Tag Archives: marriage

Because apparently… this is a thing.

 

Chickens.

You all know I like them. You all know my husband is the evil man who won’t let me have them.

(Okay, so in complete honesty he says I can have them… but I have to be the one who goes out in the minus 20 degree winter temperatures to feed, water, and clean the coop in mid January and we all know that’s not happening.)

 

 

Yeah… no.

But if I did have them?

I would totally be on board with the latest chicken trend.

 

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Tutus!

 

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Chickens…

 

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In tutus!

 

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Granted, not all of them look thrilled with the idea.

 

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And okay, watch out for that one. He looks homicidal….

But chickens in tutus!

It’s a good thing.

 

 

Thank you Martha.

I thought you might.

 

 

And they talk about women!

 

The hunt for a new refrigerator continues, and just as I had finished extensive research and narrowed the field down to this one…

 

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The husband decided he wanted to go shopping and check them out for himself.

Granted, it’s a large purchase and I wanted him to like what I chose.

But ya know what?

 

 

I took him to the store and showed him my choice, which he walked right by and made a bee line for:

 

 

No.

And again? No.

Aside from the jaw dropping price tag? There’s no way I’m going to buy a refrigerator that tells me I’m out of cucumbers or what to cook for dinner.

Christ, do we really need “smart” appliances?

The day I’m too old and doddering to realize I’m out of cucumbers? I’ll stop cooking altogether.

In case you’re unfamiliar, there’s basically a computer on the door. You can make grocery lists, find recipes with the ingredients it knows are in there, and it will even link with your phone so you can check your expiration dates from remote locations.

Among other useful things….

 

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Geesh.

All I want is cold food and ice.

 

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Great. Scratch the ice.

So we shopped, and shopped, and shopped.

And the husband said that one’s shelves were too small,  that one’s lights were too bright, that one’s drawers were too deep…. etc etc etc.

To which, after grueling 5 hours I said..

“Come on Goldilocks!”

 

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So he picked one.

 

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And though it’s almost exactly the same as the one I’d picked a week earlier?

This one is $700 more.

 

 

So, men?

I don’t want to hear you say your wives are spending all the money.

My husband can out shop the best of ’em.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of these things is not like the others….

 

I wish someone had told me kissing was a full contact sport.

I would have worn appropriate protection.

 

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You’d think after many happy years of marriage the husband and I would have perfected the technique, but alas…. accidents happen.

 

 

And this kiss was rather like a train wreck.

Yesterday when the other half came home from work, I went into the kitchen to give him a smooch.

I moved in, he moved in… and bam!

 

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He broke my toe.

 

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Talk about seeing stars.

And not in a good way…

 

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Sadly, my feet are my worst feature and I have troubles. The troubles of a woman 30 years older than she actually is.

Bunions? Check.

The beginning of hammer toes? Check.¬† (Thanks mom, it’s hereditary)

And I’m always barefoot in the summer so this isn’t my first rodeo with broken toes.

It is however, my first broken toe due to kissing.

Which makes me wonder if I need to wear this next time we get frisky in the bedroom…

 

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(Minus the cigar of course.)

Either that…

Or I need to learn  Taekwon-toe.

 

 

I know…

But I couldn’t resist!

 

 

 

Please don’t tell my husband.

 

At one time or another my husband has collected all of the following:

Bottles, playing cards, coins, rusty farm implements, stamps, egg coddlers, antique mitre saws, Life magazines, Coca Cola memorabilia, post cards, baseball bats, radios, toy cars, fishing lures, vintage board games, alabaster eggs, crackle glass, razors, old telephones, fire extinguishers, glass oil jugs, wooden hangers, milk crates, Fenton, mason jars, books, Tinker Toys, sleds, bean pots, grain scales, wooden skis, haying forks, lamp fixtures, cigar boxes, pencil sharpeners, apple peelers, grinding wheels, cast iron skillets, flour sifters, fishing rods, tennis rackets, flashlights and egg beaters.

 

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And no, I’m not exaggerating.

The sad part is, that’s probably not the entire list… but I’m cringing just thinking about it and had to stop. Or slaughter him in his sleep, and who needs that mess on a weeknight.

Kidding!

I think…

For the past 35 years if someone was selling it? He was buying it. And as soon as he had one? He wanted more. To which my response was always..

 

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We currently have an apple press, a wooden washing machine, a butter smoothing table, a potato planter and two 5 foot tall wagon wheel frames in our barn.

Why?

My answer is –

 

 

His answer is –

 

 

So when I read there’s now a market for old Kool Aid packets, and they’re selling for hundreds of dollars a piece?

 

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It’s true.

 

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It’s beyond ridiculous.

And if any of you tell my husband?

I will hunt you down and rip your tongue out through your nose.

 

 

 

P.S….

If the late 80’s and early 90’s are vintage…

What the hell am I?

 

 

Because when Rustoleum says red? They mean red.

 

Every few years it’s time to repaint the bulkhead doors.

 

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They’re metal and tend to see a lot of abuse.

Rain, snow, and baking sun all take their toll… and since the husband disappears every time the paint brushes come out?

 

 

The job falls to me.

I usually go out with some sandpaper to smooth and remove the flakes… but this spring the husband bought an old sander at a yard sale. Old.. with a capital O.

So he tossed it at me and said it would be much easier than my sandpaper.

 

 

From the look of the cord it was from the 1950’s…. and I think that was the poundage as well because just lifting it hurt my wrist. So when he came back to check my progress? I was using the sandpaper again.

Which… because he’s a man and can never be wrong… made him determined to prove his $5 purchase was worth while.

 

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He got no argument from me.

I stood back, nodded sagely and mumbled yes dear, that’s so much easier dear, at appropriate intervals.

Momma didn’t raise no fool.

 

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He sanded that baby from top to bottom.

 

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Inside and out… even though I rarely paint the interior.

BTW, if you search Google images for power sander memes?

 

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Anyway… when we moved into this house, the doors were painted a barn red so that’s what I’ve always repainted them.

Until this year, when I couldn’t find my usual brand of metal paint in barn red and went with Rustoleum’s Regal Red.

 

 

It was a bad idea.

Very bad.

Really, really bad.

Because when Rustoleum says red?

 

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They mean red!

Fire engine red.

Candy apple red.

Holy Crap that’s redRED!

It’s positively blinding.

 

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On the bright side, the doors do now match my hanging geranium.

 

 

So I got excited.

 

 

No, not that kind of excited.

Although now that I think about Chris… well, never mind.

I got excited because at 11:00am last Saturday the husband told me he was going to clean out the barn and set up a small yard sale.

My husband was going to get rid of his crap?

 

 

I was happy!

 

 

I was thrilled!

 

 

Hell, I admit it.

I was positively orgasmic.

 

 

I looked out the window and saw him sell something to a biker.

Yay!

 

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All the useless Harley knick knacks and paraphernalia…. gone!

All those extra Kawasaki parts and accessories…. gone!

And then I looked out the window again.

 

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And saw my late mother’s plant stand that I use on the porch…. gone.

My glass hummingbird feeders…. gone.

I was no longer excited.

 

 

And when I went outside to check exactly what it was he was selling?

 

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Yeah.

It was 100% mine.

Bags of clothes slated for Salvation Army donation, kitchen ware I was going to give his niece who’s moving into her first apartment, books that I trade with a friend.

He even had my hydrangea fertilizer on the table.

 

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But the worst part? The part that really had my jaw clenched….

He set this all up, and left.

Went to visit his brother and expected me to sit there and sell all the items I had no intention of selling in the first place.

 

 

The man has a death wish.

There’s really no other explanation that makes sense.

 

 

 

We will prevail….

 

Time for our annual battle with the flowering quince.

My husband hates trimming this bush. Hates it with a passion.

 

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The monster is covered in thorns and not easily tamed. Cutting a path through uncharted Amazon rain forest while being chased by pygmies with poisonous darts might actually be preferable.

Every year we do it, and every year he grumbles.

This year he suggested using the chain saw.

But I had visions of this:

 

 

And managed to dissuade him.

I started with the electric hedge trimmer…

 

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And managed to cut smaller branches away from the house.

 

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Then the husband brought the ladder and the muscle.

Quince bushes are hard wood, and mature ones like ours fight back.

I was tempted to suggest something like this:

 

 

 

But managed to hold my tongue.

While he was angrily hacking away at that, I moved over to the also out of control Burning Bushes.

 

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These turn a vibrant red in the fall and are much easier to trim.

But I didn’t get very far because hidden in between them and the boxwood? I found a catbird’s nest.

 

 

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No, not that kind.

 

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This kind.

 

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And I scared the poor mother right off it.

(Worry not, she’s back.)

 

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Avoiding the nest meant the bushes are still large, but at least you can see the windows now. The top half anyway.

As for the quince…

 

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My idea of a neatly shaped shrub differs greatly from the husband’s …

But he had a sharp implement in his hands and I figured I shouldn’t push the issue.

 

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Yes, dear.

It looks fine.