I had to eventually throw the roll into the back seat of the car.

I was going on a bit of a drive to pick up the kids- off visiting the grandparents. I don't know how it was when you were growing up, but for me, the drive was all about the snacks. As I have zero self-control when it comes to food that is in my vicinity, I knew I was going to stop at some point and stock up on goodies of some sort, so I went with a preemptive strike and stopped before I left town. I got baked chips and Sprite Zero (which is kinda feh, but so is Sprite, thus it's actually somewhat close to the original flavor and is not nearly as aspartamey as a lot of those "zero" or low cal drinks (I'm looking at you, Ocean Spray Sparkling Cranberry.)).

I also got some SweeTarts. What I really wanted were Sprees, which, when I was a kid, was a competing brand to SweeTarts, but apparently Wonka owns them both now? Either Wonka (which I think of as a "he" instead of an "it" or "they") (and the "he" is Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp) (much as I want to eat him normally) (Depp, not Wilder), is phasing out Sprees, or they are atrociously loathed in my small part of the world. They are not to be found anywhere. So, fine, I bought the SweeTarts. They were my absolute favorite as a child.

I categorically hated them.

I don't think they've changed since I was a child. I think this is my fault. No, wait. I take it back. It's Sam's fault. You see, those SweeTarts tasted oddly similar to those cheap, neon-colored, fruity drinks you get in restaurants that have a "bar". Mind you, I'm not talking about restaurants that have a bar, but a "bar". You know, cute young chick behind the taps who is excellent at twisting a cap off a beer bottle, but you order a martini, and she cocks her head to one side like a confused dog and asks, "Uhm, do you mean an appletini?" No, bitch, I do not.

So then she goes to pull the bartender's guide out from under the bar and you know you're up shit-creek. Here, sweetie, let me teach you an essential life skill. This is a jigger. No, seriously, even if you do find a bottle marked "martini mix", you just leave that where it is.

Now, I admit that there was a short time in my young life when I would have been, "Ooh, yummers! Appletini! Or maybe do you have something pink?"

And then Sam became deeply interested in all things alcohol- including how to mix virtually any cocktail, and stocked our cabinet with thegoodstuff, and now I'm known for returning improperly made margaritas, y'all. Also, there's the possibility that, sometimes, every once in a while, rarely, you might catch me instructing the waiter to have the bartender "taste this" with a sneer on my face.

This takes us back to my car drive and the disturbingly dissatisfying SweeTarts. I taste the first one. Ew, gross. I try a different flavor. Okay, gross, too. Hate blue, skip that. Nope, gross and gross. Okay, lesson learned. I don't like any of the SweeTarts. I know, let me have another one. Yuck. Let's have another. Ohmygod, what is wrong with me? I have no self-control!

Let's have one more.

Stream of Consciousness + Probably Too Much Information = That Which I Bestow Upon You Now

Sam called to say that his new pants... okay, because he's bought all these new clothes and is shocked to find out that people seem to treat him more respectfully and value his opinion more when he is dressed nicer. Out of jeans and into slacks, they are cut nicer and have two buttons to the front panel- thus allowing it to sit flatter against his abdomen. This is more flattering to everyone. However, he's just venturing into this world now. And he discovered, to his dismay, that this means- gasp- that apparently he has to actually use his zipper when going to the bathroom! This is a new thing- apparently. Not that we're terribly modest about such things, but I've never paid much attention before to how he goes about with the undoing of the pants.

I did know that he never used that gap that is prevalent in men's briefs. No man does, I'm told. This is vestigial, I would guess, much like the human appendix, except much more unlikely to rupture for the majority of men.

His complaint came in that now he has to not just undo one but *two* buttons *and* a zipper and then "I have to weasel my hand in there and weasel things back out! It's ridiculous!"

Really?

He's complaining to a woman about this? I actually have to pull everything down to my knees to pee, excepting if I'm in a skirt, at which point I pull that up and hope to god I don't accidentally dunk it in the toilet *or* pee on it. Oh, and, by the way? We have to use the toilet paper *every time*. Amazing, I know. None of this shake-and-dance stuff for us. Thank all the heavens. Because eww.

And there you have peek number three into my brain- just in time for my dialogue with myself.

This morning, the first thing I typed to Cassie was, "i'm going to investigate a noise. if i'm not back in five minutes, call the police." She responded with, "will do".

I'm not entirely sure this was the most logical way for me to go about things.

In situations like this, I always debate my under-reaction and my over-reaction. I refuse to be the chick who calls the police over a noise at her window that ends up being a bird flapping around. But I'm also not going to be the one who is killed in her home because she startled a burglar. So how do I appropriate-level-react?

If I had called Sam, I figured he'd have said, "There's no one in the house... No, there's not... Honey, stop... Fine! What's it sound like?... What the hell does "two spoons" sound like?... I don't have any spoons to test it out, just tell me... Well, where's the noise coming from?... What do you mean you don't know? Find out... Find out... By walking around!... Listen, I don't have time for this. If you're really worried, call the police. If you're not, then just go!... Well what if it's the furnace exploding?"

See? He'd be no help at all.

But I figured at least someone should know that I was going to go all bad-ass investigator. I wasn't entirely clear on how Cassie would react to my request- had I not returned. Possibly, I put her in an awkward position. If it were me, I'd try calling her first. Although I'd wait longer. And then I'd get no answer and I'd call again frantically and still no answer and then I'd call the police and they'd balk at me and I'd demand they react and then she'd be dead, all because I'm a horrible person.

And now you've had your second peek into the running stories I have going on inside my head.

Alright, I just asked her what she'd have done.

me: okay, i have an important question
what would you have done if i hadn't come back in five minutes?
Flutterby: i was debating that, actually
prob at the 5 min mark, i would've msg'd you while digging through my chats, etc to find your address
i estimated it would take me an add'l 5 min to come up with your address and the number for your localish PD
and then I prob would've called bc better safe than sorry
i figured if you said 5 and you weren't back in the add'l 5, that was reasonable to make a phone call
then i would've played spider solitaire or something :P

She is apparently a better person than I. Better at keeping other people alive, anyway.

So back to the noise. I leave that message with Cassie, and I slowly walk into the front hallway to try to pinpoint the noise. The noise stops. Of course. I head toward the upstairs. The noise starts up again. Dammit! It's coming from the basement. (We all know how much I love the basement.) I open the door, peek down there, realize I can see nothing, and then belly-down on the floor to get a better view. Yes, yes I really do. I am about to go down the stairs when I realize, as I'm saying in my head, "this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid". Is it so stupid that I'm afraid to go downstairs? No. It's stupid to go down there without a weapon. So I turn around and search the living room. Connor's lunch bag- what the hell is that doing here instead of at school with him? Whatever, not a good weapon. Where's the bat? (Why did I think there's going to be a bat in my living room? I have no idea.) Crap. Weapon, weapon, weapon. There is nothing bludgeoningable in this room! I know, a knife! I tippy-toe into the kitchen, find a pointy knife. Wait. Would I be able to stab someone if it came down to it?... Yes, yes I could. Okay, down the stairs. Slowly, slowly. (Because someone who is hiding in my basement- playing with spoons- isn't going to have noticed me opening the door and sneaking down.) I squat down on the landing halfway down the stairs and rotate on the spot, searching the noise out. I'm not turning the lights on- better to be blind than to let the psycho-spoon-playing-killer get a better view of me. Ah! What the hell is that?! Oh, the ping-pong table. (Why was this more threatening than all the other crap piled up in the basement? I have no idea. Because psycho-spoon-playing-killers are actually big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killers, I guess.) The noise kicks in again. Alright, that's it. The lights are going on because... because the sudden light will blind the big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer and I'll get the jump on him! (I watch entirely too much police-drama television.) The noise is coming from... there! Crap. The furnace. Why is the furnace playing spoons? Dammit, I hate it when Sam's right- wait, wasn't that in my head?

This was the point when the furnace turned off altogether. I couldn't therefore solve the mystery, but that was fine because it meant it wasn't a big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer. Screw it. Sam can solve the furnace issue when he gets home. So long as it doesn't blow up in the meantime.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

Worth His Weight in Gold Salt

Last night I made a shepherd's pie / chicken pot pie... thingy. It was a shepherd's pie except made with chicken. It was chicken pot pie except with mash instead of a crust. Whatever, it turned out pretty okay. It got no complaints- which count for nothing anyway, but it's still nice not to have to listen to whineys.

Sam got home while we were at soccer, but had eaten by the time we got home. When I asked him what he thought of it, he said, "Once I had added enough salt, it was pretty good!" Now, this is kinda a big deal for me because, while I'm a pretty decent cook- I can follow a recipe or wing it, I'm not afraid of experimenting- casseroles are not my strong suit. I generally don't like them very much- it's the abundance of sauce/gravy, which is generally over-flavored, over-slimyed, and over-salted. Did I mention over-slimyed? That texture is just wrong. So when he complimented it, I was pretty damn excited.

Me: Really?
He: Yeah, once I added enough salt. I also added more pepper.
Ignoring the repeated salt comment, Me: I had some trouble with the pepper grinder, I figured I probably needed to add more. And I didn't want to go overboard with the spices since it was my first try. I did saute shallots and garlic in it, though.
He: Oh, I couldn't really taste them. But once I added enough salt, it was fine.
Me: Well, you know, I figured you can always add salt, but you can't take it away, and I wasn't sure how it would be once it came out of the oven. I can add more stuff next time I try it, maybe some herbs, and I can do more garlic. I did add cheese on top, did you notice?
He: Yeah, it needed more cheese, but I think everything needs more cheese. Eh, once I added enough salt, it was really good!
Me: Maybe you can't taste anything else because you always use too much salt, asshole!

And this is where I show how mature I am because that last line I only said in my head. I am so proud of me. Except now he's going to read this and know, but that's alright. I kept it to myself this long.

I Like My Coffee Like I Like My...

Let me preface this by saying that Sam neither drinks coffee nor grew up with anyone who did.

Yesterday morning, Sam decided to make me coffee. This was the third time he attempted it. Through trial and error, watching me, listening to me describe the process, he pretty much had it figured out. Still... something was wrong.

Me: You didn't do it right.
He: Yes I did!
Me: Thank you, it's really nice of you. But you didn't do it right!
He: You know, I'm tired of this! I did it exactly the right way! I put the water halfway between min and six on the "water" side! I put four scoops into the filter, I hit the "on" and "1-4 cups" buttons! I did it exactly how you told me to!
Me: Okay, I hear you. But it's not right! It's too dark and there's not enough! If you had put in that amount of water, it would be filled to here. I've done this a million times and it doesn't look like this when I'm done.
He: I did it the right way! The only thing I didn't do was change the filter. Do you do that everyday?

At that point, my eyes got wide, I put my hand over my mouth, and I'm sure my face paled. This was my fault. Out of sheer laziness (time honored tradition of mine, well documented in this blog), I never replace the filter in the coffee maker until the next morning when I'm making the next pot. But, really, I think of "replace dirty wet paper filter full of yesterday's coffee grounds" as an instruction the same as "close fridge door when finished putting milk in". A necessary, but completely obvious, step. I pulled myself together.

Me: Um, yeah. I change out the filter everyday.
He: Oh, okay. I didn't know that. That explains why it looks different.
Me: Thank god I just made coffee yesterday and not three days ago.
He: I think I would have noticed mold in there.
Me: Yeah, I'm not really sure you would.

Also, it's not safe to climb the basement stairs slowly in the dark. You have to run. Or the ghosts will get you. Not that our house was built on...*

So, let me preface this by saying that I cannot sleep at night with my feet uncovered because gremlins will grab my ankles. That's right- gremlins. Not that I believe in them, but it's still true.

Last night: I am awoken by something slithering up my nightstand. Here, right at moment one, is where Sam's and my accounts differ. I say, upon seeing something move in the dark, I yell, "Oh, shit!" and launch myself over Sam to his side of the bed with him yelling and acting like somehow I'm overreacting. He's saying, "Just turn on my light, okay?" and I'm saying, "Are you kidding?! I'm not reaching over the side of the bed! Your side isn't any safer than my side! Do it your damn self!" Sam says I am fast asleep, sit bolt upright in bed, then proceed to crawl down to the end of the bed, around his feet, up his other side, then curl up in the fetal position, refusing to tell him what was wrong nor responding in any manner whatsoever.

Who are you going to believe?

I finally gather up my courage and take control of the situation and turn on his light because jeez, what a wuss, he couldn't even turn on his own light? There, blowing back and forth in the breeze from the ceiling fan, is one page from the magazine sitting on my nightstand. I plop a novel onto it to hold it still, triumphant.

"Ooh, honey. Your puzzle book is going to get you."

"Whatever. Something was gonna eat my face and you did nothing about it."

"Your... magazine? Was going to eat your face?"

"You didn't know."

*...an ancient cemetery or anything. It was farmland. So maybe it's cow-ghosts. Whatever. Is being trampled by ghost-bovine-hooves any better? No. Not that I believe in them, but it's still true.

I am, in Fact, Typing This From the Roof

A few weeks ago, Sam and I noticed some damage to the ground all around the downspout of the front gutter. It goes directly into a drainage pipe that runs underground for... well, for the sake of brevity, let's just say forever and all distance. Point being, if it's clogged up under there, and the water is backing up and damaging the ground like that, our front yard is screwed. And so are we. Because we'll be digging up the entire distance from our house to the road. Or maybe we'd have to shove some kind of scope or rooter or something down there. Except that it's sealed up, downspout to drainage pipe, where they meet. So we'd have to ruin that, first. Or something. I have no idea. It just all seemed like it was going to be horrible.

But then came the good-news-bad-news situation. During the next heavy rain, we looked outside and discovered that the water wasn't backing up. It wasn't going through the downspout at all. It was pouring like mad over the edge of the gutter. So, yay! No damage to the underground drain! But, crap. It's blocked up at the roof. So we've got to go on the roof. Which we've never done. In the almost four years we've lived here. Because we have no way of getting up there.

Have I mentioned the bit where Sam's afraid of heights, and I'm terrified of falling?

We purchased an extension ladder for this express purpose, and this is where we discovered the downfall of living on a double-directionally-sloping lot. It was near impossible to get the ladder positioned with any stability to reach the proper spot of the gutter on the back side of the house (we did, though, and Sam discovered all was clear upon mounting the ladder- woohoo!), and was quite literally impossible to do so in front of the house.

Flash to the argument scene. Sam throws the ladder up, gives it a shake. I yell and show it lean precariously to one side with a single foot placed on the bottom rung. Sam shoves a rock under one leg of the ladder. I yell some more. Sam repositions repeatedly. I yell again. Sam gives it a shake, gets both feet on the bottom rung, I threaten to not hold the ladder in any way because I am not participating in this sham of safety and there's no way he's not going to fall anyway so I might as well not be under him when he does.

Anyway, we figured out that there's no way in hell to get to the bad-pain-in-the-ass-trouble-making-gonna-have-to-kick-it-repeatedly-if-only-I-can-get-to-it part of the gutter without actually climbing on the roof, so we might as well go to the flattest part of the ground and climb from there. This was okay because, in an interesting bit of team work, Sam was willing to work from the ladder but not climb on the actual roof, whereas I could not work from the ladder but could happily walk all over the roof like a mountain goat on acid.

Envisioning the absolute nastiness of a clog that a full waterfall from the gutter would entail, I demanded a glove and something pointy, which, to Sam's mortification, I promptly shoved into the waistband of my pants. I could see him imagining me gutting myself on it. Then he'd be a widower with three children. It was his turn to yell. But, really? There was going to be yucky stuff. And possibly bugs. The pointy thing was going up the ladder with me, one way or another.

I climbed the ladder, staring straight ahead. I got to the roof line, staring straight ahead. I contemplated how I was going to hoist my ass over the top of the ladder and onto the roof. It took a bit, but I managed to get on the roof. Oh! And safety stuff. I was totally safe about it all. Harnesses and ropes and... stuff... Don't yell at me, Mom and Dad.

I climbed over the peak of the roof, down the other side, got close to the edge, peered into the gutter. Nothing. Not a single leaf. The entire length was spotless. Huh. I moved right to the corner of the roof. The hell? There, settled right into the mouth of the downspout, perfectly wedged in, was a tennis ball. ("Oh," said Connor, later. "I wondered why that never came back down.") It was damn good on my part that I didn't leave my pointy thing behind because I needed it to lever the ball out. Then, because I'm me, I threw the ball at Sam.

After one or two more bits of maintenance things on the roof, I sat down, top of the ladder before me. Crap. After the trouble getting from ladder to roof, I had no idea how I was going to get roof to ladder.

"Coming?" Sam asked.

"Don't rush me!"

Not a Six Word Saturday- also, Holy Crap, Y'all, I'm Back!

However, this post is inspired by Cate, nonetheless.

We built our house several years ago. It, therefore, did not have any landscaping. This leads to a lot more discussion for us about trees than I imagine the average couple has. Of this, much discussion falls to evergreens. For the most part, I don't like them- some, yes, I do like, and I even see how they are the best choice in certain situations. But, honestly, frickin' evergreens are frickin' everywhere. Sam can identify a hundred different trees, half of which are evergreens. (And Sam's world depends on things having the correct labels- things need to be the "right" way.) Partly because I can't be bothered, partly to annoy Sam, I refer to them all as "pines". So, yes, even when I know better, every evergreen is called a pine. And he wants to kill me when I say it. And that's completely the point.

I worked a lot of hours this week, about double my normal schedule. I had almost no free time- hadn't even turned my computer on. Finally getting a night off, Sam and I ended up at the mall on Friday. As we're walking through, Sam made some comment about the "Things Remembered" kiosk. Which I did not understand. So he talked a bit more. And I did not understand. He finally got exasperated, "Haven't you read Cate's blog?" To which I replied, "Are you effing kidding me? When?!?! When could I have done that?!?" He finally explained that bit, then went on to demand that I get on and comment on the fact that Cate said bugs slithered. Bugs don't slither, you see. They have legs. They can't slither. Legs! When I pointed out the he, himself, could have commented to that affect, he said he had indeed done so.

Me: And? What did she say?
Sam, annoyed: She said something about "in her world" they do.
Me: So? Then what am I supposed to do?
Sam: So you need to tell her!
Me: Tell her what? It's her world, her blog.
Sam: But that's not right! Bugs don't slither!
Me: Look, honey! Pine trees!
Sam: Son of a bitch!
Me: You know I have to blog about this now, right?

My Poor Husband

I have a slight obsession with underwear. That is a really weird sentence to type. And, no, I don't mean in a fetishy kind of way. Get your mind out of the gutter. See, I hate clothes shopping. No really. I do! And, yes, I am female. And listen, ladies- jewelry and shoe shopping does not count as clothes shopping. Clothes shopping is where you go into a store, have to find articles that might fit you, take them into a dressing room and- get ready for it- try them on. Shoes and jewelry fit everyone, okay? It doesn't count. Sure, they might be out of your size in that particular shoe, and maybe your foot is too wide for it, or maybe you're not into toe cleavage (for real? toe cleavage? what has our society become?). But unless your mortal soul gets crushed by the experience, it's not clothes shopping.

Where was I? Right, the underwear. When I do garner the strength to torture myself- read or see The Da Vinci Code, by the way? I'm not sure what I did wrong, but shopping for clothes should count for as much penance as what that albino did to himself. Right, right, sorry, back on topic. When I am ready to torture myself, I go whole-hog. This trip to the mall will take a long time, and I will not talk to you in the process. Really, either find my size in the thing I'm looking for- no, thanks, I don't want your suggestions- or get the hell out of my way.

So! When it comes to bras and underwear (See? We found our way back.), I don't futz around with store to store blah blah blah. There's the one store that I bother with. You know the one- they apparently think they're some sort of fragrance boutique, followed up by what they assume college girls wear to bed, and then, after wading through that crap, you get to the underwear. And they have a credit card. And you don't have to carry the credit card, just for your information. All you need is your social security number and your driver's license. This is probably a bad thing. But, whatever. And the reason they have credit cards is because their products are so damn expensive.

And we've made it to my point! I spent way more than I should have- not going to say how much, but will say that I bought ten items at once- and used the credit card! Which is fine because Sam, thank god, is really good about paying them off before any interest accumulates. Except he paid it off immediately. Like, before any bill came. Which means I lost that money out of my little play-money account long before it was absolutely necessary. Total suckage.

But this is where we get to the title of this post. Sam decided that, in fairness, my expenditure should not wholly come out of my mad money because his underwear purchases never come out of his mad money. This should get him some praise. I understand that. And I know, logically, that he is being really cool about it. After all, his underwear comes five to a package for, I dunno, twelve bucks or something. Whereas mine is more a "dining out in an expensive restaurant" price. So, I get a huge chunk of money for me to go spend on complete crap that's just for me, when I thought I had already spent it? Way cool. Do I go that way? Of course I don't.

Sam: I just figured since I don't spend my play money on my underwear, it's unreasonable for you to have to spend all of yours on yours.

(Did I mention where I spent all of my money on underwear and a couple pairs of jeans that day? Because I did. Like I said, whole-hog.)

Me, after a pause: But... none of your clothes purchases come out of your account.
Sam: Sure they do.
Me: No. I buy all your clothes. You've gotten every single new item as gifts recently. So, really...
Sam: As GIFTS! For my birthday and Christmas! Are you serious? You're going to make this an issue?
Me, in my head: Shut the eff up, Sarah. Shut up. Shut up. And get that nasty look off your dumb face. Be a grown up. He's being generous and you know it.
Me, outloud, mustering all my strength: I am not going to make an issue out of this... Thank you...... but you still don't spend any of your play money on clothes.

Hey, I did my best.