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.

 

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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.

 

 

At the TRACK, social anxiety and exercise

I should make a TRACK category.  Like Adventures on the Track, Things That Make Me Want to Run (Away), or Save me From Small Children.

I’ve noticed lately that an elderly man in his 70’s comes to the high school track just before 9 a.m. I’m usually about done walking by then and when he sees me coming to my car he hides behind his large truck until I get in and leave.  I don’t know why.  I’m not scary.

But 70 small children swarming onto the track are!  I was half way around the track, enjoying the cool weather and quiet when the herd of children showed up out of nowhere and flooded the track.  The old man was there early today.  Probably trying to avoid me.  I was walking behind him when the small children took over.  Half the group went one way, half the other, some were racing each other.  Small groups spread out walking side by side and covered all the lanes.  Some were even walking back and forth across all the lanes as they went around the whole track.

RUN!

That’s what my brain said.  But the old man kept walking in the outside lane as though nothing was happening.  I soon passed him and decided that I had every right to be on the track.  Children didn’t move out of the way as I passed them or met them coming the other way.  I refused to move either so they had to dodge me at the last minute or run into me.  If the old man could do it, so could I!

But wait, why does he hide from me when he’s perfectly okay surrounded by crazy children?

Weirdness at the Track

It’s rare that I’m confused by people’s behavior.  I have no idea what was going on at the track this morning.  I was just taking a before work walk in circles as I sometimes do.  Then this older woman with white hair and strangely athletic legs shows up in her tight work out outfit and starts doing HUGE WEIRD stretches in the middle of the lanes.  She makes LOUD sounds for emphasis that I could hear over the music on my headphones.  Then she started practicing her sprints by doing this strange take off in slow motion again and again.  She said hello to me and I nodded back.  She did two short sprints past me, went to her car for water, stood in the middle of the track, took her water back, and made a show of getting ready to do a high jump by the mats.  She moved the poles with great big movements and found a rope she was winding around one of them.  I left at this point because it felt like she wanted me to notice and I was feeling creeped out.  It was like watching an older woman do an SNL skit on being a famous track start who is also trying to pick up women who walk.

My BOYS will not be potty trained ever.

I have come to accept that I will spend the rest of my life cleaning up bodily fluids.

The 5 year old is so obsessed with not having a red butt from wiping poorly that every time he poops he comes out of the bathroom and finds someone to bend over in front of so they can examine his ******* to see if there’s any poop on it.  Strangers, dogs, his own Grandpa.

The 3 1/2 year old has spent this week peeing wherever he happens to be standing.  This might be okay on the lawn sometimes, but then he continued to do this in the house.  He pulled down his underwear and peed on the doormat.  He peed in the kitchen.  He peed on a blanket he had put on the floor while I was in the bathroom.  He stood in the bathtub and peed on the floor when he was taking a bath.  He just loves to see what he can pee on.

Then this morning he made it to the toilet and  I thought we were all good, until he came out complaining that he had peed on his shirt and pants.  I stripped him down and went to find a washcloth to wipe him off with so that he wouldn’t stink in this 80 degree 95 percent humidity.  He squatted down to pick up a car and pooped on the floor.  It looked like a giant Hershey’s kiss.

My husband has mentioned with an eager look on his face that he wants to stay home with the boys.  I’ll bet he would freak out if he saw a giant poop kiss on the floor, a naked baby, and random puddles of pee everywhere.  Does he realize staying home means a load of laundry a day just to keep the house from smelling like boy pee?  No, he sees himself playing Mario and doing “projects.”  This is why he has to work and I handle my own job and kiss poops when I am “not working.”