When It Rains It Drains

DH (thats Darling Husband for you newbies) borrowed my car today. He had to haul some junk, and that's when he wants to drive my car. The lesser car, in his mind. (It's an Infiniti, but that's no Mercedes).

Anyway, before dinner - and after he borrwed my car - DH does the cowboy saunter over to me, puffing up his chest in a manly 'I-know-about-cars-and-you-don't' way and says, with a challenge in his voice:

"When was the last time you had your Radiator drained?"

Now I know the damn thing needs the oil changed, it needs new spark plugs now and then and I have to check the pressure in the tires. But Radiator drained? This seriously was a new one to me, but I guess it sounds like something 'they' do.

"I dunno," I say, thinking hard about whether my mechanic has ever mentioned my radiator.

"Well how long have you owned it?" now he sounds condescending.

"Four years," I say, still wondering why I need the radiaotor drained. I"m waiting for him to tell me something like 'didn't you see that widget light come on??? That means your radiator is about to explode!!'.

But no. He looks down and shakes his head, as if exasperated by my ignorance as to radiator draining.

"Well," he starts, and I can tell this means I'm gonna be spending some $$$ on my radiator instead of the Lilly sale. "You're gonna need your radiator drained." Tell me more, my expression says to him.

"Two reasons, " he continues. "First, because you've had the car for so long I"m sure it needs to be drained." He pauses. I"m still not convinced. "And second," he looks down and his voice lets go of that condescending tone, "when I went to put windshield washing fluid in your car I accidentally poured it into the radiator. It needs to be drained."

(insert sounds of Homer Simpson here)

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Blog?

My Darling Husband (I'm spelling that out because he thinks that when I am referring to him as DH I am calling him a Dick Head...hmmmm....), okay, my DH and our CPA have been plotting against me and I feel that I have no choice but to command a meeting with the four of us. Me, DH, CPA and someone from the IRS to mediate.

This all started awhile back. Early February to be exact (sort of), about the same time that I started writing this blog. Initially, DH supported my every post. He thought it gave me a great outlet for my pent up, frustrated creative energies (or not). He coaxed me to 'go on upstairs and write something on your blog'. 'Thats funny, babe. Good writing, go write more', he would say as I'd stir him from a sound sleep in front of the TV to read him my latest post. I think he got a kick out of being the subject of many of my posts. Afterall, I'm sure he thought, no body reads my blog except a few of my friends who have no choice to read it because I quiz them on the contents. But as with most men, DH has a few disconnected wires in his reasoning, and it did not occurr to him that some of my friends are married to some of his friends.

Enter DH's friend and CPA and new reader of this blog. CPA apparrantly loved this blog, at first. Afterall, there were some funny anecdotes about DH. Guys LOVE funny anecdotes about their friends. And DH seemed to like the friendly ribbing he'd get from CPA about these anecdotes. I was sure that CPA was looking forward to seeing me in person to compliment me on my new venture. Afterall, he is our accountant and would, I was sure, have some advice on how I could retire on the $1.22 I earn every few days from this blog.

I couldn't wait to meet with him. CPA that is. We have met, often. He was in our wedding party, afterall. But I couldn't wait to meet with CPA in a >

professional, business person type of a meeting. Well, you can immagine my dissappointment when DH refused to include me in our annual tax meeting with CPA. I'd been prompting and prompting (yeah, yeah, nagging and nagging) DH to make that appointment with CPA. I was stunned last week when DH said "I made it already. I already met with him".

Met with him!!! Met with CPA withoutme!!

"But I need to be there to explain all of my paperwork!" I stomp my foot for emphasis.

"You stapled detailed notes to each peice of paperwork, including your W2 forms." DH replies with a condescending tone. "though," he adds, "I am sure that he doesn't need these notes. I'm pretty sure he recognized a W2 form".

"But -" I continue.

I get the hand. THE HAND! Am I married to Oprah now?!? I really start to stomp around now. "I had things I needed to discuss!!!" "I had to explain my goodwill reciepts!!!" "I needed to point out the receipts to charities!!!" "I needed to talk to him about my blog!!!"

I got the hand again. DH looked down in silence.

The blog. I knew instantly there was something going on with the blog. My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath, fearing the worst. No, no - please don't tell me there is a problem with my blog. More silence.

And then DH spoke: "He's afraid to meet with you because he's afraid he'll end up on your blog."

(Well thats just the silliest thing I've ever head)

Husbands, Labels and the Family Dog

Men go thru an amazing transformation when they get married. They forget how to do laundry, loose their way to the grocery store and become unable to read the labels on common household grocery items. It’s true. My husband, for instance (because as you know, my poor, long suffering husband is the be all and end all of examples) hasn’t done actual laundry in 2 years. Now, he lived on his own for about 10 years before we married, and I knew him for most of that time. And in all that time, I never saw (or smelled) him wearing dirty clothing and I know he wasn’t out buying new stuff every other day. Somehow it was getting cleaned, and judging by the clothes washer & dryer and laundry detergent in his condo, I have a good feeling he was doing his laundry.

I also saw food in his refrigerator when he lived on his own. Real stuff, not just take out and restaurant left overs. But now, it’s a different story. Now he leaves me little lists, or if I’m out doing errands – and he’s half a block from the Guenardi’s – he calls me on my cell phone to tell me “what else I need to pick up at the store.” In many ways I prefer this arrangement, because, as you’ll see, my DH’s ability to choose appropriate grocery items is somewhat lacking, and deteriorating quickly. No, I’m not just referring to the time he brought home a box of macaroni and cheese, 2 lobster tails and a can of chopped clams and proudly placed them before me so that I could make dinner.

I couldn’t be mad at a guy who thought lobster tails were a quick take out meal. Besides, he looked so cute in his clean college sweatshirt (thanx to me) and shiny, thick, lustrous, healthy, blonde hair. Later that same night I decided to give the dog a bath. Now, our shower has a nice sized tile ledge surrounding it. I like to keep the shampoos down at the far end. I keep the dogs shampoo close by and if you’ve guessed where this post is going by now, you’re right. Yes, I saw that the big bottle of blue Shampoo and Conditioner In One that I had recently purchased for the pooch was now half empty. If you’ve met my dog, you know he doesn’t get bathed that frequently. There was, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, only one logical explanation.

“Honey!” I called DH.

“Yes, dear,” his obedient reply.

“What shampoo have you been using?” me.

“That blue stuff. It’s really good, where’d you get it?” DH.

“Petsmart.” I reply. “It’s the dog’s shampoo.”

He runs upstairs immediately. “But it says ‘Shampoo and Conditioner in One’.” And he points to the label.

I just continued staring at him in disbelief. “And under that?” I finally say.

“Oh. For Dogs.”

Biolage Shampoo: $16.99
Biolage Conditioner: $18.99
Dog’s shampoo/conditioner in One: $6.00
Husband uses dog’s shampoo/conditioner: PRICELESS.

OH ROBBIIIEEEEEE!!!!

I have to say that I've never wanted to go to work with my husband. That's probably because he doesn't have his own band or TV show. If he did, I'd probably spend a lot of time wailing "Robbieeeee! Can't I be in the show?!?"

As it is, he's a trial lawyer. And I know enough not to mess with his cases. Occasionally I may offer some advise:

Me: "You should demand more money, you're client's a sweet little old lady! The jury will love her."
Robbie Roberto: "My client's not that sweet. She hit someone."
Me: "Well I'm sure they deserved it."
Robbie Roberto: "No they really didn't. My client hit the wrong person, then she tripped on a floor mat and fell over and hurt her hand. It's all healed now, though. We just want her emergency room bill paid."
Me: "So she is injured."
Robbie Roberto: "She was injured. She's better now. And besides, she doesn't make a very good witness. She's kind of nasty and cranky. And very robust."

And then, that's where I could come in a save the day. I could lock my Darling Husband's client in the Little-Old-Lady's room and dress up like a sweet, frail little old lady and go and testify for her. I'd wear a grey haired wig, hold a scarf over my head and use a cane to get to the stand. My voice would quiver and I'd cry as I described the horror of feeling my feet go up from under me and watching my long, long, long life pass before my eyes. I'd weep over the fact that I missed my dear grandson, whatshisname's birthday party because I was layed up in bed with an injured hand. (and I had $5.00 for him!) I need that hand, you see, to hold my cane. Without it, I can't get around. And I need it to turn on the remote control so that I could watch Judge Judy. Meijen just wasn't the same when played with one hand. I'd remember to display correct injured hand, and I'd still be wearing a bandage. Just for affect, I'd call the Judge 'Dear' and the other attorney 'Sonny'.

I'd win that trial for my DH and then he'd be sooo happy with me. Of course, in the beginning he might be a bit annoyed ("Patti! You've got some esplainin' to do") But once the trial was all over, and we won the crabby old gal a million bucks (minus DH's cut), we'd have a laugh with our good friends Evil Fred and Ethline and jet off to our new vacation house in St. John..........(oh, the dreams of a blogger)