Don’t tell a Vermonter how to use a drill.

Did he really say that to me?

I am still laughing, tinged with a bit of horror.

We brought a drill up to the kitchen in our attempt to wire a cell booster for internet.  It was a great plan, which hasn’t quite had the outcome we wanted.  Yet.

Anyway, someone set the drill down on the kitchen counter UPRIGHT and left it overnight.

He said to me the next morning “Do you want me to show you something?”  That’s the way he prefaces the “lessons” he gives me.  Like how to use a crowbar.  Or how to get your car out of a three foot crusty snowbank with a cup of sand.  Good lessons.

“NO.”  I said clearly and walked away.

“So look at this,” he said and held out the drill upright, pointed at the bottom of it where the battery is and then flipped it sideways.  “You have to put it down like this so that it doesn’t get bumped and cause blah blah blah.”

By the time he got to blah blah blah I had shut off.  Did he really just tell me how to put a drill on the kitchen counter?  Thank goodness.  All these years of almost causing blah blah blah to happen, the chances are really good that eventually setting a drill upright would catch up to me and the worst would happen.  Whatever that was.

“Did you really just tell me how to put a drill on the kitchen counter?”  I asked and had to shut myself in the bathroom to laugh.

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Don’t tell a Vermonter how to get out of a Snowbank

I really should blog more, but I don’t want anyone to think I might lose my shit sometimes.

I actually considered murdering him with a shovel last night.

Gina gave me a ride home from work because my van is at the shop.  She turned too tightly to pull into the garage and got the side of the car stuck in a snowbank about 3 feet high and crusty.

What does a Vermonter do?  I hopped out and grabbed a shovel to dig her out.  It happened to be a garden shovel because all of the snow shovels were up at the house.  So here I am with a garden shovel digging her wheels out of the hard snow bank when He comes down from the house and instead of being HELPFUL, goes into the garage and gets a CUP of sand to FIX everything.

Meanwhile, I tried to tell him that it wasn’t a matter of being slippery, it was about having part of the car trapped in a snowbank.  This was when he talked down to me about knowing what he was doing and how I was stupid and had no idea.  He is an expert on snowbanks  and that only he knows how to get out of one.(He is an expert on flying through the air and landing in a river, but not on snowbanks.)

I kept shoveling.  When I was ready for her to try to move again I asked him to help me push and he said “Don’t push the car.  You’ll hurt yourself.”

This was when, shovel in hand, I thought of murdering him.  No one tells me how to get out of a snowbank, or that I’m too weak to push a car.  No one.

Thankfully Gina saved me and took the shovel away.

Although I think that the Vermont Statutes should allow insults about how weak a woman is as a reasonable defense for manslaughter.

The car was saved.  I’m sure it was the cup of sand that did it.

Walk of Shame, the Day he put the Car in the River, and Reasons for my Divorce (in case you were wondering)

I can’t not tell this story.  It’s just too good. (And it’s my blog so I do what I want.)

The car continued to fly down the road, across the grass and then flew 20 feet over a pile of logs and stumps before landing gently in the river.  23622466_10156017524466108_8187372101427567255_n

The man admits that he was going at least 45 in a 30, just before a one lane bridge on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in the dark.  After it rained all night.  And was 19 degrees.  And he procrastinated on putting winter tires on for the past 3 weeks.  I call this poor judgment.  He calls it an accident.

He was lucky however that he didn’t die.  Just to the right of the car, the river goes over some rapids and under the bridge.  If the car had floated, he would have died.  If he had landed farther downstream he would have died.  If someone hadn’t come along just as he climbed up the bank and to the road and offered him a ride, he would have died.  Instead he landed softly and took a moment to think before he got out.

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We went the next day to have the car towed out.  Not an easy task as it had to be dragged over all that debris that he never touched as he flew over.  He had to get into the water to secure the winch to a back tire.

Then Karma struck.

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The driver’s door opened and the one thing he had left in the car floated gently out, around the back and down the stream:  his favorite pool cue in its special wooden carpeted case.  He stood frozen in horror until it had disappeared under the bridge.  Only then did he hear me asking if he was going to try to save it.  Too late.  It was gone.

The winch broke twice hauling the car over a huge stump.  By the time it was on the back of the tow truck it was a wreck.  He dragged it up the road a ways to make sure it was secure.  Then the next lapse in judgment occurred, the man who drove his car into a river turned my van around in the middle of that same dirt road, around a blind corner with me and my children in it.

I followed the tow truck to the junk yard, watching for pieces falling off the car and enjoying the sparks against the pavement.  This whole thing felt a lot like my marriage for the past two years.  I’m not sure what pieces fell off.  I think I was just trying to keep it duct taped together.

Ah, but the last bit of Karma was still to happen.  At the junkyard he discovered that his check for the tow guy was in his pocket the whole time and was soaking wet.  Unusable.  He looked up at me as I sat behind the wheel.  Like I was going to do something to rescue him once again, like a thousand times before.  I just stared back.  Nope, not going to write you a check for this one.  But I will remember watching that pool cue case floating ever so gently out of the driver’s door of the car.

 

 

What the Passive-Aggressive Man does

It started with complaints about the sponge I use to wash the dishes.

“It smells like mildew.  The dishes smell like mildew.”

And then moved to microwaving the poor thing for 15 seconds to “kill the germs.”

Now it gets thrown out without any thought of getting a new one out from under the kitchen sink OR checking to see if there is a new one.

And EVEN WORSE THAN THIS:  He no longer lives in my house and yet my sponges still disappear.

This note appeared yesterday.  I swear that is not my writing.

 

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Someone must have heard me saying “Where the fuck is my sponge?”

Then tonight this one joined it.

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What I really REALLY want to know is:  What in the world is he cleaning with them before he throws them?  Or does he just look at them and toss them?  I am taking my new sponge to bed with me.

 

Fighting Banana Spiders

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I asked Gina to find a ladder and clean the outside of the windows.

Seemed like an easy chore.

When I got home she told me that she tried but couldn’t wash any and then took me outside to see why.

This is what she found on the side of the house under the window she had decided to start with.  A huge yellow garden spider, just hanging out there waiting to crawl up her leg as she balanced on a ladder.  We watched it as long as we dared and went back inside.

“You should go show Grandpa that spider.  He would want to take it home.”  I said jokingly.

The poor child takes me too seriously.  She went next door and came back with her Grandpa who was carrying a butterfly net to capture the nasty little (I mean magnificent specimen) in.  He had another yellow garden spider growing in his back flower bed and they could be friends!

(And thanks Grandpa for telling me where the other spider has lived all summer so that I wouldn’t accidentally run into it.)

Gina followed him to his house and watch as he deposited our spider on a plant next to his spider and then proceeded to blow on it so that they would move closer together and meet and become lifelong best friends.  Grandpa wandered back inside his house until moments later when Gina ran in, saying it was an emergency!

My spider had immediately started wrapping up his spider in the web.  Apparently the friendship didn’t go as planned.   Grandpa rescued his spider and took her inside to “warm her up.”  He did CPR and then cried over her lifeless body (I made that last part up, although it could be true–I wasn’t there.)  He was very despondent over his mistake in putting two huge pregnant spiders together and expecting them to be friends.

RIP neighbor spider.  My badass spider beat up your spider.

 

Back to Hippie and the Midgets

After 7 years of marriage life has come full circle again and I am once again raising small children on my own.  This means I might post more often, but also means that my posts will be full of angst and bad dates, too much wine, and maybe some loneliness.

I asked my psychic why I keep finding alcoholics and she had me choose another card:  Upside down Death.  Apparently my life has become too much about doing the right thing and being responsible so that I see these men as bringing fun into my life.  Being the fun that I am not.  So now I have to be fun all on my own.  This is way too much for me to handle!  Luckily she also saw lots of writing for me this winter, so maybe I can drink enough to be funny again.

This would be a serious post, except that the asian beetles (soft shelled ladybugs) are dropping from the ceiling onto my laptop and my arms and I’m jumping around swearing.

I’d tell you another quick penis story, but my bed calls.  Tomorrow.  If you’re lucky.  I’ll tell you the story about how I was afraid the 3 year old would get his penis stuck inside a bath toy and I’d have to take him to the emergency room and explain why he thought it would be a good idea to stick his tiny winkie into a toy captain’s butt.

 

 

Minimalism and The Man who Throws Nothing

Sometimes I lose my mind and think that a book on cleaning, clearing, and minimalism will change my world, inside and out.  Declutter, throw away, recycle.  It all sounds so good.  And I am good at it.  I do end up collecting again, but for a few moments it’s like an empty dishwasher in a family of seven.

Then the husband walks in as I’m cleaning out the CORDS box.  The zebra print shoebox that has been living in my closet for 3 and 1/2 years, overflowing onto the floor and a mishmash of tangled whatevers.

There are a dozen cords I can’t identify, that haven’t moved since I last did.  I make a nice neat pile of these to throw.  There’s an antenna to something.  I make the mistake of asking him what it is.  He grabs it from me with excitement in his eyes.

“It’s an antenna!” he proclaims as if he had just dug up T-rex bones in the yard.  Yeah, I know it’s a damn antenna.  I want to know to what.

I think I can use this,” he says as he walk over to the modem on the top of the television and attempts to attach it, even though the modem already has its own antenna and is a different color.  The antenna in his hand is shiny aluminum and green.  The modem is black.  “It doesn’t go to this,” he concludes.

Ah, but this isn’t the end of the disruption of my cleaning agenda.  He walks over and grabs a mac cord and says “I could take this and splice it to something . . .”  

I can just imagine what would be spliced to this, as an unnecessary fire hazard that he thinks is the coolest thing EVER.

THROW IT.

Then he turns back to the pile of cords, with desire in his eyes.  This is just a box of old cords.  Imagine what happened next when I asked him about the 70’s flowered ironing board in the basement that he picked up beside the road 3 years ago and hasn’t used since.