So here's a few charming little anecdotes to help you get a feel for what everyday life is like at our house:
"The Poop Tent"
Monday kinda sucked at our house. Juicy, our basset hound who is a nice enough dog but a sorry excuse for a human being, decided that instead of going out and peeing outside in the rain like a nice doggie he would rather pee on my FANCY new Ikea carpet. I cannot tell you how FRUSTRATING this seemed after a long, long day of being on baby duty with no one to tag out to. As I tried to sop pee out of my carpet with towels, I kinda blew my top. I cried. I screamed. I got into bed and decided that John, who is the technical owner of the piece of crap dog, was at fault and therefore deserved to be emotionally flagellated to the point of DEATH (as a side note, there is a long-running husband-and-wife battle in our house over the fact that Juicy was not fixed. I contend that THIS is why he feels the need to occasionally use the bathroom IN MY HOUSE. John contends that getting him fixed will make him mean and fat. As of this post, we are still locked in total standstill on this issue and probably will be until death do us part). It escalated to the point that John was threatening to just take HIS OWN DOG to the Humane Society because he COULD NOT STAND to be at fault for the actions of a dog ANY LONGER. And it was then that I told him that the only way to keep the dog in the family was if I went to the s store the following morning and bought this:
That's right. I have a grand total of two AREA RUGS in my home and now? I am the owner of a carpet cleaner. Which I used THOROUGHLY Tuesday morning. And good thing too, because the above story? WAS ONLY FORESHADOWING.
Last night I get home from hanging out with teenagers at church and notice that the blanket that was formerly in Sydney's play tent – that is in the front room – is now on the front porch. I walk in the house and find John and Israel standing in the front room shaking their heads at one another and refusing to make eye contact with me. John then proceeds to tell me that the dog decided that the only way to punish us for clearing the carpet of his DELICIOUS SMELL was to EMPTY HIS ANAL GLANDS IN THE BABY'S TENT. OH MY FREAKING HELL.
So this morning? I'm playing on the floor with my daughter and I catch a whiff of the carpet. Yes, you guessed it. Anal gland juice ALL UP IN MY CARPET. Guess how I spent my morning today? HUH? CAN YOU GUESS?
"The Case of the Flailing Man"
So I'm married to a man with a hobby. John is what can commonly be known as a "stereophile" … which means that he loves music and has a fancy stereo. He gets several magazines about stereos and everything. It's a hobby I can deal with most of the time. I like music too. BUT, when someone tells me "NO, I cannot move the record player because the baby might TOUCH IT" I might or might not lose my crap a little. And I might have been a jerk and moved the dang thing even though I am forbidden to touch the record player and I might have accidentally damaged it and therefore put my personal safety into HOT WATER (I'm kidding. He was actually very calm about it initially. But that soon digressed into whining about rotations per minute or something-or-other).
Anyway, my husband likes stereo equipment. We have a lot of records and a baby gate in front of the speakers. There are millions of cables and little stereo doo-dads all over the house and in the garage. I allow it. But the thing I will not stand is for any of these stereo thingies to be on my dining room table. NO. In the last week I have moved a speaker TWICE and a receiver (big black box thing) off my dining room table. Finally, when I found it there again today I went and found its box (which was on the dang front porch, THIS IS WHY OUR NEIGHBORS HATE US), put it back in the box along with a stack of books that was ALSO on the dining room table and set it in John's desk area for him to deal with later.
On my way home from Costco this afternoon I got a phone call from my beloved. Here's how it went:
Him: "Manda. You put a box in my office area. I didn't see it."
Me (with Sydney yelling "BALL! BAAALLLL! BAAAAAAALLLL!" in the background): "Yep. It was on the table. I moved it."
Him: "I didn't see the box."
Him: "I tripped over it."
Me: "Are you all right?"
Him: "Yes. But. I kinda made a mess. I knocked the *UNFORTUNATE CALL INTERFERENCE AT THIS VERY MOMENT* over and there's stuff everywhere and I have to get going so I'm sorry but I'm leaving a me-"
Me: "Hold on a second. Did you just say that you knocked YOUR ENTIRE DESK OVER?"
Him (irritated): "NO. I knocked the little t.v. table I had set up next to my desk over. It had a lot of papers on it. I knocked it over BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT ME IN YOUR HOUSE."
Me: "I want you in my house but I don't want a receiver on the dining room table."
Me: "I got you a piece of pizza at Costco."
Him: "Oh! Ok! I love you! See you later!"
Moral of the story? Costco pizza SAVES MARRIAGES.