Here’s something I do that is very annoying and should annoy the shit out of Fred, but it doesn’t seem to bother him too terribly much.
When we’re going somewhere, he’ll say to me “Are you ready?”
And I will invariably say “Yes.”
So he will get up and he will get his shoes on, and he will wait by the door.
“Oh, I have to pee,” I say, because I’m always afraid we’ll get halfway to where we’re going and have to pee, even if it’s like two minutes away.
Fred stands patiently by the door.
“Oh, I need to fill my water bottle,” I say, because I don’t want to get thirsty, do I? WHAT IF I GET THIRSTY? WHATEVER WOULD WE DO?!
Fred stands patiently by the door.
“Oh, I need to get gum,” I say, because I’m a gum-chewing motherfucker and am always running out of gum.
Fred stands patiently by the door.
You get the idea. It takes me five to seven minutes, on average, to actually BE ready to walk out the door. If it were me standing there and waiting by the door, I would be SERIOUSLY annoyed at having to wait for someone who claimed she was ready to leave. Fred will sometimes go outside to wait for me but usually waits by the door, because we almost always take my car, and if he takes my keys and goes out to the car, I’ll have no house key with which to lock the door.
Probably what Fred needs to start doing is asking me five minutes before he’s ready to go if I’m ready to go, so that I’ll have five minutes to get all my shit done and my ass ready to walk out the door before he actually goes and gets his shoes on.
Except that I’d probably be annoyed at having to wait for him to get his shoes on.
There’s really no winning with me, is there?
Speaking of no winning with me, I have a question for y’all – how many goddamn times a day do you have to answer “What’s for dinner?”
Before the spud moved to Rhode Island*, every day she’d get home from school and ask “What’s for dinner?”
I’d tell her.
Fred would get home from work and ask “What’s for dinner?”
I’d tell him.
Sometimes directly after dinner, the spud would say “What’s for dinner tomorrow night?”
I’d tell her.
Then she’d come home from school and say “What’s for dinner?”
I’d tell her.
And on and on.
(Sometimes if I’d already answered the question the night before, I’d refuse to answer it again. I AM NOT THE DINNER ORACLE.)
These days, there’s one less person in the house, but I seem to answer the question with the same frequency.
Yesterday, Fred got home from work. “Are we having enchiladas for dinner?” he asked.
“No, we’re having chicken pot pie,” I said. “Well, unless you’d rather have enchiladas. Both the enchiladas and pot pie are ready to be put in the oven, we could have pot pie tomorrow night instead.”
“Pot pie’s fine, I just couldn’t remember.” (From the conversation about dinner we’d had the night before, that is.)
We ate dinner. Fred went into the kitchen to do the dishes and put the leftovers away.
“Are we having pot pie again tomorrow night?” he asked.
“No, we’re having it Friday,” I said.
In a most puzzled manner, he said “Then what are we having tomorrow night?”
“ENCHILADAS.”
I AM NOT THE DINNER ORACLE. If he asks when he gets home from work, I will beat him over the head with the dish of enchiladas, I swear it.
*She moved to Rhode Island to live with her father and go to college. She is currently taking the semester off. (I only say this because every time I mention the child, someone searches on “Why did the spud move to Rhode Island?”)
It cracks me up when I look out the window and see the dogs laying on the ground in front of the coop, dead to the world.
Poor exhausted pups.
From left to right, a regular egg from one of our chickens (most of our eggs look like this; I have no way of knowing who laid it); an egg from either a Featherhead or the Rock Star; and a Silkie egg.
I don’t know what freaked Kara out, but she raced in from the back yard through the cat door, through the house, and didn’t stop ’til she was on the landing. See the puffed-out tail? It stayed puffed-out like that for several minutes before she calmed down.
Previously
2008: “I’ve lost Joe, and Fred is going to kill me,” I informed Mister Boogers, who glared at me and went back to sleep.
2007: I do NOT know why the fuck I’m such an idiot.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: Sounds like corporate logic, to me – cable guys having to service DVRs when they don’t know anything at all about them.
2003: Uninspired.
2002: Dude, what the fuck? They don’t have mirrors on Boston Public?
2001: My husband, Narcissus.
2000: No entry.