I Am NOT a Girly-Girl

Okay, so. Today at work, I had to have T (Troy- My Work Husband) kill a bug for me. I spotted it as it made it's way across the room and left a post-it on T's mirror that read "There is a bug by my garbage can that needs killing". He just shook his head and laughed. I told him "Hey, this is YOUR purview. I don't do bugs!!". Now, while the bug was hiding behind my garbage can, I was perfectly willing to ignore it but after a few minutes, it made a foray out and came in MY direction.  I. Lost. My. MIND.  "Aaaaahhhhh!!  Kill it, KILL it, KILL IT!!" I screamed as I ran as far as my clipper cord would let me in the other direction.  Now, a little info. I am by no means A Girly-Girl. I don't enjoy shopping endlessly, I hate to get flowers, my happy place is the home improvement store, and while I have a penchant for shoes, they are almost exclusively sneakers. I just seem to be missing the G.G. gene. This makes the fact that I get all squealy and freaked-out over creepy crawly things doubly amusing for both TWH & T.  TWH says it's because it's about the only thing I have a "Girly" reaction to.  After T killed the bug to DEATH, the older gentleman in his chair asked me "What do you do at home if there's a bug??". After some (tongue biting) hesitation I answered, "Call my husband to kill it". The hesitation came because lately, I have had to handle some bug killing on my own. It's been a harrowing experience, to say the least. I have discovered said bug and began with "OHMYGODSONOFABITCH!!" and gone looking for a shoe immediately. Once I get a shoe in hand, I chase the creepy crawler around screaming "DIE Mother Fucker!!" as I pound it into a smear on the wood/tile. I realize screaming obscenities isn't necessary but it helps me keep my nerve up. It's my battle-cry, if you will. After the bug is killed & killed GOOD, I either wipe it up with several Clorox wipes or take the carcass outside and toss it just off the porch to serve as a warning to all other would-be crawly invaders of my home. "Think twice, you multi-legged assholes. This could be YOUR fate!!" is the message. Thus far, it seems to be working. Either that, or TWH is doing A LOT of bug squashing unbeknownst to me.

It's a Good Thing You Already Ordered That Handbag

Okay, so.  Last weekend, TWH & I were working on our big assed shower. AGAIN. STILL. I swear to God, this is The Project That Will Not End!! We're so close to finishing it, it's not even funny and we're getting tired. Tempers are getting short. That damned shower is a hairs-breadth away from becoming the Elephant in the Room. That thing you ignore & refuse to talk about it because there are so many hard feelings about it. Anyways, I digress. We're in the shower working and I mention to TWH that some of his grout work is less than stellar in one section of the shower. He paused for a minute then responded with "Okay, I don't know how to say this without sounding like a complete asshole and pissing you off so I'm just gonna say it." (Always a great lead-in.) "It's not like I got a lot of help from YOU on this project". Now, while this statement isn't UNTRUE, per se, it's not exactly TRUE either. I offered to help multiple times and was told "No, I've got it. It's kind of a one-person job anyway". As the project wore on, TWH got a little snarly when I would watch & ask questions so I would flee & just try to stay out of his way.  After his comment I remained silent. I had nothing to say. Out Loud. Where he could HEAR me. In my head, however, I went straight to "You Mother Fucker!!  It's a damned good thing you already ordered that handbag I asked for!!".  See, the night before, I spent an inordinate amount of time scouring ebay for a Coach handbag. In leather. I found one with pink stitching, (PINK STITCHING!!!!!) for what I deemed was a reasonable price (and TWH found only slightly cringe-worthy) and he ordered it for me. That is what saved that man from total annihilation last Saturday while we were sitting in the floor of the God-forsaken shower sweating our asses off.  Of course, I told him what went through my head a couple of days later. He said he never even realized he was in danger.  I should get an Emmy. Or another handbag.

How I Got My Roomba

Okay, so.  In my last post I mentioned my Roomba (or my You Mother Fucker Roomba as I call it when I want to yank TWH's chain).  Here goes...
Back in April, my Mother was driving down to Shreveport from Montana to attend her 50th High School Reunion.  On her way to Shreveport, she was coming HERE.  To my HOUSE.  For the first time EVER.   Of course, I went into Defcon 5 cleaning mode.  I had a pretty hefty list of things I wanted to get spiffy for my Mother's visit.  I'm talking crap like power washing the house, cleaning the baseboards, doing the windows.  Heavy-duty spring cleaning here.  TWH dutifully pitched in and started on the kitchen while I started on the bathroom.  Now, my poor hubby obviously didn't realize we were cleaning EVERYHTING that could ever get dirty, grimy, or dusty.  Once he realized that, his excitement (minimal to begin with) began to wane and the bitching began.  "How much do I have to do??" "Are we gonna be doing this all day??" "Not to harp on you or anything, (Always a precursor to a good ass riding, BTW) but I've had a really long week and I'd hoped to relax some today.  I didn't realize you were going to clean to this extent and I don't know if I wanna do all that"  Blah, blah, blah.  I listened quietly, while STILL cleaning (I had stuff to do, after all) until I couldn't take any more.  I put down my sponge & cleaner, turned to my sweet, darling, Hubby, and uttered the following words "You MOTHER FUCKER".  Now, any man worth anything KNOWS that these words are cause for two reactions. #1 a sphincter-puckering burst of fear because you have awoken the Screaming Banshee  & #2 a mental review of the list of Appropriate Suck Up Gifts because you are now obligated to buy one of these based on the size of the Hissy Fit that follows those three dreaded words.  Mine was a Roomba.  I had been begging for one of those For-Ever.  My Crackhaid Dawg sheds enough on a daily basis to create another Dawg & keeping up with the drifts of fur had become a second full-time job.  As we were preparing for bed the next day TWH says "By the way, I ordered you a present today".  I was nice, and didn't look too smug when I asked "Is it a Roomba??"   Hee hee hee.   So, there ya go. The story of how I got my (You Mother Fucker) Roomba.

Side Note: TWH SWEARS that is not why I got the Roomba.  I disagree since that's how I relate the events in my head.  That's my story & I'm sticking to it.  Besides, telling people he found it on woot.com and bought one to shut me up isn't nearly as entertaining.