Archive for the ‘The Husband’ Category

The Husband, or HoMD #45

Thursday, February 14th, 2008

We all know what day it is. I wish all of you a Happy Valentines Day.

Normally I hate this holiday. It’s horribly commercialized. It’s also a nightmare for unattached folks. I fail to see the value in designating a day to make a huge swath of the population miserable.

Despite my misgivings I want to take the opportunity to say a word about not only the highlight of my day, but the highlight of my life — The Husband. Nothing can adequately describe how I feel about this person who loves me and my many, many foibles.

His patience is mythic, his love is unconditional, his humor is constant. He makes my life worth living each day and keeps me smiling and laughing despite my best efforts.

All Day Long, or HoMD #35

Monday, February 4th, 2008

We suffered the final throes of illness today. I think we’re both on the upswing from here, but we spent this last day lolling on the sofa, dozing and watching TV.

The Husband took a series of photos the summed up our day perfectly. I combined them into a montage that I think is quite compelling. I call it “Awake – Yawn – Sleep.”


Scampers Sums up the Day

What Misery Loves, or HoMD #32

Friday, February 1st, 2008

Sadly my extended stay on the sofa didn’t keep The Husband out of germ range because the poor man got ambushed. He came home early from work to suffer in relative comfort.

At least we can sleep in the same bed again.

Like a Kid in a Candy Store, or HoMD #9

Wednesday, January 9th, 2008

The Husband’s big Christmas present arrived today. He’s had to make do with a color printout since we exchanged gifts. I wanted to evaluate actual models of his gift to make sure I got something sturdy with all the features he wanted, and these particular items aren’t so common any more.

He got a turntable.

One of those machines that plays vinyl records. Think back, you’ll remember.

Even odder, he asked for one that plays 78s along with the 33s and 45s I had (and still have) as a kid.

After searching for a good while I found DJ turntables at a Guitar Center that fit the bill. Unfortunately the model I wanted (with USB output for downloading to a computer) was an incomplete floor demo. I then visited my local (!) vinyl shop (R-Type Records) to order one.

HusbandPie couldn’t be happier. I watched him set it up, regularly referring to the instructions and internet to make sure he balanced the stylus properly, and generally enjoying both the thrill of a new gadget and the nostalgia of his teen years.

As a nod to me, he offered me first pick of what to hear. I chose the 12″ single remix of “Mountains” by Prince and the Revolution.

Absolutely sublime.

Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’

Sunday, January 6th, 2008

My BFF called me out on my rules for Christmas stockings.

In short, I don’t  have any. The Husband and I agreed years ago to put no limits on stocking filling. Hence we’re allowed to throw in the odd DVD or video game without the cost counting against our set spending limits. Of course the items have to fit in the stocking, but our stockings are fairly large, so no problem.

Now don’t misconstrue the non-rules. Not everything we stuff in the stockings breaks the bank. We simply enjoy a little leeway for a few pricey inclusions. Most stocking goodies are decidedly inexpensive — candy, little toys, key rings, etc —  but occasionally we will purchase too many stocking stuffers, and some of them sort of lie on or near the stockings but still count as stocking stuffers.

So, yes, we play fast and loose with the definition of stocking stuffers. I unabashedly admit I give stocking nearers.

But Miss smab_mouth should remember her stocking included stocking nearers this year, as did her husbands. Granted, these gifts were from The Husband and me, but she benefited from our laissez-faire policy.

Despite her screed against my not-so-ruley rules, this Christmas I adhered to traditional rules of stuffing except for one book, which I managed to shove into place at the top with at least one corner in the stocking. No stocking nearers for The Husband. Granted he received a lovely Blu-ray copy of Planet Earth, but it was in the stocking.

Happy, smab_mouth?

Now that I’ve addressed the BFF’s issues, I have one to address with her. My complaint concerns one of the labels she put on her post about my anarchic stockings.

The label in question is, “I’m not saying I’m just saying.”

She stole it.

She stole it from me.

After I stole it fair and square (sort of) from the public domain.

You see I listen to a political program called The Young Turks. [Check them out if you haven’t heard them. I think they’re brilliant. I love them so much that I’m a paying member of their site so I can hear every podcast.] The host of the show, Cenk, has a phrase I consciously picked up that I simply love and use all the time. The phrase is, “I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying.” It amuses me to no end, hence the fact that I’ve been using it for over two years.

So, smab_mouth, what do you have to say for yourself? Is your name smab_mouth, and do you steal?

[If you can’t tell, I’m angry that I didn’t create the category first. It’s called envy.]

I’m an Idiot, or HoMD #2

Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008

So as I wrote yesterday’s post, I thought and thought about what I liked about my day. And I settled on the lame answer of serving as cat furniture, completely missing what I thought about all day yesterday — the birth of my cousin’s son. This little fellow is the younger sibling of one of my Godsons. I couldn’t be more excited about his arrival because he has fantastic parents, an exemplary brother, and a happy home full of love.

As for today, the best part centered around celebrating a belated Christmas with The Husband. We’ve traditionally opened our gifts for one another after all the holiday travels. This year, we pushed it back a bit further to allow for the arrival of a few goodies. So tonight became our Christmas.

I most loved finally finding The Husband’s gift after much fruitless seeking, the short scavenger hunt he sent me on for one of my gifts, and opening the much coveted Wii he got for me. I am far too well loved.

A (very) close second to the Christmas festivities was talking with my cousin for the first time since the baby’s arrival and hearing the little guy gurgle and coo over the phone. Those sounds brought a rush of love to my heart. I can’t wait to meet him.

What does CALM mean to you?

Sunday, December 30th, 2007

For most people, the letters C – A – L – M spell the word, “calm.”

For The Husband, inexplicably, the letters C – A – L – M form an acronym for “Cat Ass-Licking Mode.”

And I married him. Voluntarily.

No Moules on Monday

Tuesday, November 20th, 2007

(This post is best experienced while listening to Duran Duran’s “New Moon on Monday” because that song is the real reason for the post. Seriously, without the song being stuck in my head and the resulting blog title we wouldn’t be here.)

Moules, for the uninitiated, is the French word for mussels. I always think of them as moules because my love affair with them began in France — it would be like falling in love with Pierre in Paris and referring to him as Peter here in the States.

I flirted with mussels before The Husband and I visited France a few years ago. When a bivalve wading in wine and garlic beckons, I tend to respond. But I never craved mussels. It was a passing attachment at best.

The Husband and I traveled to Brittany when we were in France. I thought it looked like a fairy-tale land from pictures I’d seen, plus it seems to be where crepes originate.

It turns out that Brittany is filthy with restaurants serving moules and frites. They even go so far as to have mouleries — restaurants that serve nothing but moules in sauce after delectable sauce. I never made it past the moules.

I ate nothing but moules the entire time we were in Brittany. I ate them cooked in white wine with garlic and herbs and then the same way with creme fraiche. Delicious. I devoured them drowned in wine and bleu cheese. I sampled The Husband’s moules in curry. I sopped bread and frites in sauces I can’t even remember and enjoyed every last morsel. My knees go weak just thinking of them.

I missed the moules when we returned to the States, but never mustered the courage to make them myself. I resigned myself to life without moules (great loves always involve great drama) until we return to France.

I threw myself back into the arms of Texas barbeque and Tex-Mex deliciousness and buried my sorrows. Over time the moules became a distant but fond memory.

But great romances don’t die — they slumber quietly until circumstances revive the sparks and passion flares again.

On a recent trip to Fuzzy’s Taco Shop for dinner I noticed a plaque with an article titled, “Eat These and Die Happy.” And, there, nestled almost in the middle was an entry for “mussels and frites” at a local bistro I didn’t know. I barely tasted my shredded garlic beef salad at Fuzzy’s (shame too, because it’s quite yummy) for thinking about tasty moules drenched in wine and herbs with a side of frites.

At the first opportunity (Monday) I looked up the bistro, drooled on my keyboard reading about their versions of moules, got directions, and waited for my chance to convince The Husband. And my chance came immediately (success favors the prepared, or something like that) when The Husband needed to eat an early dinner and head back to the office. I unfolded my plan with rationale (the food I was thawing couldn’t be ready in his time frame) and got the agreement. We’d go out for moules that very night.

So why am I writing a post titled, “No Moules for Monday”? Because the stupid bistro is closed on Mondays.


Thursday, August 23rd, 2007

Confession time.

I hoard things — usually cash, but I also stockpile stuff. For example, I have an irrational fear of running low on toilet paper, so I buy the 12-packs and store the extra rolls in a container under the bed. The box under the bed also holds the overflow from my trips to Costco. Needless to say I store money in unexpected places around the house. It pleases me to know it’s there… somewhere. See, I don’t always remember creating a cash stash, but it does provide the fun of running across a little pile of money from time to time.

I find life as a human squirrel rather satisfying despite the jeers I receive from my dear, dear spouse.

I recently had to raid my cache of Taco Bell mild sauce packets when faced with a dry taco situation. Here’s what I found among the packets:

Ms. Squirrel

Apparently The Husband found the stash of fast food restaurant condiment packets I hid in a cabinet he rarely opens. And he felt the need to leave snarky evidence that he found my hidey-hole.

I must admit that I laughed until I hurt when I found it. That husband of mine is pretty funny.

Now I’ve got to run and find a new secret location for these condiments.

Socks, Days 1 & 2

Thursday, August 23rd, 2007

I didn’t post pictures after Day One because apparently the first day of sock-making involves nothing but Sisyphean repetition of casting on, knitting, finding mistakes, and ripping everything out for hours on end. Fun times, let me tell you.

I did finally manage to get a sock started on Day Two by aiming my head directly at a brick wall and smashing into it over and over until the toe of a sock appeared.

Socks — Days 1 & 2

I was so proud of myself for actually getting the thing going that I woke up my poor husband to show him my progress. I think The Husband might hate this sock before it’s finished.