Posts Tagged 'Husbands'

Men Bite…And Stab

Sooo…the other night, I’m finishing up with dinner preparation.  We were eating rather late because Big Daddy was spending the bulk of the evening on one of his marathon bicycle rides.  I heard him come in through the basement after his ride, so I got the slotted spoon to start taking the cabbage out of the pan of water and into a serving bowl.  I don’t know if he came home super hungry or what, but for some reason, he starts taking over without saying he was taking over.  I mean, you know, had he said, “Go sit down. I’ll finish up here,” I would have gladly left the room.  But instead, he gets in my way, knocks the slotted spoon off the counter and as I lunge to catch it before it hits the floor, he stabs me with some sharp utensil that plunges through my hand near the base of my right thumb.

“AAARGHHH“…I grab my wrist and ran toward the powder room, crying and screaming “I’m stabbed, OMG he stabbed me,” and started running cold water on it to stop the blood and hopefully numb the pain.  I ran right past Oldest Son, lying on the couch playing some hand held video game.  I don’t even think he looked up.  Big Daddy comes moseying in, looked at my hand and said surprised, “Oh, it’s bleeding.”  Like, no shit, Sherlock, that’s what happens when you pierce living flesh with a sharp object.  A minute or two later, Middle Son J comes downstairs and says, “I thought someone was being killed down here.”  Well, so proud and happy you came down to intervene on my behalf.  At least you didn’t wait until I started to decompose.

Big Daddy was kind enough to bandage my hand with some gauze.  “I’m done in here,” I muttered as I left the kitchen and sat in front of the computer to cry and feel sorry for myself.  Big Daddy finished getting the corned beef and cabbage to the table, and we all ate.  My hand throbbed, but I managed later to put the leftovers away before the food spoiled.  I was wondering to myself why hubby wasn’t so eager for kitchen duty now when I actually could use the help.

I left the bulk of the dishes on the counter.  My hand hurt and I was feeling depressed.  I plopped my butt on my recliner, leaned back, and went to sleep.  To his credit, Big Daddy had cleaned up the rest of the kitchen by the time I woke up.  I woke up the next morning with a huge headache and some major depression.  For some reason, this injury pushed me over the edge.  At the risk of sending hubby on some week-long pouting session, I will try to dissect what sent me into a downward spiral, one that caused me to spend the bulk of a beautiful Saturday afternoon in bed, and the rest of the day a snapping bitchy wench.  Stay tuned.

Family Loyalty

One of the very few things Big Daddy and I fight about has to do with family loyalty.  We both are very loyal to each other and to our children; our little family is the center of the world — for both of us.  But how we show that loyalty, and how we react to someone perceived to be slighting or attacking our family — that’s a whole different story.

It may have to do with our very different upbringing.  His father was very authoritarian and Big Daddy learned it was best to just obey and not make waves.  Meanwhile, I sometimes felt like the exasperated parent to my somewhat child-like folks.  If they pissed me off, I let them know it.  If you’re being a douche, it’s really hard for me to zip my lips, no matter who you are.

When someone messes with my little brood, I get irate.  If they slight them, I get hurt.  I’ll lash out, speak out, or get even.  When Big Daddy has a particularly bad day at work and comes home to vent and tell me about some asshole trying to make his job tougher or screwing him over, I get angry.  I get indignant, my eyes tear up, and I bitch about how much I hate the pricks screwing him over.  How dare they mess with my husband!  And then…hubby gets mad at me for getting mad!  What does he expect?  He just wants to vent these things and expects me to be able to listen and not get upset.  Well, obviously, I’m just not that mature folks.

On the other hand, when I feel our kids or I have gotten short shrift from someone, I want him to be indignant along with me.  I want him to snort and rage and tell somebody off.  I want him to stick up for us!   He gets mad for sure.  He’s been hurt and disappointed, too.  But it’s always a quiet mad.  I can almost see him choking it down and swallowing it, while I just want to spew it right back at the jerks.  It’s especially bad when it’s his side of the family; he’ll act all calm and unruffled like they haven’t hurt his feelings.  He’ll pretend like nothing wrong has happened.   He’ll let me vent and rage alone, and he doesn’t always have my back.  This hurts me way more than the original slight.  This is betrayal from someone I care about.

Damage Control

We got up early today to see what needed done after the horrendous storms we had last night.  The whole tri-state region was under a tornado watch, and then later a flood watch for most of last evening.  All the local TV stations suspended their usual programming for the hour after the 6:30 national news to alert, inform, and rehash, over and over, every little detail of the storm as it passed through the area.  BEEP…BEEP…BEEP..the weather alert warning sounded over and over.  The weather map showed an almost solid area of storm passing through — and not in the usual everyday rainstorm green color — this map was a moving ocean of bright red and yellow mega-storm danger, with two circles (indicating actual tornados) to the southeast of us.

I don’t know how it is in most areas, but our local forecasters LOVE their storms.  Maybe nothing too exciting happens in these parts, because when we get any kind of  inclement weather around here, whether it’s a couple inches of snow in the winter, or a big thunderstorm in the spring, they’ll interrupt the show you’re in the middle of watching to bring the “breaking” news.  Then, they’ll keep reporting on it, snowflake by snowflake, raindrop by raindrop, until you miss the entire ending to the show you were watching and have to turn off the TV in disgust.  Big Daddy says they dare not show the forecasters from the waist down or you’d see their weather-induced woodies.  Yep, that’s how excited they get.

I have to admit, this storm was a little scarier than most.  I jumped up out of my chair when the skylights over my head sounded like they might crack from the hail hitting them.  I ran upstairs to close the windows and the lights flickered once or twice.  Oldest Son was visiting a young woman north of Pittsburgh, and I was hoping he wasn’t on the road somewhere attempting to drive through the buckets of rain pouring down.  Youngest Son and I kept exchanging wide-eyed looks when we’d hear a particularly threatening rumble.  And where was Big Daddy?  Somewhere out on his bicycle, with his bicycle-riding friend.

You see, last night was Wednesday.  And Wednesday is their biking night.  This year, Mother Nature hasn’t been too kind to our bikers.  It’s either rained or threatened to rain almost every single Wednesday.  One night they stayed home and it ended up not raining.  Another night, they took a chance and ended up getting soaked.  They usually ride a good 30 miles, up huge hills and on narrow back roads.  Big Daddy checked the radar map when he got home from work and even though he noticed that storms were moving into the area, they made the executive decision to go for that ride.  He said it would probably be a shorter ride than usual.

Even on their usual 30-mile ride, they’re normally back here by 7:00 pm.  BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…the TV kept warning.  It was raining like a bi-atch,  it was after seven-o’-clock, and there was still no sign of our cycling die-hards.  Youngest Son asked a couple of times if I thought they were OK.  “Dumb asses,” I grumbled.  I couldn’t decide if I was more pissed or worried.

Big Daddy normally carries his cell phone with him.  I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t calling me to pick them up.  I’d done it before, one time when his chain broke, and he’d ended up eating some pavement.  I finally broke down and called him, leaving a voice mail that asked them where the hell they were, and that there were tornado warnings everywhere and I would be happy to come and get them.  Then, of course, I started worrying that maybe they couldn’t call me because they’d both been hit by a car and were lying in some flooded out ditch.

Eventually, they straggled in the front door, sheepish grins on their faces.  “We saw some tornados,” Friend joked.  “We got your message, haha,” they chuckled.  And they insisted they didn’t hit any rain at all until they were right at the bottom of the hill to our plan.  I pretty much called them liars, because this storm was everywhere.  They finally were able to convince me when I realized their clothes were only slightly wet.  Seems somehow they’d managed to ride in the only sliver of clearing in the whole tri-state area, and when they saw the storm approaching in the distance near the end of their ride, they poured on the speed and made it home in the nick of time.

I guess it’s true that God takes care of the most clueless of creatures.

Just What Would They Do Without Me?

Big Daddy likes to pretend that I think that I know everything and that I think I’m always right.  Got that?  I know I’m not always right, just a huge percentage of the time.  It’s bad enough that he scoffs at my incredible reasoning and discerning skills, but then, do you know what he does?  He expects me to KNOW EVERYTHING!! The same thing goes for the younger members of my family.  They mock me, roll their eyes when I try to tell them something, but then they expect me to know exactly where everything in the house is located, when they’ll need a particular item of clothing washed, and every other detail of their lives (except, or course, for the interesting stuff, like the juicy details of their latest date, etc.).

Case in point:  I keep track of all our expenditures in my Quicken program.  It makes things really easy at tax time and if we’re ever so inclined to want to know, we can tell exactly where our money is being spent if there’s ever a problem.  If I get a receipt, it’s in Quicken.  If we need to locate that receipt, I can find when we purchased an item so I know which year’s shoebox to find it.  But…if I don’t get the receipt, it’s not in Quicken.  It’s probably in one of Big Daddy’s umpteen piles of crap–on the fridge, in the garage, somewhere “safe,” in his car, etc.

Last week he was looking for the receipt to some bath faucets we bought that had a lifetime guarantee.  We needed to order a replacement part.  I checked the Quicken program to find when we bought it.  I found kitchen sink faucets, other bath faucets, but nothing for that particular faucet.  If I would have ever had that receipt in my hands, it would have been recorded, I kept insisting, although I could feel the doubt just emanating from hubby.  Luckily, he was able to get a duplicate receipt and detailed paperwork  printed at the store where we had purchased the item.

The ordered item comes, and it’s not the right part.  Big Daddy needs the copy of the receipt to check what we should have gotten.  Of course, even though I never held this new receipt in my hands, he insists that I must have taken it and put it somewhere.  Because I think I mentioned that when he was through with it, I’d like to have it so I could record it.  But I never got it.  If I did, I insisted, it would be with all the other paperwork on my desk right now.  Which it isn’t.

This is just the latest example.  If anyone in this house can’t find something, they automatically expect me to know what they did with it.  Like I actually go around putting things away?! Ha!  And then they actually blame me for the item mysteriously disappearing, like I have nothing better to do.

Youngest Son always needs me to find something for him when I’ve just settled into the most comfortable spot.  A lot of times I’ll tell him where the item should be, and then he insists that it’s not.  So I’ll get off my comfy seat, wondering why the item is not where it should be, and there it is.  Exactly where I told him to look.  He’ll insist he looked there, several times.  I guess only Mommy’s magic eyes can see certain things.

Being that they expect me to be a mind-reading all-knowing goddess, you’d think they’d at least try to treat me like one!

The Halo Has Some Tarnish

I’m a nice person.  I’m even a good and somewhat spiritual person.  I know that about myself.  I’m incensed over unfairness of any kind.  I’m deeply hurt and saddened when I see someone suffering, especially innocent helpless people or animals.  I try not to hurt anyone and never pick a fight.   But, obviously, I don’t have a halo like Big Daddy.  He’s a good guy, no doubt.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I’ve dated a few jerks, but I never would have stayed with one.

Even way back in college, my friends and roommates would take his side if we had a spat.  My own family has been known to ask me, “What did you to poor <Big Daddy>?” if they happen to see him moping.  Sometimes he’s generous to a fault.  We’ve been known to get stuck ourselves at a red light because he’s let other people go.  He’s never passed a donation box without dropping something in, even if he just gave at the last corner.  I don’t even give anymore because I’m so sure he’s given more than enough for me, himself, and all three of our kids.  He’s got karma points coming out the wazoo.

He’s a good guy, yes.  But I’ve lived with him long enough to know he’s not perfect.  Give him a Wet Willie and you might end up on your arse.  Just ask his co-workers.  And the past couple days, he’s been getting the biggest kick out of the pain I’m in.  Oldest Son and I have started back up with the weight training.  We worked our legs the other day, and I can hardly manage the stairs.  I wince in pain when I have to sit down.  And Big Daddy has actually been laughing about it.  A quite evil little sadistic chuckle.

I know he loves me.  Well, at least I’m sure he likes me.  So why, I ask him, do you think this is so funny?

“I know that feeling,” he laughs.  Okay.  So you should know how bad this hurts!!  Where,  oh saintly Big Daddy, is the sympathy?

On Men: Their Sucky Taste in TV Viewing

I just realized while paying bills the other day, that our Comcast triple-play promotion will be expiring soon–meaning that the half-decent rate we’ve been paying for cable TV, phone, and high-speed internet will soon be wildly, hugely, exorbitantly more expensive.  And so we may have to cut some of the premium channels they included for free (to get you hooked on them).  This is a shame because I haven’t had the opportunity to truly enjoy this feature, because I live in a houseful of men that do not have the attention span to watch many movies, let alone a new or entertaining movie.

Ninety percent of the time, a sporting event is on.  I’ve learned to accept this and even like watching sports.  Part of this is because I can sit there with the family and still get other things done.  Watching sports does not require you to use all of your attention, unless you’re a guy.  I can sit there, read the paper, pay the bills, fold clothes, and cut out coupons.  And when I hear the guys cuss or cheer, I can look up and catch the important parts of the game.

The rest of the time, they will watch something that they’ve seen a hundred times before.  Guys’ brains are quite similar to kids’ brains.  They obviously find it quite comforting to watch a show over and over until they can quote it verbatim.  I worked with two guys who would lapse into dialogue from the movie “Dumb and Dumber.”  They both had the entire movie memorized.  My kids, when they were little, would watch the movie “All Dogs Go To Heaven” just about every day and also knew every line.  Today, they and their father will watch the stupidest and most inane sitcom reruns on TV until I know every line and my head wants to explode.  Even the few good sitcoms they watch (Seinfeld and King of Queens) have lost their entertainment value after say about the 50th viewing.  But if I want to watch something new or slightly more entertaining, I have to listen to their groaning and complaining.  The few movies they watch (usually on Sundays) are also hauntingly familiar.  Here is the usual repertoire:  “48 Hours,” “Major Payne,” or some Jackie Chan flick.  A good fresh HBO movie?  Naaah.  No way.

So when Big Daddy and the boys are out of the house, I sometimes celebrate by watching a whole movie in peace.  Tonight I watched a documentary on HBO and a Woody Allen movie (which sadly was not one of his best).  One night I caught “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” and enjoyed it like I never could have with men in the house.  I also got to see “The Devil Wears Prada.”

I could always go upstairs and watch TV by myself.  Sometimes I do.  But it’s lonely up there.  So if there’s nothing on that I really have to watch, I guess I’ll just deal with my guys and their sucky TV shows.

I Live With…1. Hank Hill

He’s probably going to be a bit miffed, but I’ll say it anyways.  Big Daddy is Hank Hill when it comes to his yard.  In fact, we’ve already told him this to his face.  I’ve just never written about it.  But when I looked outside today, and saw this 50 year old man out cutting our very large yard when we have two strong able-bodied young men living here with part-time jobs and no more school at the moment, I think I’m correct with the Hank Hill tag.  The boys cut grass and do yard work for many of the neighbors, yet Big Daddy rarely makes them cut our grass.  Despite the fact that Big Daddy is overwhelmed with how much stuff he has to do.  Despite the fact that Big Daddy has very bad knees thanks to primitive arthroscopic surgery in the 70’s.  Despite the fact that even J’s sometimes slacker friends came over and said to J one day, “Dude, I can’t believe your dad’s cuttin’ the grass.  Why aren’t you doing it?” But he’s very particular about his grass.  It has to be perfect.  I even tried to get him to show me how to do it at one time.  I don’t think I came close to meeting those grass-cutting standards.

Since our Hank Hill does not live with moronic Bobby Hill or Peggy, I think he could delegate his grass-cutting duties once in a while.  We promise not to kill the lawn.


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