if you are a locksmith (or my husband) you might not want to read this.

It’s been a pretty eventful week here at the Impropers.  I’ve been a busy little bee getting shit done.  That’s what I do. GET SHIT DONE.

This morning, I was sitting here at my computer getting more shit done and the mister calls sounding very sheepish.  He says, “You’re going to kill me, but I need you to call a locksmith.  I locked the keys in the car and I have a meeting in an hour and it’s going to be pushing it.  I’m really sorry, babe.”

Now, you may be wondering what kind of ball-crushing wife I am for my husband to call me so tail-between-the-legs like for an honest to goodness mistake people make all the damn time.  Well, let me tell you why.

BECAUSE THE IDIOT DOES IT ALL THE DAMN TIME.  ALL the damn time.  I’m sorry for the screaming.  But, you guys, if you were in my head right now, you’d know some bolded capitalized letters here is the understatement of a lifetime.  My blood pressure is through the roof.

Again, you might be thinking, “Jeez, Kel.  Cool it.  It’s not that big of a deal.”  And you might be right.  IF- and hear me when I say if, please- IF I hadn’t also just locked the keys in the car this past weekend and had a little experience of my own.

You see, I took Elle to a birthday party at a skating rink about a half hour away on Sunday.  I hadn’t had lunch yet so I took her in and then went back to the car to eat in some peace and quiet.  When I got out of the car…blah blah blah. Locked out.

So, I called the man (the husband) and told him what an idiot I am and asked for some help.  He said, ask someone that works there for a wire hanger and then see if you can get someone to help you.  Fine, I will humiliate myself and do that.  I got the hanger.  Everyone who worked at said skating rink was 12.  There were two men at the rink.  One was 80 and one looked like he just got out of the federal pin for pretending to help a woman get the keys out of her car and then sticking her in his van and taking her across state lines for god only knows what.

So, I called the man again and said he was going to need to get his ass of the couch and COME HELP A BITCH OUT.  Which he did.  Along with his dad.  Which I am forever grateful for.  Thank you, dad.  NO THANK YOU, JIMMIE.

Fast forward to today, because this is where it gets goooood.  I maintained my decorum and was the nice wifey.  I called a locksmith.  He said he’d have someone call me right back.  Seven minutes lapsed and I called another locksmith.  Because we are on a time crunch for an important meeting.  That person was on their way before I even hung up the phone.  And they were $15 bucks cheaper.  They win.

While on the phone with hubby, first  locksmith finally calls.  I miss it.  I call back.  No answer.  I call back again.  No answer.

Phone rings 5 minutes later and some *ahem* not very good English speaking person (no problem there, except I couldn’t totally understand him.) starts YELLING at me.  “WHY YOU CALL SO MANY COMPANIES TO GET YOUR HUSBAND’S DOORS UNLOCKED LADY??”

I said, calmly, “Because the number I initially called did not call me back for over 10 minutes.  By the time you called me, someone else had already returned my call and was on the phone with my husband already almost there.  And don’t you ever call yelling at a potential customer.  I’m sorry for the inconvenience for you, but this is poor customer service and you are RUDE.”

He said, “Oohhhhh Drama Queen, huh?”

I said, “You haven’t begun to see drama queen you pathetic son of a bitch.  Go to hell.”  (Or something like that.  I don’t completely remember because I think I was in the middle of a stroke my blood pressure was so fucking high.”

Drama Queen?  You damn right you pansy ass little door unlocker.  And I have your phone number.  I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.

Whew.  Okay, I am okay.  I will not maim and destroy poor locksmiths.  I will not lose my shit.  I will not lose my shit. Peaceful Zen thoughts and Xanax to begin now.

Aaaannnnd I’m off to Walmart for a freaking magnetic hide-a-key thingy.  And our next car will have keyless entry.  And AAA.  And anything else that will get my idiot husband into his car without costing over fifty bucks a pop.

Pass the Tylenol.

housewife survival guide. for the newlywed.

 

I have a friend who recently decided to give up the greatest freedom ever in exchange for something called nuptial bliss.  I’m talking single-hood people, not living in America.  My friend and her hubby are all cute and lovey and living in the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere-Montana or some place so they can live off the land and just enjoy being alone together or some delusional romantical jest.  Whatever.

Yesterday on her facebook she posts that they are finally getting television services hooked up to their cabin and how exciting it will be to watch something other than Anderson Cooper’s face through a blanket of grayish snow.  And I was so excited for her because last night was the Season Premier of Parenthood and she should probably get caught up on that show to make the drama of married life seem boring to her.  And because I freaking love it.  Yay for fall TV.

Then this morning I wake up to find her posting about now that they have cable and internet, (and oh my God how has she lived this long without the INTERWEBZ?!?!?!)  she isn’t sure if she should watch TV or play online or *GASP* do housework?  And I am immediately “Oh my god woman! Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules of housewifery yet?  Holy Shit let me break it down for you!”  And so here are the rules you guys.  Please make sure to share this with any single women you know.  I fear I may be too late here and she has already spent the first month of marriage doing crazy domestic dilly-dallying which he now expects and OHMYGODTHERE’SNOTURNINGBACK.  How was I not there for my friend before this mess started!?  HEED MY WISDOM!

Basic Rules of Wifery:

1.  Start slow.  This is the most basic rule there is, ladies.  You must pace yourself when you start this out or, let’s face it, your marriage is doomed.

When cooking, burn at least half of the meals you prepare per week.  You may be God’s gift to fine dining, but you need to give that man a wake-up call that this is not his mama’s house and there’s some rough roads ahead.  An occasional meal of PBJ’s also isn’t a bad idea.  This may feel a little beneath you for a few weeks, but  you just have to hold strong.  He needs to look back on these days in a few months and realize you have worked tirelessly hard to improve your skills for him.

Leave crap laying around the house for a while.  Don’t keep things spotless.  Leave a box of tampons out on the bathroom counter.  Leave his socks on the floor for a couple of days.  This puts simple boundaries in place.  You are marking your territory while simultaneously telling him you are not the effing maid and there will be equal work put in around this joint.

Put off doing laundry as long as possible.  (You may have to sneak a small load of your things in while he’s gone to make sure you can outlast him.)  This will ensure that once you do start doing laundry on the regular, but leave it in baskets rather than putting it away, he will not bitch and quite possibly will help put his own crap away.  This is housewife GOLD here folks.

You get the idea by starting slow.  Give yourself a few months to work up to your true self.  By the time he suffers through this time, he will think you’ve worked so hard to become a Grade A housewife, he’ll buy you diamond earrings for your three month anniversary.  It’s truly a win/win.

2.  Don’t spend your whole day doing crap around the house.  Listen, keeping your palace up to a quality living quarters does not take eight hours a day.  You are more than able to spend the first five hours lounging in your jammies and watching the Real Housewives of Everywhere every single day.  It takes three hours, at most, to shower and make yourself pretty (if you’re in to that sort of thing,) wipe off countertops and throw dishes in the dishwasher.  You can then chop up some veggies and throw them in a pan and by the time he gets home things will be smelling like dinner.  Take a few more minutes to throw some hot dogs on there too and it’s a meal.  This is not rocket science.

3.  {This is a mistake I made out of the chutes.  I fear there’s no turning back.  I also think he may have passed it on to the offspring.  Hear my warning!}  Do not find stuff for him.  If he’s missing some paper work and you know right where it is, just point him in the general direction casually.  Don’t, for any reason, go finding crap.  He will then lose his ever-living brain cells and thenceforward go about expecting you to find everything.  I swear to God in a few weeks he will cease lifting single sheets of paper to look under the stack for his own damn car keys.  You cannot let this happen.  Do not let on that your uterus is truly a navigational system for lost items.  This is a secret we must keep to ourselves or we will spend eternity searching for lost socks and someone’s quarterly report.  It’s just not an existence we want to suffer through!

4.  This is the most  important rule.  Do not start doing a certain chore if it is not something you want to be saddled with for the next fifty years.  Imagine for a moment your hubby has spent the first two years tirelessly mowing, edging and weeding your lawn.  Then one day, he has had a particularly long week at the office and you want to help him out and cut the grass for him.  This is a huge mistake!  Fight the urge to rescue your man and make his life easier.  Whatever you do, don’t give in.  As wives, once we give in and do an extra chore once, they automatically assume we’re just going to take over that job for the rest of forever.  That old “give an inch and they’ll take a mile” thing?  That’s 100% TRUE.

5.  This seems like a contradiction of rule number four, but it is actually just a tricky variation on the subject.  Occasionally, you may want to do something around the house that you know he’d like you to take on, but you’re just not willing to shoulder.  Let’s just use the previous example of lawn mowing.  When you cut the grass, do it in a way that has the neighbors wondering what crack-head lawn boy has been butchering your spring green.  Mess up the lines, go in three different direction and maybe take out a shrub or two.  When the hubs has a chance to check out your handiwork, act completely proud of your efforts as well as exhausted.  This will provide a) a chance for him to see that you really do think you’ve done a good job and are completely incapable of EVER doing this again and b)  a reason for him to tell you not to do it again. “Oh honey, that must be a little too strenuous for you, I better keep up on this chore.  WIN/WIN!

I know this may seem a bit underhanded to you newlyweds.  How could one ever be so devious and dishonest in marriage?  Well honey, honesty is the last thing you need in a marriage, trust me!

emotional constipation. it’s a real issue, folks.

Today was the day.  I took my babe and left him in the cold cruel world all alone.  What a horrible feeling.

Well… okay.  Maybe I’m being a little over-dramatic here.  What I did, was take my last born child and drop him off with a super sweet little lady who will begin him on his educational adventure.  There, that sounds less “someone call CPS on this bitch” and more “awwww… that’s a sweet mommy.”

Yesterday Jordan and I were running some errands together and he looks at me and says, “Well, Mom.  This is it.  Tomorrow I’ll be at school and we won’t have any more Mommy dates.  You’ll just be doing this alone and I’ll be at school like Elle.”  {Well thanks for breaking my heart kid!}  He must have sensed my sadness because he followed it up with a “But don’t worry, I still have weekends off so we can have Mommy dates then.”  {Well thank god!}

So we dropped the munchkin off at school (complete with photos and the whole boo-hoo breakfast experience) and he didn’t even blink an eye.  He is so damn ready for school it’s weird.  Jimmie went along with me because this is a big deal.  But also because I think we were both expecting me to have a Sally Field in Steel Magnolias moment and weep on the school sidewalk or something.  I ugly cried a solid ten minutes when Elle started school before I could even pull the car out of the parking spot.  That was just the beginning.

Today? I didn’t shed a tear.  I was not going to blubber all over the place in front of everyone.  So every time I got a lump in my throat I thought of random things  (like army ants or cucumbers) to get my mind off of it until I could just make it to the car.  Then I got to the car and remembered I had to go back to the school office.  So I pulled my shit together and did what I had to do.  When we finally started the drive home Jim was like, “You’re freaking me out.  Why are you not freaking out right now?”  I didn’t know.  I don’t know.  Crap.  I waited too long and stuffed it down to much and it’s dead.  I don’t know!

Then we got home and it hit me.  It is freaking quiet around here.  I cried for about a second.  Then nothing.  Then Jim said we should get a patio set for the back patio so we could sit and have coffee together on the quiet mornings he’s home working, and I lost it.  For about three seconds.

I’m emotionally constipated, you guys!  I feel all of it brooding around inside but it just won’t come out.  I need a good cry so I can get over it, but I just can’t.  What the hell?  Maybe I am just a seasoned vet.  I don’t know.

This is the child that has never had a professional photo taken of him.  He’s the epitome of a second born child and I suck.  I can’t even cry that he’s off in the cruel world alone now!

Maybe it’s just that I know how great this is going to be for him.  Maybe that’s it. Shit. I. Don’t. Know!

they that camp together…

“So hey there, have you been missing me?  Yah, I know.  I’ve just been suuuper busy.   Uh-huh.  I’ve just had stuff.  Super Important Stuff.

That’s code for, I’ve been such a loser and can’t get my shit together so I’ve just been hiding out on my couch eating a lot of cheetos and that squirt cheese from the can.  It’s been super awesome.  Seriously, I don’t know what my deal is.  I have never had writer’s block in my life, but lately I just plain suck ass at trying to put a sentence together.  But enough about me.   I really need to tell you about CAMPING.

So the Hubbs and I haven’t been camping together in  ummm… forever.  We certainly haven’t been camping with JORDAN.  Dude, that kid would take a dirt shower then roll around in the dirt to dry off and then try to clothe himself in a dirt wardrobe.  He was made for the dirt.  Camping… totally his gig.  He had a blast.  And Elle, she just hid out in the camper and did girl stuff and then roasted marshmallows and went back into the camper.  Whatevs.  She was hanging with her gal pals.  Both kiddos LOVED the tubing on the lake and all the usual boating activities.  They had a blast.   That’s totally not important.

The real fun came when the kiddos fell into a sun and marshmallow-coma induced sleep and the grown ups finally got to play.  There is just nothing like the crisp mountain air and smell of a campfire to make grown ass people lose their freaking mind. This is why I love my friends.  And am highly entertained by their friends.

Our first night in the great outdoors, we so pissed off the skinny bitch librarian “next door” that at half past quiet time she marched her happy ass over to our site and proceeded to inform one of our bunk-mates {ummm yah, I have no idea what that means.  It’s Swedish for “we camp together”} that it was indeed past quiet time and our fire was too bright.  She was being forced to move her tent to escape the bright light of the fire.  ERRR… WHA?  Quiet Time = No Fire Time???  I so did not read that on Smokey the Bear’s hat.  And really, it’s a camp fire.  Not the Burning Man.  Close your eyes.

{What is up with me that I am constantly pissing off my neighbors?!?  At least this bat-shit crazy woman got up and moved the next morning.}

Night Two:  The whole evening can be summed up by watching the following video.  I realize this is crappy videography or whatever but it’s shot with an iPhone, in the middle of the darkest of nights, being spot-lighted by a drunk with a flashlight.  The hero of our story is sporting a head lamp (AKA head lice),  purchased at our local sporting good store (AKA Tri-State) {when you see the video you’ll understand why you might care about this.  or not.}  We spent the entire dark time of our weekend having our retinas burnt out by the LED-ness  of this damn light.  It was only befitting that a song be sang in its honor.  Ladies and Gentlemen… meet Bobby Light.

Night Three.  There are so many things to be said about Night Three,  our last night in the woods.  Day/Night Three provided a Camping Trip Survival Guide that I will carry with me on all future expeditions.  Please hear me when I say this… no matter how much you offer to pay me, I will never reveal the source of my knowledge.  What happens in the woods, stays in the woods… sort of.

  1. It’s not a good idea to tell your Hubbs it’s his turn to be the campground drunk {and therefore idiot} at 10:00 am.  This will set your whole day off to a really, really interesting start.  Most Hubbs won’t make it to see dinner time.  Those that do,  will wish they hadn’t.
  2. There’s really no point whatsoever in packing real food of any kind for those who are legal to drink  (except for the makings of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup  S’Mores).  We drink our meals here, bitches.  ‘Nuf Said.
  3. Assholes who show up to your campsite bringing beer to “apologize in advance” for their forthcoming behavior might be nice deep down inside.   Assholes who only bring beer for the men and ignore the women are just as we thought… assholes.  When they notice that your men passed out hours ago and show up to your campfire for some friendly chit-chat, consider flicking hot coals onto their pedicured feet and running into the woods.  It’ll be more pleasant than anything the next 30 minutes might have to offer.
  4. It’s never appropriate to bring up one’s step-dad’s saggy balls around a campfire.  If you accidentally do, it will provide unending entertainment for the rest of your “bunk-mates” as they talk about skinny bitches and saggy balls all weekend.
  5. It should be seriously considered that one brings along some “pocket cash” for emergencies.  Emergency cash, in this instance, is reserved ONLY for those times when  one’s Hubbs is on the verge of being taken to the clink for “disturbing the peace” {Peace, what peace?  I haven’t seen a moment of peace since we’ve been here!}  and certain Green Jeans (AKA Park Rangers, AKA the Po-Po) need to be bribed to save the night.  Said emergency fund MUST be kept in the pockets of the females only, so we can determine if we really want to bribe your asses out of the clink or not.  God knows we are far too well-behaved to be disturbing anyone’s peace!

There you have it,  folks.  Camping might be good fun, but it is definitely NOT good, clean fun.

I don’t care what they say, four inches is a lot.

Last night, I woke up at three o’clock, in the a.m., to some asshole’s dog barking like a freaking machine gun outside my window.  So me, being the super Matlock that I am, goes traipsing downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.  About halfway down I realize, “look genius.  you’re about to get your ass killed Texas Chainsaw Massacre style.  go get your hubbs to handle this shit.”  (I know, I  swear like a sailor at oh three hundred.)

Suddenly, it dawns on me, “I think that is my freakingdog!”

“Hubbs.  Wake UP.  I think that’s Eva outside waking up the whole freaking neighborhood!”

After a lot of mumbling and moving SLOWER THAN FUCK while that dog barks like a maniac! he finally rolls himself out of bed and moseys downstairs to see what the matter is.

Meanwhile, in my brilliance, I hang out the bedroom window to see if I can see her (she is midnight black so it’s a little difficult at oh three hundred with no moon.) and there she is.
Barking.

And Barking.  No matter how many times I whisper-yell “SHUT UP, EVA!  THE BITCH LADY IS GOING TO CALL THE COPS ON YOU AGAIN!” she just won’t shut up.

Finally, Hubbs gets her inside and settled down and stumbles back to bed.  He’s asleep before I can even ask him if there were lawn gnomes running wild our what?? So then I lay there for an hour pondering all sorts of craziness.  Like, remember that one time, at band camp… I mean church camp…. there were those guys that had a jalapeno eating contest.  Can you imagine the fallout from something like that?  Ouch.

Then this morning I go downstairs and complete my morning ritual of opening all of the curtains and what do I find but our glass slider open about 4 inches.  FOUR INCHES??? Four inches is no accident, people.  Four inches is a LOT.  (Well, in this particular case, 4 inches is a lot.)

Four inches is “Hey, I was just going to come into your house and try to steal your stuff- and then realize you have no stuff, and get pissed off and kill you in your sleep- but then Kujo started barking and acting like she was going to gnaw my leg off since you have forgotten to feed her the past three days so I  ran off down the street and she barked at my ass until I was long gone. That’s what four inches is, folks.

My bad-ass black lab/boarder collie mutt will eat your leg any day.  My drugged up on NyQuil loser of a husband might not always hear you coming, but Kujo will.

Arsonphobics+Fireworks+Tequila=Trouble

I freaking hate the 4th of July.  I don’t know if it’s because I saw a kid get a bottle rocket through the eye as a wee one or if it’s that my bionic hearing makes the damn things sound like they’re going through my eye.  Whatever the reason, I become a shit-ball of a person on our country’s grand birthday.

I’m pretty sure that’s sacrilegious since I am a bicentennial baby and all.

(That makes my current age 33.  Don’t give yourself a headache over the math.)

So what does an Independence Day Heretic do to make her life more interesting?  Marry a pyromaniac, fire-cracker head, lunatic that spawned from a herd of pyromaniac, fire-cracker heads- who treat America’s Birthday like Jesus and the Blessed Virgin’s birthday all rolled into one, of course.

When the Hubbs and I were first dating he adamantly informed me that the 4th of July took precedence over any other holiday. {GASP!  Surely not Christmas?!?!  Freaking Fireworks come before the Baby Jesus laying in a manger?!} What the shit?

Our first Independence Day together should have foretold of the joys to come.  I spent the whole night pacing around inside his parent’s kitchen trying not to pee my pants while his whole brood of family and friends yukked it up in the driveway sending a variety of explosive devices in every direction.  Occasionally I would feel the need to  prove my incendiary prowess and venture into the garage {ears stuffed full of cotton so as to muffle the explosions in my bionic eardrums} and gain my place in his crazy-ass family.  I was quickly outed as the Ebeneezer-Scrooge-meets-The Grinch of home-fireworks and furthermore voted outcast of the First Family of Independence.

Following Fourth of July’s have found me in some super special situations.  One fave had me in tears as  I nursed my baby girl’s burn wound that occurred when one of her uncles tried to throw a firecracker at her dad and didn’t notice her standing right next to him.  That was the year I learned NO ONE should wear a skirt {no matter how freaking patriotic it is} around these crazy people on the 4th.    I won’t recall all of our now nine Independence Days together, but I will tell you that Arsonphobics+Fireworks+Tequila=Trouble.  Period.

This superb 4th occurred away from the Hubb’s family, but he was determined to continue the Family Traditions.  An unfortunate set of circumstances which I don’t clearly remember and no one seems to agree on anyway + too much tequila for the crazy lady arsonphobic (that means fear of fire and that would be me) = me decking my husband in front of our children and friends and yelling things not even I could reason followed by three days of the silent treatment (from him, not me.)  Needless to say, I get a little apprehensive around this holiday.

This year I was sure to stay the hell away from Tequila.  See, I did my part!  I am growing up.

Unfortunately the Hubbs claimed he was sick and the holiday pretty much sucked ass for him.  Now that I look back on the day, I’m thinking he wasn’t truly sick, but so depressed that we had decided not to spend any money on fireworks this year that he just couldn’t function.

It was so torturous for me to watch him be so miserable that I decided next year I am going to do the following so he can have a pyromaniac’s wet dream of a fireworks extravaganza:

1.  Save 50 cents a day for the whole year so he can have $182.50 to spend at the lunatic stand on whatever powder keg of craziness he wants. (plus a pack of sparklers for me to sit around and write my name in lights while everyone else blows their arms off.)*

2.  Travel whatever distances we must to ensure that he is surrounded quite comfortably with as many of his brood of pyromaniac family as possible so that they may cohabitate happily with M80’s and Bottle Rockets and Mortars and Shells and Explosive devices of whatever notion they so choose.

3.  Wrap my daughter’s vagina in fireproof material and ban all skirts so she is sure not to have her Jesus flower blown away when her dad loses his freaking mind and throws firecrackers at all his brothers and surely hits her in the crossfire as my punishment for giving into their craziness.

4.  Purchase this CD that was the only source of mental aid when I googled “fear of fireworks therapy”.

The Fear of Fireworks Sounds CD for both Cats and Dogs

This CD has been recorded on the night of a bonfire party, with all the bangs, whizzes, pops and squeaks, some distant, some closer to. The idea is that you play the CD on a regular basis, starting at a very low intensity, increasing the volume over a period of time. You aim to never upset your pet. Over a number of weeks, your pet will become less responsive to these sounds. Play the CD in the evening when the fireworks are going off and it will also mask the sounds outside.

5.  Lastly, and possibly my most important Independence Resolution:  Continue to abstain from celebrational tequila at any gathering that could result in fireworks of any kind.

Amen.

*Please note, I am well aware that $182.50 will get you a couple of those smoking snake things that whistle plus a cup of jack squat in this day and age, but whatever.  I am doing my part.