know..?
Okay, okay. Ha-ha. You can stop now. I’m just surprised that I didn’t know. I have to go. This is a recorded line.
…And just like that, the moment was gone and I still don’t have any idea where to put our Christmas tree this year.
I’ve always thought of Thanksgiving as a precursor-holiday; a practice; the kickoff holiday that gets you in the mood for the main event: Christmas. Maybe that’s because somewhere along the way in my life, I figured out that always being thankful makes me happier, so I don’t feel like I need a specific day to focus on being thankful.
One of my earliest childhood memories of Thanksgiving was when we lived in Germany, and I walked the annual Thanksgiving Day Volksmarch with my Dad, while my mother, sister, and newborn brother stayed home and cooked; or I guess my mother cooked. I don’t remember much about the food part. I just remember every year trying to spot the wild turkey during our walk, because all of the grown-ups talked so excitedly about the wild turkey. I really, really wanted to find that wild turkey, and I looked so hard; my Dad even helped me, but I never found it.
We moved to Florida and settled here when I was nine. After that, our family always spent Thanksgiving with friends and it was always a super-huge-blowout-holiday-kick-off party, complete with teens sneaking alcohol, running off to get stoned and play spin-the-bottle while the glassy-eyed parents drank Wild Turkey, played card games, and tried to corral the overtired, snotty, screaming toddlers.
And even though I still think of Thanksgiving as a lead-in event to to the Holiday season, I don’t celebrate it with a blow-out-kick-off party like the ones of my youth. My kids grew up with low-key Thanksgiving traditions like hanging out while we all cooked and ate as a five-some; unpacked ornaments, trimmed the tree and hung more outdoor lights than the neighbors.
And sometimes we have our little surprises…
Christmas time capsule: Unpacking ornaments can be a miserable experience for a teenage boy. Last year while unpacking ornaments, I broke (a hollow) one, and a note fell out; it was written in my twenty-six-year-old son Jamie’s highschool handwriting.
…And share your funniest, craziest or weirdest holiday memory or tradition with me now on my Facebook page for a chance to win this (new) vintage Swirlgear shirt. It’s a size large, and you can’t buy it anymore -cause, well, it’s vintage.
Just press the Facebook LIKE button… Somewhere on this blog, and it’ll take you to my Facebook page. And you should really enter, because seriously, your chances of winning here are better than in the lottery.
My funniest memory?
Well, besides Jamie’s time capsule, it has to be the Mechanical Christmas Blow-up Porn on the neighbors front lawn. Not kidding. I wish I had a picture, but Hubs wouldn’t let me take one.
Two years ago our neighbors, three houses down ON THE SAME SIDE OF THE STREET, had a big, mechanical blow-up on their front lawn of Rudolph helping Santa in-and-out of the chimney (over-and-over again). And Rudolph would bend at the waist, and help Santa up, out of the chimney. But Santa’s head never really came higher than Rudolph’s waist. And then Santa’s head would go back down and Rudolph would bend forward, over him. Again. And again. And that’s what you saw if you saw it FROM THE FRONT.
So I want to start a new tradition; I’ve been looking on eBay and Amazon for this exact mechanical blow-up; so if you see it anywhere, let me know. And ssssh! Don’t tell Hubs. Just tell me where to buy it. He’ll go along with it. Eventually. I plan to put the blow-up in our yard, sideways. And then every year we can have some friends over, and sit on our porch, and look for wild turkeys.
It’s Fire Prevention Monday at my house. A day where you scramble around and try to keep things from catching fire and your house from burning to the ground.
Like our fireplace.
After flipping a switch and having the perfect, most beautiful fire every night for three months a year, and every year for the past eight years; my brother came over last night and glanced at our fireplace, and then questioned why it had glass in front of the metal screen.
Hubs sat speechless, lost in thought, while I tried to answer…
It came like that. It’s supposed to be there. It’s an open flame. The dogs could fall in. I don’t know.
“Your dogs aren’t going to throw themselves into a fire Sis. Really. I don’t think you are supposed to leave the glass there, that’s what the screen is for; plus it would put out so much more heat if you removed the glass. Google it.”
And so we did. We all huddled around my iPad, and we Googled it. And phrases like: remove glass before lighting logs, major fire hazard, glass could explode, serious injury or damage could occur, danced across the screen. Oh-my-gawd.
I immediately thought about the time when Nic was eleven, and I caught him trying to roast marshmallows on fondue sticks in the fireplace vent; what if the fireplace exploded on him then?
Hubs starting reading over my shoulder “Holy F&%k $hit.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
And our dryer.
This morning I started the dryer. And it stopped. So I started it again, and I wondered what was burning. I smelled something burning. Odd. And the dryer stopped. So I started it again and I wondered why the dryer kept stopping, and WHAT IN THE HELL WAS BURNING?! And the dryer stopped again. Huh. Oh my gawd, maybe the dryer was burning!
Yep. A dryer fire.
I yelled for Nic, my seventeen year old son because Hubs was already at work. Nic arrived armed with an extinguisher, and he determined it wasn’t a major fire. Nic said he had the issue under control, and that wires were probably just smoldering, and we didn’t need to call the fire department.
Meanwhile, I saved the clothes.
Just a normal Monday. Really
My husband’s archenemy is a squirrel. Any squirrel. Think: Carl Spackler and the gopher infestation at Bushwood. And there you have it. My husband’s relationship with squirrels -in a nutshell.
For example… Hubs won’t park his car under the tree in our driveway, because he swears the squirrels will purposely drop their shells on HIS car, and cause dents in HIS roof. So Nic parks there, and his car is fine.
We have a 12ftX15ft, outdoor Rubbermaid shed, fully-assembled, on our back patio-screened porch (where I would like to put a hot-tub) because Hubs says the squirrels were chewing the roof of the shed when it was unprotected, in the backyard. Where it belongs.
When Nic was about eight or nine, the squirrels got drunk on fermented kumquats from our tree, and Hubs sat with our young, horrified-animal-loving-tree-hugger son, and made fun of the poor animals while they ran into each other, and the cement bird bath, or fell out of the tree onto the concrete driveway.
Last night when we were headed out for a run, I heard hissing in the bush by our house, and I was sure it was the ghosts from Conjuring… But Hubs said it was just the squirrels; they were mad at him for feeding a stray cat.
And Hubs constantly reminds me about how he is waiting… Patiently. For the EMP. So he can shoot every one of his furry enemies, and then cook them for dinner. Right.
All of this, from the man who doesn’t hunt. The man who catches and releases fish because he doesn’t like to kill animals. My husband. The squirrel hater and slayer-to-be.
Sorry Hubs, I love you and junk, but if there is an EMP, we’ll starve. And the squirrels will eat YOUR eyeballs.
In my family, it’s common knowledge that I’m a scardy cat. For years I couldn’t even watch all of ‘The WIzard of Oz,’ because I was afraid Dorothy wouldn’t make it home to Auntie Em. And when I was a teenager, I caved to peer-pressure and watched Nightmare on Elm Street, and then I had nightmares on Mayflower Court for weeks.
But I love true mysteries, in spite of my scardy cat tendencies. I’m completely romanced by every non-gory, scary-suspense-true-story movie. Plus, I have fake-OCD so I can’t say no to a challenge, or a dare… Or a good sales pitch. Like the time my friend Sarah rented ‘Paranormal Activity’ and talked-sold-suckered and coerced me into watching it with mimosas, in broad daylight of course, and while our husbands were out of town. I know, super-bright idea. Needless to say, a lot of sleeping with both dogs, and kids, with the TV, and all of the lights on (cause ghosts hate noise and lights, yo), followed that movie too.
So last night Hubs suggested we watch the ‘Conjuring;’ he said it was a true story, and it looked like a really good mystery-suspense-type movie. “Uh, did you say true?”
So we watched the preview on Apple TV…
“Hubs this is creeepppyy. This CANNOT be a true story. I don’t believe it.”
Wait. That wasn’t the trailer I watched. It IS a true story. Hang on. (goes to Utube and finds another movie trailer) Here it is...
“Holy $hit. This was a true story? How does it end? Did the Ghostbusters help these people?”
I don’t know.
“Well I have to know how it ends if you want me to watch it.”
Well, that defeats the purpose. Then the movie won’t be scary.
Two Conjuring movie trailers and one sleepless night later…
“Hubs, I swear someone pulled my covers off in the middle of the night. And I heard clapping from the armoire in our bedroom twice. And this morning, someone left two doors open, and it wasn’t me. We have to watch that movie tonight, I need to find out how that movie ends. I think we have ghosts.”
(rolling his eyes) Forgetaboutit.
There is this game circulating around Facebook, where you are given a number and you are supposed to post that number of Random Unknown Facts about yourself. Have you seen it?
And I know, I know. Whenever I see a game circulating on Facebook, I just need to stay off of it for a few days.. Seriously. Otherwise I will get sucked in by the Facebook time-sucking-vortex.
But it was an accident. Really. It just happened. I need to be doing laundry. I still have a suitcase full of shampoo-clothes. I just planned to get on Facebook for a quick second, to check for Proof of Life; because I haven’t heard from my twenty-six year old, he took a road-trip, and I was wondering if he arrived-alive… And I was being super careful to avoid that damn game.
But I ‘liked’ my friend’s status about her Random Unknown Facts, because her facts were so sweet. And she seemed like such a nice and kind person. And I didn’t read her first comment; if I ‘liked’ her status, I’d get a number.
Oh-my-gawd. A challenge. My number was eight. I had to come up with eight things people don’t already know about me? Holy f&%k. I’m already an oversharer. HARD. STUFF.
Hubs said to just ignore it, or make $hit up. Probably because he wanted me to do laundry, and not get sucked in by the time-vortex; he is tired of wearing questionably clean, shampoo-sticky underwear, and I don’t let him do laundry.
But the laundry could wait; it’s waited for a week. And my fake-OCD wouldn’t let me ignore the challenge, nor would it let me make $hit up. And of course, my Facebook post turned into a blog, by itself. I swear.
So an hour and a half later…
1.) My husband is the most patient person I know (and while this is probably the main reason we are compatible, it drives me bat-shit-crazy most of the time).
2.) I’m a closet-rap-music-lover (the loud-filthy kind). I listen to it when I run, even when I’m running at Disney. *Nic (my 17yr old) took his iTunes off auto-download for this reason
3.) And I hate running. I dread it. I only do it so I can eat cupcakes. And (sometimes) drink vodka. And I run so I can sleep. I don’t get a runner’s high; I’m broken that way. However, I do like the stickers and the medals at the END of the race
4.) I learned to play the piano as a kid and I can still play some today, but I’d rather write.
5.) I used to weigh 234lbs (from 2007-09), and I decided I needed to loose when l saw a full-body photo of myself at my son Alex’s graduation in the Spring of 2009… so far I’ve lost 90lbs (and that includes the 6lbs I gained on the cruise).
6.) I never wanted a girl. Ever. People always assume if you have three boys, you’d dream of a daughter. But not me. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.. I like to be the Queen.
7.) I can’t keep a secret. This goes along with patience -which I don’t have. It used to kill me to wait until Christmas morning, to give my boys their presents. And sometimes I’d even tell them… or give them the presents early, and then have to buy more. I know. I’m horrible. And I’ve already told Alex about one of his presents for this year.
8.) I sing in my car. At the top of my lungs. With the windows open. And I can’t sing. At all. Oh, and I don’t stop singing when I’m at a stop light. So people stare. And I don’t care, because I’m forty-six. And I love that.
Random Unknown Bonus Fact: 9.) Did you know if you wear shampoo-sticky undergarments, after a week you’ll get a rash? Well you will. So I’m off to do laundry now.
“If you are going to play Dr. Doolittle, and feed your stray cat leftovers, will you please NOT do it with my Fiestaware?”
(grinning) I wasn’t feeding a stray cat.
“Then why did I find my Fiestaware dinner plate delicately balanced on top of the big green trash barrel when I left for work this morning?”
(grinning) I dunno.
“Seriously, do you know the cost of a Fiestaware plate in that specific color? Can’t Morris just eat leftovers off of a silver platter?”
(not grinning) How much does a Fiestaware plate cost?
Well, I’m baaaccckk!
It was a wonderfully relaxing vacation; we napped, we ate, and we drank; we exercised everyday, and we soaked up as much sun as we could. And then we ate and drank some more… And we stretched our wonderfully relaxing vacation out to the very last second. Literally. For me anyway. Hubs had an extra day off, but not me. We actually pulled into our driveway eight and a half hours before I had to be at work.
Which really is better. Or so I thought.
Because if I got home the day before, then I’d have to do laundry, and dread going back to work for hours and hours. And nope. Not for me. I decided to pull that Band-aide off, fast. Yo. I just stumbled from the car, into the house half asleep (Hubs drove), plopped on my bed, and woke up bitching at my alarm clock, foraging through suitcases full of wet bathing suits, stray shoes, duty-free liquor bottles, spilled shampoo, and dirty clothes (we drunk-packed) to find a bra; then realized we didn’t have any cream for my coffee (NIGHTMARE), or actually ANY food in the house, courtesy of the seventeen-year-old human goat we left at home; ran out the door, LATE (or not late, who changed the f&%king time?) in short-sleeves, sandals, capris, and wet hair… only to discover that it’s FORTY DEGREES here. At home. And I’m still sunburned. Yeah. Pull that Band-aide off fast. Go ahead dumb-ass.
So I’m hoooommmee. And I’m so freaking relaxed; I’m planning my next vacation. Right. Now.
“Tanya, you up?”
Yyyyeeaaahhh, what’s going on?
“I think I’m sick. I mean, I’m not sick yet, but I’m gonna be sick. I’m coming down with something; a cold. Or typhoid. My ear hurts; my neck is achy; my nose smells sweet; my throat is scratchy, and we are leaving the country tomorrow morning at five o’clock. My doctor is out of town, and a random emergency room doctor would probably think I’m a hypochondriac, or some antibiotic-junkie. Or worse, they’d commit me for psychiatric evaluation and I’d miss my vacation. Oh my gawd. So, do you know what time Judy’s office opens up? And do you think she’d think I was a total stalker if I was sitting in my car, in her office parking lot, when she got to work…? Oh geez, that DOES sound stalker-ish. Oh crap. I’m a crazy-doctor-stalker, aren’t I?”
(laughing) Noooo, you’re fine. But I’m not sure what time she opens up. I can find out. I’ll text her. Where are you now?
“Well, I was on my way to work, but then I drove to Judy’s office instead. And I parked across the street. Like a stalker. So, right now, I’m parked at a bank, which is probably not a good choice, huh, since they have security cameras. And people are staring at me. Oh Tanya, I just don’t want to get sick in some third world country, and have to go to a hut with dirt floors, and see some doctor with dirty fingernails and bad breath. And if I get sick on the cruise, then I have to see the ship’s doctor and he can quarantine me to my cabin, for days, and that’s true; I read it on the internet. And I don’t feel sick… yet. So I have to see a doctor that knows me. Because I just feel like I’m getting sick. ARGH! I’m crazy. Aren’t I? Because if I’m not sick, I’m going to stress myself out, until I really am sick.”
(laughing) I’ll let you know what she says.
“Okay. And I think I need more coffee so I’m going to drive around…”