Bed, Desk, Trashcan…Learn the Difference

For all men suffering from “bed dysfunction” I apologize for being insensitive.  But pay attention gentlemen this is for you:  the bed is NOT a place to dump mail you haven’t sorted in three months, old magazines, six remote controls (none of which even work the TV in the bedroom), pens that don’t work, or your collection of directions to every piece of techno crap you ever bought and never read.

These items, along with the five boxes of checks from accounts you closed ten years ago belong on your desk.  I am not even dreaming you would consider using the trashcan.

In our previous house George's desk was in the guest bedroom.  I came to the conclusion he believed the bed was really a large, soft trashcan.  Once a month I cleaned it off, put all the contents in a bag, labeled it and put it on a shelf in the garage for him to sort at his leisure.  Two years later the garage was full, and I realized he was sooooooo busy he had no “leisure” time to throw this stuff out.  Being the kind and generous wife I am, I decided to help him and to the dump it went.  Very next day, he had a panic attack that I might have thrown out a piece of wire he might need in 10 years.  (No exaggeration…we have packed up and moved SIX times a tangled mess of 10-guage underground wire George might need some day.)

So, for ladies suffering similar “bed” problems with your men, I offer this solution.  Use his space as your vanity.  Make his workbench the perfect place to store that case of tampons from Costco, shaving cream, make-up, and bubble bath...and for you laden-with-wisdom ladies his desk is a great place to put your box of Depends Undergarments. 

I love when there is an easy solution to difficult problems.

Never Thought I'd Use The Words Tape Measure And Butt Crack In The Same Sentence

“What are you doing with that tape measure?” George asked while dialing the state mental hospital.

“I’m conducting a scientific study on how long butt cracks should be before it's deemed your pants are too low.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“I was watching a football game when the cameraman zoomed in on a guy on the sidelines squatting down to talk to a player.  I swear the guy had his pants around his knees because his entire butt was exposed and with all that hair it looked like the globe we cut in half in geography class in 6^th grade.” (And for the record…Yes, our group got detention for destruction of school property. But in our defense the teacher told us our project was the northern hemisphere and I think we should have gotten an A for our ingenuity.)

Anyway…George held one end of the tape measure so I could get a better reading, “Plumber’s butt has been around forever, why are you so worked up?”

“This was NOT plumber’s butt," I said while trying to turn my head backwards to read the measurement. "It looked like the guy had squatted down to relieve his bowels.  There has to be a FCA rule about putting a guy on camera who has his pants down.”

“It's not very scientific if you're only measuring your crack?” George had me on that one. I looked at him and smiled. "Oh no, you are not measuring my crack too."

“Fine, I’ll just send the FCC a guideline for the amount of crack that should be allowed on TV."

"You need to get a hobby."

"Hey, this IS my hobby."

Superstitions My Mother Traumatized Me With

"Lyn, you must take your Christmas tree down by January 1 or you'll have bad luck all year.”  It’s the end of January, the tree still stands in the corner, and so I might as well write this year off as screwed. I wonder if you get a free pass if you have a good excuse? We’ve had the Type A flu since New Year’s Eve and are just now starting to feel better. I did get all the decorations off the tree and put away, we just haven’t felt like carrying a full size lighted tree across a slippery, snow-covered deck and driveway to put it away in the tack room. Maybe only half my year will be bad luck?

Maybe I should stop letting my mother’s goofy superstitions rule my life.  Easier said than done.

“If you lay a hat on your bed, there will be a death in the family.” This one traumatized me so much I was afraid to even put myself in bed.  What kind of a wacko tells a small child that her hat could kill someone?

Another gem she told me was, “If you eat too much yeast, you will get a yeast infection.” To understand this as a kid, I had to ask what a yeast infection was.  After she explained in vivid detail, with pictures from a medical book, (Mom was a nurse) I couldn’t eat bread. However, at age 21 I discovered beer... and superstition be damned.

Years later, as an adult, I got my mom a set of expensive kitchen knives for Christmas since she had been complaining hers sucked.  When she opened the package, she jumped on the crazy train, and started saying I had cut off my love to her.  Yep, another superstition… “If you give scissors or knives as a gift you are cutting off your love to the receiver.”

Thinking about the trauma her superstitions caused me through the years; I look at the lonely, bad luck, undecorated Christmas tree sitting in the corner.  What the hell…I plug the lights in, make a cup of coffee, and enjoy the beauty of the brightly lit tree.

  

Duct! It's a Mouse

“Why are you doing a shot of tequila at 10:00 a.m.?” George asked as he came inside from his shop.

“Because I can.”

“I know there’s only two things that can make you drink this early…your mother and mice.”

“The damn thing came running out of the duct vent in the laundry room, ran up the pile of laundry laying on the floor and buried his freaking Hantavirus ass in the sheets.”

“I’m afraid to ask what you did next.”

“I wadded the sheets up, put them in the washer on hot water, and spin cycled his brains back to hell where he came from.”

“You mean from the garage?”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” I can’t believe George wasn’t being more sympathetic to my traumatic morning, “But since you brought it up, yes the garage is my hell.  Last time I backed my car out I ran over a saw, a six-pack, and a can of oil.”

“I wondered where that mess came from.”  George looked at me and gave me his you-aren’t-telling-me-everything grin.  “So, if you took care of the mouse, why are you drinking?”

“Because, when I took the sheets out of the washer he jumped out and landed on my chest before falling to the ground and running away.”

“No shit?”

“Yes, I shit, and then I had to clean up that mess." I waited for George to stop laughing while I did another shot of tequila.

“I take it you’re still upset because the little tyrant is on the loose.”

I lifted up my bare foot so he could see the bottom of it. “What is that?” George asked.

“It’s BLOOD and GUTS from the freaking mouse.”  I yelled.  “As I ran out of the laundry room to see where he went I stepped on him and he squirted his innards and soapy water everywhere.”

“I’m so sorry.” I gave George credit he was trying to contain his laughter (after I gave him the stink eye).  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to soak my foot in bleach; you bring the tequila bottle.”

It Rhymes With Pie

All I wanted was a driver's license with my new name on it.  It really wasn't that much to ask, however I almost didn't get it because I refused to acknowledge my new name was, Mack Kay. You might as well know right from the start I am stubborn about a lot of things. One of those being, when I tell you how to pronounce my name, I expect you to at least try and say it correctly.  But, this dude was having none of it.

Me: The name change is Mackay.

DMV: You are changing your name to Mack Kay?

Me: No, I simply am changing my last name to my new husband's last name which is Mackay.

DMV: I don't understand why you want to put his first name on your drivers license Mrs. Kay.

Me: It's not Kay. It's Mackay.  It rhymes with pie.

20 minutes later, even with all the written documentation I gave them. My new driver's liscense listed my name as Lyn MacPie.