A conversation between Rob and I, driving home today:
Darcie: You know what used to be so amusing?
Rob: Hm?
Darcie: When you're in elementary school, and little boys conveyed their affections for you by picking on you or chasing you around.
Rob: Yeah, and then a short time after that, it turns into, "Look at my bravado! I will climb and run..."
Darcie: "...and jump off of things!"
Rob: Yeah. You know, it's really funny because girls mature so much faster than boys. By the time you're 15 or 16, girls already have their system worked out. They know how to find a mate. Us guys, we have no idea how to even speak to those alien creatures! Very pretty. That's all we know.
Darcie: [cracking up] Alien creatures?!
Rob: Yeah. And the worst part is that we spend almost the first half of our lives trying to find and keep a woman and then even the nicest among us spend the other half treating them like crap! [And added just now: Or, at the very least, being a huge pain in their ass.]
Darcie: [still laughing] Oh god...you're so the subject of my blog tonight!
Men are funny creatures. Rob's grandmother used to say, "I feel sorry for the girl that marries you!" I never met her in person, we only spoke on the phone a few times, but I have the feeling she was only 60% joking. Rob's a tough guy to live with sometimes. I love the man dearly, but he has a few attributes that I swear are causing me to molt.
But he does keep me laughing and he keeps my irrational, screaming and wild-eyed freak-outshissy fits to a minimum, so I'll keep him around, I suppose!
January 7, 2009
Husbands Say the Darndest Things
Posted by Darcie at 6:51 PM 2 comments
Labels: conversations, husbands
September 23, 2008
"I Love Being Married..."
...says Rita Rudner. "It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life."
How true is that?! A while back, a certain lady in Canada asked her readers to blog about what makes them just a little hard to love. I obliged, and now I want to turn the tables.
"My husband and I have never considered divorce. Murder, maybe...but never divorce." - Joyce Brothers
1. He couldn't hit a clothes basket or hamper with his dirty clothes if he were standing inside the basket. He'll get undressed in one spot - never moving his feet except to kick off pants and socks - and leave his clothes in perfect formation around where his feet were. Every night, I pick up a pile of pants and two balled-up socks (balled up, of course, because he toed them off).
2. He chews tobacco. Okay, I guess in Tobaccoese, he actually dips snuff but that sounds like he's doing some sort of illicit drug. He used to chew Copenhagen and now, due to the extreme price of tobacco in California, he chews Grizzly Wintergreen. You can't imagine the stink of that stuff. And the spitters!!!! You haven't lived until your husband has run out of spitters and begins using empty Diet Coke cans - which YOU get to empty before you recycle them. Want to get even more squeamish? Have a spitter spill on you.
3. He will not shut up about motorcycle clubs. The 801, the Mongols, the Hell's Angels...the Red & White is his club of choice. He's bent on being associated with them in some form, if not becoming a member. He reads up on them, especially about Sonny Barger, and jabbers like a monkey in a damn tree about them. Now don't get your panties in a twist and be all "Oooh, bikers are bad. Motorcycle gangs are bad. Your husband's a bad man." Huh-uh. We've established that should this ever materialize for him - and if I'm being honest, I doubt it ever will - that it will not have any impact on who he is at home or affect his relationship with me and the kids. He knows how much I'm willing to tolerate and where his loyalty needs to lie. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's to be nobody's doormat and to BE the squeaky wheel...and to accept nothing less than what I deserve.
4. He is forever HOT. While I do find my husband very attractive, I literally mean his internal thermostat must be broken. It's 60F outside, all of our windows are open, the ceiling fan is running at full tilt, he's wearing cotton shorts and a Hanes undershirt...and sweating. I'm wearing cotton shorts, a regular t-shirt, a wool blanket, and a hoodie and I'm cold. Obviously, he's in the wrong here. He can't possibly be hot. Right?
5. As a result of #4, he refuses to sleep upstairs in our loft bedroom until it's c-o-l-d outside. I think he's waiting for a frost or something. We've spent maybe a total of 30 nights in our bed. Otherwise, we're sleeping on our obscenely big and massively uncomfortable sectional. Oh, and our son is all cramped up in his pack 'n play which, at this age, is more of a jail cell while mommy cooks or runs to the bathroom than it is a suitable bed. I wish I could stuff a portable crib mattress in there so he could be a bit more comfortable but those damn warning labels are everywhere, all about the suffocation risks and whatnot, making me nine kinds of paranoid. He's 11 months old and it's mesh-sided. How much suffocation could happen? But as we know, I'm a stickler for the rules.
6. He has an almost obscene loyalty to the company he works for. He's been there for just over five years and honestly, they probably should have fired him by now. Not for anything really bad. He's never lied, stolen, sabotaged, nothing like that. But he's accidentally broken a few very expensive parts and botched a few very important jobs that, if his boss had a bug up his ass and took a notion, could have been cause for termination. Anyway, he keeps talking about finding a new job but when one's offered, he finds 100 different reasons he shouldn't take it.
7. He won't listen to anything but country and classic rock music. I'm trying to branch out into the world of rock again, at least the more adult stuff, as well as people like Michael Buble, Josh Groban, etc. But every time he gets in the car and I drove it last, he gets all butt-hurt because a station that isn't country is on.
8. He makes me call the nurse advice line for him. He has back pain, spots in his vision, a cough, and I'm the one calling them. He knows damn well they won't offer any advice to me, that they need to talk to him because of confidentiality and all that, but he still insists that I call. I also need to go to doctors' appointments with him because he starts stuttering when he has to describe symptoms.
9. His infuriating incredible ability to tune everything except the TV out. I'm telling him something life-altering and he's off somewhere in the twilight zone, watching "Sons of Anarchy" or one of his MSNBC specials on motorcycle clubs and infiltrations by the FBI that he's DVRd. He won't hear a word.
10. The above-mentioned television shows. He's hooked on SoA and has watched those two news specials at least a dozen times each. He's such a nerd about being a biker! It's cute, really, but more annoying. We have books written by bikers (including three by Sonny Barger), a subscription to Easyrider, movies, and a friend at work who's treasurer of a club in San Jose. The man needs a new hobby. I almost miss his obsession with golfing. Almost.
So tell me about your partner in crime. What do they do that gets under your skin? Hook up with Mr. Linky and let me know!
Posted by Darcie at 3:32 PM 4 comments
Labels: husbands, partners, pet peeves, wives
August 14, 2008
Men Are Helpless HatchlingsWhy Men Won't Survive the Apocalypse
Monday afternoon, Hubby came home early because - as has been unfortunately and dare I say devastatingly common lately - there was no work to do in the shop. I had a mountain of laundry to tackle and since our complex's laundry room is closed until the 21st for renovations, I headed off to the laundromat across the street. I figured on a Monday afternoon, how crowded could it be?
It took me three trips to get that mammoth load of laundry to the car. Should have been two but after I loaded two laundry baskets and one mesh Dora the Explorer hamper (yeah, I looked gangsta carrying that around) into the Tracker, started the car and backed out of my parking spot, I realized I'd forgotton the detergent. Dammit.
Back upstairs I go. Let's try this again.
So I get to the laundromat and much to my delight there were only two people there. Yay! It took me eight friggin' washers to wash everything I'd brought - and just think, I had another hamper at home with baby blankets in it that I hadn't brought - and it cost me $12.00. Thankfully, they have industrial-sized dryers that could probably handle all the fitted sheets from all the beds at the Luxor in one load, so it my drying cost was considerably cheaper.
But my true delight lay in knowing I had about an hour and a half of almost-uninterrupted quiet time to read. I haven't had time to read in three and a half years. There has always been a child climbing into my lap, a husband chatting my ear off like a Pixi Stick High schoolgirl, or there's that nagging pile of dishes that despite my best efforts (you know, like washing them twice a week) remains in my sink. And on my counters. And on end tables. And on my desk. I think I have a problem.
So I was damn near giddy when I got all my quarters loaded, detergent dispersed and the thump-thump-thump of washers was a beautiful white noise to accompany my headfirst dive into "Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy)", Dooce's compilation of essays from our fellow bloggers. I made it a little over halfway through the book and discovered that there are some funny-ass people out there whose blogs I've been missing out on. I tend to read the smaller blogs, the mediocre blogs. Gotta support us little people!
At any rate, I wrapped up my laundry and, feeling fresh as a daisy on a spring morning, headed back to the zoo my domicile. I had a spring in my step, a smile in my heart and a clear head for the first time in weeks. It's about 5:20 p.m. when I arrive on our stoop. I open the door and there's two noisy kids (Boy had fallen asleep in the play room) and one grumpy-as-all-hell husband.
Sigh.
My sunshiny mood drifted away like a trailer in a tornado.
You see, my husband is a creature of habit. He likes to stick to the same schedule during the week and a typical day goes like this: Wife wakes up and makes breakfast, I go to the bathroom, Wife gets my clothes together for me, Wife packs my lunch and makes sure I'm all set to head out the door. I leave. I come home. Wife has dinner ready by 5:00 p.m., no later than 5:15 p.m. usually. The evening schedule varies. But up through dinner it's pretty uniform and any deviation results in total bitchiness. From him.
[Don't get me wrong. I'm a stay-at-home mom and I'm happy to do these things. I volunteer it. I also don't like him cooking in my kitchen because he will inevitably leave the mess for me to clean up.]
Now he's a self-sufficient guy in most areas. If I'm not around to get his clothes ready, he can most certainly dress himself. He doesn't need me to gather his work stuff and on many an occasion he's done his own gathering. But I'm pretty sure that one of two things would happen if he had to make his own food: the world would come crashing down around him or he'd simply keel over and die.
So when I'm at the laundromat and he's (as I roll my eyes) starving, do you think this man could mosey into the kitchen and grab up a quick snack? Especially when I told him before I left exactly what there was to nibble on before I got home to make dinner and even told him where he could find it? Nope. Not a chance in hell. He'll sit there and stew and fester and get all kinds of bitchy because dinner's not ready.
Men - or rather, men with wives who are just done with listening to hungry, helpless husbands - will not survive the apocalypse. Women will. Children will - because as mothers, we'll see to it that they're fed. Pets will because again, they're our job too. But men? They'll be the hatchlings you see in trees. Heads back, mouths open, waiting for their piece of the worm. They don't want any part of pulling the worm out of the ground or making one small nightcrawler feed four mouths over a week. They just want the worm. By 5:15 p.m.
Posted by Darcie at 9:11 PM 1 comments





