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.

The Damn Dryer Was Giving Us Trouble Again

For some reason, the lint trap isn't very good at the "trapping" bit of the equation. This means that every once in a while, I boost Sam into the attic and he has to hot-foot it over to the vent, reach up into the roof-line, and pull a small quilt out of the little bird-blocker screen. The first time we did this, Sam discovered that the geniuses that had installed the vent hoses in the attic for the dryer and the two upstairs bathroom exhaust fans decided to be generous with said hosing, allowing them to coil on the "floor" of the attic. This led to those loops being full of water. And by full, I mean a gallon of water each. Yeah, not exactly useful in the "exhaust" department.

Anyway, we did the attic gig a few days ago, but the dryer has been more picky than usual, deciding periodically that, no, it was not ready to start at the moment, so bugger off and maybe it'll give it a shot later. So we figured that maybe it was time to take the thing apart and give it that cleaning that you're supposed to... every year? I dunno. We've done it once, ever, and the thing is eleven years old. And the only reason we did it that once was because the belt had to be replaced. It's one thing to never clean something you have to crack open, it's another thing to have to crack it open, look at the mess, and still decide to not clean it. So we pulled off the back, pulled out the start of the exhaust line, cleaned all that mess and scored thirty cents. Not bad!

Finally we pulled off the front to reveal approximately four thousand legos, a couple buttons, an enormous quilt, a poor poor motor with fur like a bear, and! Drum roll please! Another $7.59 in change!

Well worth the effort. Oh, and we got the dryer running again. But, hey, almost eight bucks! It was like Christmas.

I think I could avoid a ton of conversations with him if I just put "No, it does not involve naked women," on a recording for him to play for himself.

On television was a show about a couple who wanted a feng-shui-ed-out garden. The nutter expert who was advising them in the process kept going on and on and on for effing ever 'til I reached through the tv and punched her in the throat about meditate this and meditation that and meditating for you and me!

Sam walked into the room. "Meditatiate!" he announced- the expert was just shy of making up words, herself. "I'm good with meditatiation! As long as it involves naked women."

"Nope, sorry," I told him. "It could not involve naked women because you could not concentrate enough to meditatiate."

"In that case, I'm not a fan." And he left.

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!"

Because, shockingly, bird feeders quickly become squirrel feeders.

Sam whipping open the back door, mostly not clothed: Yeah! You better run you stupid squirrel!

Me: Get your boxer clad ass back in the house!

Sam: I have to give :insert neighbor lady's name here: something to drool over.

Ethan: Who's :insert neighbor lady's name here:?

Me: Nice. Idiot.

Sam: That's what I call the squirrel in our backyard.

Ethan: Oh.

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?

Ladies of the Night, You've Been Warned

Sam: Our financial situation would be so much better if I didn't have to pay for sex so often.

Me: And I'd have so much more free time if I didn't have to go out and kill hookers every weekend.

I'm Pretty Sure the Context Doesn't Matter

Me, to Sam: You're like a crazy person to me.

Sam, with a snort: Ditto.

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.

...which explains why we're down to ten ornaments.

Our Christmas tree stayed up for a long time. A long time. And not because it was pretty or I'm religious. Just lazy. And then Sam said something about "fire hazard" and pulled the ornaments off and threw the tree out the door. (Fifteen minutes later, Connor came back in from shoveling the sidewalk bearing an ornament. Being the me that everyone loves and adores, I had to mock Sam and then he pointed out that I've likely thrown ornaments out every year myself. I've seen no proof.)

The stupid happy-birthday-Jesus tree left forty thousand needles all over the carpet (I know, I counted), and Sam decided to try to murder my vacuum with them. So I grabbed the broom and dustpan. So Sam wanted to trump me with the shopvac. Only, our shopvac is also a leaf blower- aka a blow-the-melted-snow-out-of-the-garage-er. This had been its most recent occupation. So the triumphant slamming down of the shopvac next to the pile of needles that I was constructing was mildly less triumphanty, due to the fact that the shopvac was, indeed, missing the motor. Anyway, by the time he made it back in the house, toting the leaf blower (which was still its current composition) I had already scooped the majority of the needles into the garbage bag held by the ever useful Ethan.

Needing a reason to have brought in the leaf blower, it became a way of drying Ethan's already dry hair and clothes. Which was fine with me. But then he turned it on me. Which was decidedly not fine with me. So then I decided to shake the excess needles off the broom. Over Sam's head. Because I'm that kind of bitch mature. The entire scene was melodically accompanied with Ethan's cries of, "Battle! It's a battle!", while he jumped up and down, cheering.

Now the zit is hiding in the folds of her clothing.

Emily had a shiny red rhinestone star stuck to the tip of your nose. "Oh, Emily," I sighed. "You've got a zit on your nose again."

Sam responded in the norm. "We'd better cut it off."

I, in vague response (because I was staring at a daddy blog). "If that happened every time we had a zit on our noses... well, I guess it'd just have been that one time each."

Emily looked back and forth between us, one eyebrow raised. "So... why do you still have noses?"

God, We Work Well Together

It's the kind of thing that only happens when you're already running late. I dash out the door to the garage, only to come up short because Sam's car was still in its space, Sam sitting behind the wheel. Just as I'm trying to figure out why he is still home when I had thought he had left ten minutes before, I notice the neighbor dog in the driveway.

"Oh crap!" I yell, and jump back into the house, slamming the door shut. It's not that I don't like the dog. He's kinda cool, always friendly. Frankly, he can't hold himself together. He gets too excited and jumps all over me and himself, falling and whimpering because he's so excited. This means his doggy smell ends up on my pants and hands and blouse and hair, so I go around smelling like mutt for the rest of the day. Not what I intend for work.

So I crack the door back open, and start yelling at Sam. I'm not entirely sure whether he can hear me (yes I am), but I figure my loud voice and frantic waving will highlight the gravity of the situation.

"Get the damn dog!" I scream, pointing behind his car. Sam starts the car. Big Puppy tilts his head, curious. "No! That didn't work! He's still there! Get the damn dog!" Sam taps the horn once. Big Puppy wags his tail. "No! Still there! Geez, I need to go to work! I'm late. Get. the. damn. DOG! And why are you still here?" I take a step out the door, and Big Puppy takes notice. Crap. I duck back in.

"I need to go to work, too!" comes Sam's response.

"Yeah!" I say. "Great reason to get the damn dog!"

"He accosted me at the mailbox. I've been petting him for ten minutes." It's a little muffled by the glass, but I know this is what he has just confessed.

"So this is your fault? Screw you! Get the dog! I'm late!"

He finally gets out of his car and goes to the dog. When I see Big Puppy move away from Sam's open garage door, I swing the door open wide, and make a run for my own car, not daring to open my spot's garage door until I've made it safely inside. I get my car door open, and Sam says "He's behind your car now." He's way too calm for his own good.

"Well, get him the hell out of the way! C'mon!" I get the garage door open and my car started. Sam gives me the okay absolutely no signal, and I start backing out, praying to not run over this dog. Sam has still given me no indication as to where this dog is, and I hope my first is not a thump-thump. So slow slow slow I go. I finally get the car pointed in the right direction, and there is Big Puppy, standing thirty feet away.

I'll kill Sam when I get home. I'm running late, right now.

Can You Imagine What Happens When I Lose a Receipt?

Sam is at the computer, dealing with finances (read: harassing me about receipts from four months ago because he doesn't know whether the purchase from quikcheck should qualify as "groceries" or "eating out" or maybe a little bit of both, and, if so, how much of each and this is really important and could I please do a better job at keeping track of these things? Can't I just remember what I purchased in May?)

I am lying in bed, reading myself to sleep.

Sam is staring at a transaction from the bookstore. "Okay, you said it was two books."

"Two books. One is mine, one was a gift. They were the same price." It feels like we've had this conversation before. Twice.

"That's doesn't make sense. If that's true, then each book cost $12.20."

I look up curiously from my book. "That's not right. Books end in point-nine-nine or point-nine-five. Sometimes kids' books end in point-four-nine. Your math is wrong."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, yes it is. Is that without tax and with our discount?"

He gives me the stink-eye. "Yes, twenty percent off."

"We got thirty percent off." I return the stink-eye.

"Oh." clickity clickity clickity "Nope. Still wrong. They could not have each been the same price. Because then they would have been $13.94, and you just said that wasn't possible."

I get out of bed in search of the damn receipt. "I'm going to kill you. In your sleep. Don't fall asleep first tonight."