Monthly Archives: January 2009

Banishing his Mistress

She’s slim, petite and shiny. When he’s talking to me, he’s still thinking of her, or in fact, often, staring right at her or putting his hands all over her.  She is constantly calling and he makes no bones about jumping at her every sound. Her name is Blackberry and I hate her. 

Lately the two of them have taken it a bit far. She’s been sleeping in our room. Can you believe that? The nerve. Last night they crossed a line and it almost cost both of them their lives. Really, it’s his fault —  she’s just a pawn.  I knew she had been sneaking into our room at night — apparently it energizes her.  But last night, I found out the truth. She stays up all night!! Sits there –wide awake waiting for attention from him.  And when she screamed around 4AM, and I smacked him awake so he would realize, he jumped up and went to comfort her. Instead of banishing her, as any decent husband would have, he sat with her for 10 minutes trying to figure out what made her cry out like that. Needless to say, I was not happy. As usual, he tried to blame someone else for her antics and wouldn’t accept that he was responsible by allowing her in the room in the first place. But I was having none of it.  This morning I laid the law down — if I ever find her in our room at night again, she’s going out the window and he won’t be far behind.



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The Doghouse

This video, actually an ad, made the rounds at Christmas and is completely worth 4 minutes and 45 seconds of your time. In fact, I suspect it may make a second run as we ramp up to good old VD in Feb. Classic and hilarious display of boys driving us crazy.

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The Snow Blower and the Flame

This is from my completely hilarious friend Moira — who thankfully still owns a home and not a pile of burnt rubble and scattered remains of the Sunday paper. 

On Sunday Steve ran over the very thick Sunday paper with the snow blower. Since the paper guy was trying to be nice he dropped the paper up near the garage which promptly got covered in snow. So on the second swipe of the snow blower Steve got a small shower of confetti, a thud and then a complete stoppage. 45 minutes and several tools (chisels. saws, hammers, knives, pliers, etc.) later still no snow blower. So we decide to shovel. A shovel is an old fashioned implement with a flat metal or plastic blade at one end that makes lifting snow easier. Easier than bare hands I guess. Anyway before fully committing to hard labor Steve has this flash of brilliance. As I go in to the house to get gloves he says, “Get a lighter.” “A lighter?” says the ever curious I. “Yeah we can burn the paper out,” says my very own in-house rocket scientist. Now as much as it would be a kick to see the Duncan name in print I don’t think a Darwin Award is the way to go. So a quick reminder that snow blowers have gasoline in them which rumor has it is somewhat combustible and we nix the blow-up-your-house-to-unstick-the-snow blower-idea and grab a couple of shovels.

Check out Moira’s blog so-n-sos-mom for further entertainment.  Thanks Moira!!

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The Anti-Boyscout

OK so right up front I’ll admit to being petty with this one. But hey, it still fits firmly into the ‘drives me crazy’ category. So, if it helps, go back and review the bit about how this blog = therapy and then read away. Dollars to donuts you’ll only disagree if  a)you live in a warm climate b) you’re smart enough to never let the husband drive or c) you married Mr. Perfect and if in fact c is your answer, skip to the next blog right now because nothing else I ever write will make any sense. 

We do not live in a warm climate, not even a slightly hospitable one. So, like most normal people, by the end of January, I’m getting even crankier than normal, meaning that even the tiniest little annoying thing hubby does can seem monumental. With this in mind, it’s no surprise that my favorite winter pet peeve popped up yet again this weekend.

Why, I ask you, WHY can he NOT get the keys out of his pocket BEFORE we get to the car? It’s 4 million degrees below zero and that extra 30 seconds as he rummages from pocket to pocket to find the keys, haul them out and finally open all the doors, not just the drivers side, seems like an eternity, certainly worth frostbite on at least three fingers and one toe. Is it just boys’ inability to multi-task? Walking and getting your keys out all at the same time is just too complicated?  Flashbacks to 1975 when no one locked their car? Good Lord man, we live in modern times and you could have unlocked that car from halfway across the parking lot with the press of one little button — so why am I standing here freezing??  I have a sneaky suspicion that it’s all the same missing chip. Let’s face it, why else would they need to teach that “be prepared” motto when they’re little boys? It simply doesn’t come to them naturally. How often have you watched the guy ahead of you in the supposedly speedy 8 items or less line wait patiently until the check out person tallies and announces his total and then, and only then, does he start reaching for cash or weighing which credit card to use. Is it that much of a stretch to think a minute ahead? I’m all for living in the moment, but when I can see my breath and feel icicles on my eyelashes, you had better think like a boyscout and get the damn door open NOW!

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The Finder

I have been thinking about this blog for a while, especially every time my darling better half managed to do something that either made me laugh out loud, want to rip my hair out, or worse, rip his hair out. After one recent incident — which is a whole other post — that really should have resulted in permanent baldness for us both, I started typing. And then I had a panicked thought — what if all of a sudden he becomes super sweet supportive hubby and I have no new material??  Well sure enough he proved straight away that in fact he was on my team, and managed to amaze me with butter-worthy action the very next day. 

Hubby has always been a morning person. I am not. He claims to live on permanent camping time. Sun goes down, he sleeps, sun comes up he wakes. Well of course the the dead of winter that gets even worse as he’s fumbling around in our bedroom when it’s still pitch black. So this morning at 5:25AM — in case you’re not clear this is 35 minutes before 6AM, essentially the middle of the night for the likes of me — he leans down 2 inches from my face, tapping me, going “Hey — have you seen my black coat?”  I am so stunned at being spoken to at this ungodly hour, let alone asked a question, I don’t have the good sense to yell “IT’S BESIDE THE BUTTER”. I simply mutter something about it being wherever he left it and roll over. Wisely, he leaves. That evening he rolls in wearing said black coat. Now despite my superior sleeping skills, I also have the memory of an elephant (which is apparently very good?) so I laugh and say “So, where’d ya find the coat?”. He grins back and says “In the closet”. I can’t let it go. “But it wasn’t there this morning?” More grinning “It was under another coat — I didn’t look very hard the first time”. Then I’m ticked. “So before you even looked you came to wake ME up?!” Big grin, arm around me “But you’re THE FINDER”.

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The Story Behind the Butter

No, it’s not a cooking blog.  But it is about a cook.

Like most of you, I am addicted to surfing and clicking and reading and often find myself lost in a sea of ‘mommy blogs’ as I too am a wife and mother. But the one thing I’ve noticed that I don’t get, is that all the Mommy bloggers seem to have these fantastic, supportive, perfect husbands who make life wonderful and blog-worthy. What’s with that? Where the hell was I when those were getting passed out?  Surely all of you haven’t scored the truly better, better-half?  I say baloney to that. Mine, all-be-he sweet, kind and yes, I acknowledge, — a fantastic cook — most days can completely drive me up the wall! 

In fact, he makes me especially crazy WHEN he cooks. And I am not even talking about the tornado like state of the kitchen that usually results either. I’m talking about the ‘looking’ — because, inherently, boys are bad lookers. He’ll be at the counter with ingredients flying around left and right and he leans his long monkey arms to the the fridge and after about 2.5 milliseconds roars out “Hey Duck (that’s me) where’s the _________????” — as if I purposely hide the groceries from him to play games or something.  In the early days of wedded bliss when I was still in awe having someone make yummy food for me, I would dash to the kitchen and quickly pull out whatever he wanted, usually from directly under his nose, or in fact slightly lower because obviously bending those knees an inch or two to be able to look at something other than the top shelf was just too much for him. Gradually I tired of the dash and grab and began to point out, with only the tiniest hint of sarcasm, “It was right there in front of you, beside the butter”. And now, 15 years later, I’ve ratcheted up the sarcasm a notch or two and my standard answer whenever he asks me for anything, anytime, anywhere, is … “IT’S BESIDE THE BUTTER!”

So world, this is a blog about our boys — husbands, boyfriends, fiances, fathers, uncles and sons — and how all those little annoying things they unknowingly do, or often don’t do, from forgetting, to assuming, to avoiding, to, some days, simply breathing, can put us over the edge. It’s a damn good thing we love them. 

So please, for my own sanity and yours, send me some tales to post that make you feel better to share and make me feel like I’m not the only one who didn’t land Mr. Perfect.  And remember, his watch, favorite blue shirt, philips screwdriver, car keys and that little slip of paper with his mother’s number on it are all … BESIDE THE BUTTER.

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