A Month of Shame

Hi, my name is Dani, and I'm disgusting.

I've had a sneaking suspicion for a while about my disgustingness, but I finally rowed my ass out of the River of Denial and let reality kiss me full on the lips.


And now I know for sure:

I. Am. Disgusting.

It started out simply enough... I have nowhere to go, for the most part, winter is arriving and wearing shorts is pretty much out of the question, and if I ever need to don a dress and show some leg, I'm pretty sure I'll have a few days notice.

So I got super lazy about shaving my legs.

(The following is TMI... you may want to stop reading right about... NOW.)

Since my legs are covered like 100% of the time, it got realllll easy to not notice the prickly stubble growing in patches here and there along my calves.  

Showering and drying off were pretty much the only instances in which I said, "Ewwww..." and thought that perhaps I should do something about it.

Thoughts are fleeting.

Slowly but surely, the stubble turned in to full blown hair.  I'm not a hairy girl, despite my ancestry (and my mother, aka Ape Woman) so it's not like I was King Kong from the knees down, but still.  Had my house caught fire in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and during my escape I had somehow lost my pants, eyes would have been drawn to my leg hair.  Subtle glances would have become awkward stares.  People would have talked.  I would have been self-conscious and embarrassed about the condition of my calves. 

Has anyone seen my pants?

Meanwhile, as grossed out as I was by my slothfulness, I was also slightly fascinated by the growth of hair.  It became something of a science experiment.

Why, for instance, did hair grow in some places and not in others?  Why is my leg hair patchy?  Why are the strands on the backs of my legs longer than the strands on the front?  

And finally, how long would the hair get if I just never shaved it again?  Would it continue to grow indefinitely, until it was sweeping the floor like a Yorkshire terrier?  Would I receive Best In Show?  Or would it reach a point where it just... stopped?  And then what?  

I'm too sexy for my leg hair.

As I am (still) unemployed, I really had nothing better to do than monitor the growth of my leg hair.

It made me feel slightly productive.  Like I was contributing something to science.

And then, last night, this happened:

Not really me... but totally could be.

Me:  *absent mindedly scratching my calf*

Dan:  *suddenly, after a month, noticing that something was slightly amiss*  "What's all over your leg?"

Me:  "Huh?"

Dan:  *eyes widening*  "Is that... hair?"

Me:

Dan:  *staring rudely*

Me:  "Ummm..."

Dan:  "Is that hair??"

Me:  "Maybe..."

Dan:  "How long has it been since you've shaved your legs??"

Me:  "Uhhh... I dunno, maybe a week?"  

(I am SUCH a liar.)

Dan:  *incredulously*  "A WEEK?"

Me:  "Ummm..."

Dan:  "I will pay you to shave that shit off."


I have been unemployed for 7 months... I would shave my freaking head for cash.

So today, the leg hair is gone.  Shaving it off was even grosser than growing it, in case you were wondering.  

Amen, Sista!

Oh, it's ON.

I regret to inform you all that my big, sexy husband has gone from this:

Be still my heart...

"You wanna piece of me?  

(Note to self:  Blonde?  Wasn't a good idea.)

"YEAHHH!  I'm a MAN, baby!"

To this:

"Dani, I'm SICK..."

"Dani, I'm SICK..."

"Dani, I'm SICK..."

in five short days.

As previously described here, Dan came down with a cold over the weekend.   It's gotten more tragic by the day.  


Then, yesterday, I came down with his cold.


*cue theme from Jaws*


Dan morphed from pathetic weinie to Drama Queen.

This means he has had to out sick me.

Our evening has gone like this:

Me:  *coughcoughsnifffle*

Dan:  *coughcoughCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH* *pathetic moan* *COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH*

Me:  *coughcough*  *aaa-CH*  (I always cut my sneezes off.  People say I have "mouse sneezes" because it's more of a squeak than a sneeze.)

Dan:  *motherfuckingAAAAAAAAACHOOOOOOOOOOO!* 

Doors rattle, windows shatter, avalanches bury Alpine villages, moose and elk grazing in distant pastures look towards the east, scientists and seismologists watch a fault line develop in the Village of NoFuckingWhere, NY as Dan out-sneezes everybody, everywhere, EVER.

Me:  *snifflesnifflecough*

Dan:  *hacking up a fucking lung*

Me:  "Seriously?"

Dan:  *coughcoughCOUGH* "What?"

Me:  "I get it.  You're sick."  *cough*

Dan:  *COUGHCOUGHCOUGH* "What are you talking about?"

Those three little words...

*coughcoughsniffle*  "Dani?  I'b SICK..."

*cue slasher music*

Those three little words carry within them the ability to send me screaming from the room, the house, the state, the country... There is nothing.  NOTHING.  NOTHING more pathetic, more helpless, more annoying than my husband when he imagines himself to be sick.  

In the 10 years that we've been together, both in sickness and in health, I have:

Broken my foot... twice

Broken my finger

Dumped scalding bacon grease on my hand and wrist and given myself 3rd degree burns (don't ask)

Had pneumonia

Had MRSA so severely throughout my entire body that I had to be driven 2 hours each way to a doctor four times a week to have horrible, awful, brutal, painful things done to my body

Had the friggin' Swine Flu

Had more migraines than you can shake a stick at

Had sciatica

Given myself a concussion by accidentally slamming my head into the freezer door (shut up)

Caught every single cold and flu bug ever to hit any child, ever, who attended school in Del Norte County 

(Basically, I am a bad, embarrassing accident waiting to die a hideous death, most likely by butt injury.)

Throughout each and every one of those instances, I have managed to feed myself, clothe myself, bathe myself, get my ass out of bed and tend to my own (and everyone else's) needs and actually have Dan ask me, while I'm standing there with tubes hanging out of my body (MRSA) and expressing discomfort, "Why?  What's wrong with you?"

(In fact, during the Great MRSA Attack of 2005, Dan took a week off from work to "help" me.  He spent the week catching up on his sleep while I cleaned, vacuumed, and prayed for death.)

Dan "helping."

In that same time frame, Dan has had:

A few head colds.

The earth literally stands still at his first sniffle.

He takes to his bed.

He instantly falls asleep.

Occasionally, I will hear his weak little voice (which is ironic, because Dan is hands down the loudest person anyone, anywhere, has ever known, EVER) whispering from the confines of his sick bed, "Dani... *coughcoughcough*... Dani... *coughcoughcough*..."

Me:  *appearing in the doorway* "Yes?"

Dan: *barely able to lift his head or open his eyes* "Cad you breeg me sub water?"

Me:  "Yes."

Dan: *straining to speak, due to his extreme weakness*  "Ad sub ice?"

Me:  *heavy sigh*

I wait on him hand and foot while he lays in bed, in the dark, sicker than anyone, anywhere, has ever been.  Somehow, his harshest coughing fits coincide with me entering the bedroom and are followed by a deep, drawn out, expression of agony... "UHHHHHhhhhhhhhh...." *coughcoughcough*  "UHHHHhhhhhhh..."

Me: *stifling the urge to put him out of his misery*

When he blows his nose, he makes sure I'm aware of the color AND the consistency.

(Such a treat, I assure you.)

When  he sneezes, he makes sure he moans loudly afterward, to make sure I know how painful that sneeze actually was.

*AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH-CHOOOOOOOOOO!!!* "Uhhhhhhhhhh...Ohhhhhh goddddddd.... Uhhhhhhhhhh"

When he gets out of bed to use the bathroom, he makes sure to breathe loudly and agonizingly through his mouth, in case I should forget that he is, indeed, suffering mightily.

Meanwhile, I'm fantasizing about what I will wear and what song I will play at his funeral.

(I kid, I kid.)

Here's what I know, with absolute certainty:

I will catch his cold.

I will be sick, because my immune system is pretty well shot to hell, after the 9 weeks and 27 different antibiotics I was on during the MRSA incident.

I will be twice as sick as he is.

And as I'm standing there, coughing, sneezing, and blowing my nose, he will look at me and say, "What's wrong with you?"

Fatty Con Queso

I hate it when I'm hungry but nothing sounds good.  I generally have a bevy of healthy options open to me but rather than grab an apple, I usually decide that it's easier and makes more sense to either a) slice off a piece of cheese and eat that or b) pop some popcorn.

I have a serious popcorn issue.  I will eat it for any meal, if no one else is around or I don't feel like cooking (which generally happens if no one else is around).  If Dan wants me to cook him something that I don't like, I'll make him his meal (usually steak... I don't eat steak) and I'll eat popcorn.

Hungry in the morning but don't feel like unwrapping a breakfast bar?  Popcorn!

Need a quick snack and grabbing some baby carrots out of the fridge is just too time-consuming?

Popcorn!

Home alone and nuking a Lean Cuisine just too labor-intensive?  

Popcorn!

Need some protein with all those salty carbs?

Cheese!!!  

You know what goes good with cheese?

POPCORN!!

I'm pretty sure that I single-handedly have been keeping Orville Redenbacher in business for the past 5 years.  

Dear Orville's Nerdy Horn-Rimmed Glasses and Bow-Tie Wearing Kinfolk,

You're welcome for the yachts, mansions, and European vacations.

Love,

Dani

P.S.

You're welcome for all the damn suspenders, too.  Dude... buy a belt.  Seriously.

Maybe take some of that popcorn money and get a personal buyer and a suit, yes?

Meanwhile, Dan left me home alone all weekend.  Which isn't a bad thing... I kind like being left to my own devices.  However, what I like and what's best for me aren't necessarily the same thing. This was my menu for the weekend:

Saturday morning:  Coffee and a handful of Good n Plentys (shut up... they're good and they go amazingly well with coffee)

Saturday lunch:  Popcorn and Diet Pepsi

Afternoon snack:  Cheese

Dinner:  Nothing... I was still full from the cheese.

Bedtime snack:  Popcorn... because it had been like 12 hours since I'd eaten it and I was having withdrawals.

Don't bother me... I'm eating.

Sunday morning:  Coffee.

Sunday brunch:  Popcorn.

Sunday lunch:  Cheese and an apple. 

Sunday afternoon:  Diet Pepsi and pie.  (Don't judge me.)

Sunday dinner:  Greasy, disgusting chicken strips that Dan brought home.  Yuck.

Sunday before bed:  Popcorn and Ambien.  (I needed something to soak up the grease from the chicken strips.)

Sunday after Ambien:  A bowl with peanut butter and jelly in it.  (As discovered after reading text messages sent while sleeping.)

There is a slight possibility that I scooped up the PB&J with pieces of cheese, but I refuse to go there.

Notes from the marriage bed...

*Author's note:  This isn't about sex, in case you were worried (or hopeful... whichever).  I'm pretty sure my children would prefer believing that they were each the product of a star in the east, three wisemen, a manger, and a virgin birth, so one thing I will never write about is my sex life (not that I have one... don't worry, boys, Mommy is as pure as the driven snow).  


*Sidebar:  When my son Shea was around 6, one of the gross, lice infested, neighborhood mutant germ children told him about sex and "where babies come from."  Shea came to me, sobbing, and demanded to know if that was the truth.  I admitted that yes, indeed, that IS how it happens.  He looked at me with betrayal on his precious little face and demanded, "You mean you and dad did that THREE TIMES?!"


Anyway.


Let me share with you a typical morning in my house:


The alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m.  Dan hammers the crap out of the snooze button, wedges his backside against me, sighs contentedly, and farts.


I hold my breath and lie very still, so as not to lift the covers so that none of the gasses can escape and assault my nose.


He farts again, rendering all my efforts moot.


I say, "Really, Dan?  REALLY?  You have to press your ass against me and fart?  REALLY?"


He pretends to be asleep.


I make a huge show out of flipping up the covers and stomping out of the bedroom, taking my freshly farted-on self into the kitchen to make coffee.


He lies there like a dead man, determined to keep up the charade of an innocent sleep-farter.  


Every.


Morning.


Farting is a huge bone of contention in my marriage.


I've tried to have an intelligent, adult discussion about this issue.


While I'm explaining that inhaling someone else's anal gasses is not my cup of tea, Dan snickers like an 8 year old and refuses to acknowledge that farting on your wife isn't the funniest damn thing a grown man can do. 


I get angry, he rolls his eyes and says things like, "What do you want me to do?  Hold it in?  Explode?"


I say yes.


He goes into detail about why  it isn't good or healthy for him to hold in his farts.  According to Dan, holding in a fart can kill you.


I tell him that so can farting on your wife.


He loudly insists that it isn't possible for him to hold in a fart.


I tell him he's full of shit.


He agrees with me and lets one rip.


He laughs.  I plot his demise.


And the battle wages on.

Farting is Dan's party trick.  As long as he has gas (which, frankly, he always does) he's ready for anything.  Want to embarrass the wife at Walmart?  Rip one in the aisle where she's shopping and hot foot it into the next aisle, leaving her encased in stink and looking guilty.  Laugh until tears pour down your face when she comes hauling ass around the corner with murder in her eye and tries to mow you down with the shopping cart.


Want to humiliate her for a hearty guffaw at the restaurant where you're having a romantic meal?  Let a silent-but-deadly one slip through your happy butt cheeks just as the waitress is bringing the appetizer and drink orders.  

Say, "DANI!" really loudly and look at her pointedly as the waitress smiles politely and tries to pretend she doesn't notice.


Act contrite when she refuses to speak to you for the rest of the evening and apologize when you get home, promising to never do such a heinous thing again.

She knows you're lying through your teeth because you ate too much, are tired of arguing, and just want to go to bed so you can fart some more.

Having game night with fam?  Partner up with the little woman during the card game and fart relentlessly and repeatedly, thus killing two birds with one stone:  

1.  Farting is hilarious so you get to be the life of the party (in your own mind) and crack yourself up for hours on end and

2.  Your parents are watching so there are witnesses, which  means she can't be the raving, screaming, bitch she really wants to be and she can't kill you.

Win, win.

And when she starts screeching like a harpy on the ride home, roll up all the windows, lock them, then fart again and laugh your ass off as she turns green and gags, because you really are a clueless bastard.  

Last night, as we were lying in bed, Dan kissed me lovingly goodnight (he's really very sweet, despite all the horrible things I say about him) and as he rolled over so I could spoon him (I'm chronically cold and I need to put my icy hands on his warm belly and my frigid feet on his normal, human temperature legs so I can fall asleep at night without contracting hypothermia) he let out a long, sonorous, multi-note blast from his rectal area.  For one brief moment, I could tell he was considering faking sleep (as if he could have fallen asleep as he was rolling over), but common sense got the better of him and he went with the the apology route, complete with an explanation:  "I didn't even know that was in there... it shocked me too..."

At that precise moment, Maisy, my pug, attacked his ass.

Oh yeah, baby.

Justice was served.

I'm pretty sure he was plotting his next fart the very moment this picture was taken.

Nightmare on Park St.

Along with my usual Friday Facebook Status Of The Week blog, I had also a second post sketched out and ready to go. 

Then I found out I had to cook an entire family dinner for 13 people and transport it 60 miles tomorrow morning.  

My original plan was to make a cozy birthday dinner for Dan's mom and the 4 other people living in her house, as posted here:  http://deathbycupcakes01.blogspot.com/2011/10/captain-asperger-strikes-again.html

Then 6 more people invited themselves to dinner.  Which was broken to me last night, after I had spent an entire day deciding I had plenty of time to go shopping, prepare the food, and finishing the shrug TODAY.  

That sent me into a tizzy.

A lot of ugliness ensued.

After I finished having a complete meltdown (which involved sobbing, texting my sister, and pricing plane tickets back to California) I wrote my shopping list, planned out my schedule on how I could get it all done today, laid back my ears, and prepared to kick ass and take names.

My Inner Self is SUCH a hard ass.  Word.

I wrote my grocery list, detailed my plan of attack, changed a few bits of the menu so as to allow for more people, girded up my loins, ordered myself to suck it up and stop being such a cry-baby, and prepared to GET. SHIT. DONE.

Then I did everything except all the things I needed to do.

I watched 56473824756392 episodes of Hoarders.  (Newsflash:  Hoarders, your house is not "cluttered."  It's "filthy."  Check your dictionary.)

I made sure I had every tv show I might ever want to watch at any time in my life set to record.  Then I checked again, just in case I missed one.

I made a grilled cheese sandwich.

I stared at the pile of yarn sitting next to the couch, pathetically in the shape of a half-assed shrug (because I got about 3/4 of the way done with the original one and then decided I hated it, so I ripped it all out, changed yarn colors, and started over... which made tons of sense, considering I had 3 days to get it done and changed my mind on day 2.)

I contemplated calling my mother and asking her to buy me a plane ticket back to California, so that I wouldn't have to cook this damn dinner for 13 people.  (The only problem with this plan is that I know for a FACT she would do it... and then I'd be stuck living with my mother.  That would not be good.  Bad things would happen.)

I wished (briefly) that Dan were an only child and that we lived somewhere (anywhere, actually) else.

I tore my bedroom apart looking for a rogue Xanax that might have escaped my clutches from back in the time that I actually had a prescription for it, before moving to New York, Land of the Drug Free Happy People.  (That makes no sense to me.  How can they not know how miserable they are?)  

I'm sure we can all guess the futility of that search.

I felt really super sorry for myself.

Then I channeled Chuckie.

It made me feel sooooooo much better.

Mwaaaahahahahaaaaaaaaa...

It's the little things, yo.

Crazy-NESS

*Author's note:  I've been having a hissy-fit since last night.  I'm about to bring it to my blog.  Consider yourselves warned.  Also?  Feel free to agree with me.  

This was my Facebook status update last night:

Stupid argument with the husband and the in-laws... The way people pronounce towns around here drives me straight up a freaking WALL. There is a town nearby called Madrid. Now, you and I would pronounce it Muh-DRID, like the city in Spain, yes? Well, apparently? We would be WRONG, because everyone around HERE, including the people who LIVE THERE, pronounce it MAD-rid. Just like that... accent on the first syllable: MAD-rid. Like the word mad. Then the word rid. This? Right here? Is annoying the shit out of me right this second.

I can't even beGIN to explain how freaking irritating this is to me.  Granted, it's petty and silly and pointless to get so bent over the way people have been pronouncing certain words for most likely hundreds of years, but I can't wrap my brain around the fact that they're still doing it.  

I can make allowances for the early settlers... Perhaps they were uneducated and had only a tentative grasp on geography and languages other than their own.  After all, they didn't have the internet and Google at their disposal and had to go on their own personal interpretations.  But doesn't it stand to reason that if there are surrounding areas named Antwerp, Rome, Mexico, Amsterdam, Venice, etc. that they would eventually figure out how to pronounce MADRID?  

(Obviously, when it came to naming cities, the early New Yorkians were somewhat lacking in imagination.  "Sooooo... I just came from York so let's call this... NEW York!!  Yeah!  Give me some skin, brotha!  High 5!  Down low!  Ohhhh... too slow!!  Hey... Remember Antwerp?  Let's call this place Antwerp.  I heard Cortez was in Mexico... let's called this place Mexico!  Then we don't have to come up with anything new!!"  And when they ran out of European and southwestern cities and countries, they just stuck the word "Falls" after the name of every town that had water running downhill, and "Ville" after everything else.  Because you can't go wrong with "Ville.")  

Moving right along, my previous rant about the pronunciation of a local hamlet was:

Theresa.

Let's discuss.

Now me, being me, sees a town called Theresa and I think, "We're in Theresa..." which would, of course, be pronounced just like the name Theresa.  Right?  Of COURSE right.

Only I'm wrong.

Because it's not Theresa... it's THERESA.

Confused?  Me too.

Rather than saying "Theresa" with a hard "T"... "Teresa"... they pronounced it with a soft "TH" as in "thumb."

Ther-esa.

Because they're all fucking Hooked On Phonics or something.

Right?

No.  It's WRONG.  It's so very, very, very WRONG.  And they won't listen to me.

These conversations usually begin with Dan saying something like "We're going through MAD-rid" at which point I correct him, because let's face it, I HAVE TO.  Then he tells me I'm saying it wrong , that's not how anyone says it, blah blah blah...  Then I say something like, "So if everyone called you "Din" instead of "Dan" would you just start calling yourself "Din", because that's what everyone else was saying even though you knew they were wrong?" and he rolls his eyes and sticks to his guns and we argue non-stop until I scream, "YOU'RE ALL MORONS!  I'VE MOVED TO MORONVILLE IN THE STATE OF NEW MORON!!"

Then the argument is effectively over because we're no longer speaking.

Why does this bother me so much?

I don't know.

(Oh my GOD... I just realized I'm channeling Kate Gosselin.  "Do I feel this way?  Yes I do.  Am I a screaming bitch?  Yes I am.  Was my reverse mullet a poor hair choice?  Absolutely." GAHHHH!  I apologize for that brief lapse.)

I had every intention of making New York my bitch, but it seems that instead, New York is turning me IN to one.  

New York:  1

Dani:  0

Captain Asperger Strikes Again

If you're new to my blog, let me preface my tale by explaining that my husband, Dan, has Asperger's Syndrome, which is a form of Autism. (And which I also pronounce "Ass Burgers" because, you know... he's an ass.) He gets very fixated on certain things, has zero empathy, and has HUGE issues with "random blurting." He also is completely lacking a filter and tends to say things that make me want to kill him (which I then channel into prolonged viewings of Deadly Women and Snapped!).

ANYWAY.

I've been simmering with annoyance all day today after the conversation we had last night. Fortunately for him, he is at a football game this evening, thus unwittingly sparing himself a massive verbal bitch-slapping because yeah... I'M NOT OVER IT YET.

And what would make it worse is that he probably has zero idea of why I'm so pissed at him.

Here's what happened:

Dan's mother's birthday is today. I reminded him last night, because apparently that's my job, and Dan has it in his head that it's somewhere in our marriage vows that all important events will be remembered and dealt with exclusively by me. He has absolved himself of all responsibility and goes blithely through life, completely unconcerned by trivial details like his own mother's birthday. (And his niece's and nephew's birthdays, his dad's birthday, MY birthday...)

Remarkably, however, he never forgets his own.

SO.

Last night, after I reminded him, he said, "What are you going to do about it?"

Right? RIGHT?

Me: *because really, expressing annoyance would be pointless* "I thought I would make dinner for her and your dad and the kids and we could take it to them on Friday, when your dad's home?"

Dan: "What would you make?"

Me: "I'm going to make lasagna, salad, garlic bread, apple pie, and Sangria."

Dan: "What if she doesn't like that?"

REALLY? 'WHAT IF SHE DOESN'T LIKE THAT'?? Then she'll freaking eat it anyway because it's a gift, right?

Which is exactly what I said. I also may or may not have included questionable language and a look of incredulity.

Dan: *absolutely stuck on this one detail* "But how do you know she likes that?"

Me: "Does she like lasagna, Dan?"

Dan: "Yes."

Me: "Does she like garlic bread, salad, and apple pie?"

Dan: "Yes."

Me: "Does she like wine?"

Dan: "Yes."

Me: "THEN WHICH FREAKING PART IS SHE NOT GOING TO LIKE?"

Dan:

Me: *steam coming out of my ears... he can literally piss me off in 2.2 seconds without even trying*

Dan: *chugging right along, completely unaware of how close he is to being strangled by his own tongue* "What are we going to give her?"

Me: "We? Who the hell is WE? I'M making her dinner. And I'm letting YOU take partial credit for it by having the good sense to marry me. And I'm also going to knit her a shrug."

Yeah... should have quit when I was ahead.

Dan: "A what?"

Me: "A shrug."

Dan:

Me:

Dan:

Me: "A shrug. It's like a shawl, only it just goes around the shoulders. To keep your back and shoulders warm. "

Dan: "Why would she want that?"

Seriously?

Me: "Because she's cold all the time and it's going to be like 40 below in a few months and she lives in a freaking 200 year old house and I'M REALLY SUPER THOUGHTFUL LIKE THAT? What are YOU going to give her?"

Dan: "But how do you know she'll like it? I've never seen her have anything like that."

Me: "WHICH IS WHY I'M MAKING HER ONE, DAN... BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T HAVE ONE!"

Dan: *doggedly beating that dead horse* "But how do you know she'll like it?"

Me: "How do you know anyone is going to like A GIFT that you give them? You just HOPE they like it. It's a GIFT."

Dan: *wait for it... wait for it...* "Want me to call and ask her if she wants it?"

So help me Jesus if I'm not swept up in the Rapture on the 21st for allowing this man to live to see daylight, someone is going to hear about it.

Dear God,

While I appreciate the Karmic Lessons of putting up with Dan and his mouth in this lifetime, I'm pretty sure I've made up for whatever terrible atrocities I committed in any previous existences by the mere act of not killing him yet. Please note that the only blood that was shed on the evening of October the 10th, 2011, was the tiny vein that popped in my head while he was talking. I'm hoping that this makes up for the time I accidentally dropped my ex-husband's dinner on the floor and the dog licked it but I put it back on his plate and served it to him anyway.

Your humble servant,

Dani

Things Dan Wishes He Hadn't Done, Part Infinity

I wish I could say this is the first time he's made this mistake, but I would be lying. He's actually done it before.

It's been one of those weeks. I'm bitchy, bloated, crampy, achy, miserable, hormonal, whiny, unpredictable, and craving Peanut Butter Snickers (which they don't carry anywhere in this Godforsaken place. ANYWHERE).

Pretty much, between the Pity Parties and the Pissing All Over Everyone Else's Parade, I've been a busy girl this week.

Then this happened:

Unfortunately, when it happened? I wasn't prepared. So I sent Dan to the store with a very explicit list AND A PHOTOGRAPH of what I wanted him to get. Because, like I said: He has made some serious errors in this area before.

He not only had the instructions of what to purchase on a list, he also had in his possession a cell phone with an equally explicit text message.

I literally left no room for error.

To recap:

1. He had a list. An explicit list.

2. He had a photograph on his phone of what to purchase.

3. He had an equally explicit text message on his phone, which he had on his person and could use to call if he had any questions.

Kotex.

No freaking wings.

I hate wings.

No brand except Kotex.

In this case, I have serious brand loyalty. There will be no deviation.

Maxi pads.

Long.

No more, no less.

And yet? He came home with this:

In case you're wondering, yes... those are, indeed, bladder control pads. Potty pads for pissy old ladies. It says so right on the bag. The bag also does not have the word "Kotex" anywhere on it.

Even sadder, he has done this exact same thing before. Exact. Same. Thing.

AND he did it at the Big M, where my reputation is already questionable. Now I'm a crazy lady with horrible taste in ring tones who can't tell the difference between chicken and fish and who also pees her pants.

Worst of all, I think I accidentally married a dumbass.

Because really? There is no other explanation.

Sorry, honey. I still love you. But I'm going to keep sending you to the store to buy me Kotex UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT.

It's the only way you're going to learn.

Happiness is: 5 episodes of Hoarders

I don't think I necessarily have ADD (and I definitely don't have ADHD, fo shizzle... I'm pretty sure if I did, I'd be thinner) but I do worry about the fact that I'm sooooo easily distracted by the most mundane things. For example, if there were a dead body on the side of the road, while everyone else was noticing the actual body, I'd be all, "Dude, seriously... those pants with that shirt? He probably died from embarrassment."

It's not that I'm heartless or insensitive (despite evidence to the contrary)... I just notice the little things. The really little unimportant things.

It's how I roll.

Take, for example, last night.

First, let me explain that I have a mild addiction to the show "Hoarders." I have no idea why... it's sad and tragic and horrible and disgusting (and it pisses me off... seriously, it does. Why do these people never have running water and flushing toilets?? I don't get it. How does never throwing anything away = bad plumbing? Also? Who in their right mind would let rabbits run loose and procreate all over their house and then be shocked by the fact that they leave a mess? Oh, and multiply at an alarming rate???) and yet there I sit, glued to the tv. I'm beyond ecstatic when there's a marathon on. If I can't sit there and watch it, I record it. Sad but true.

Anyway.

So, I had five episodes of Hoarders recorded that I was saving for a special occasion. I've been not feeling well for the past few days (female trouble... TMI? TFB. If I'm suffering from cramps, bloating, headaches, rampant bitchiness, and hormonal pity parties, everybody must suffer along with me. It's a rule) so I decided to treat myself to back-to-back viewings of my favorite show. (It was a comfort thing.) I was all cozy on the couch, snuggled up with my fleece tie-blanket, my fat, snoring pug, my spiked spiced cider and the remote, ready for a Filth Fest. Dan rolled his eyes and left me to it (he can't watch Hoarders with me... it triggers his gag reflex. What a GIRL).

Here are some snippets of the running commentary I had with the tv last night:

"Where the hell do they go to the bathroom?"

"OMG she killed a cactus? How do you kill a cactus?"

"Why is she hanging on to that freaking yellow muumuu? Is she saving it for a special occasion?"

"She has 40 bazillion piles of clothes and she can't find a bra to put on?" (Honestly, what is UP with the bra-less hoarding? It's like the bigger and saggier the tatas, the less likely they are to be tethered.)

"Why do these hoarders all have the same hair-do? Is there like a salon they go to where they say, 'I'll take one hoarders special, please.' Just because their house is a mess doesn't mean they have to have bad hair."

"Newspaper covering the windows? Are you trying to tell me that somewhere, in allll that stuff, you don't have any curtains? Just because you're filthy doesn't mean you have to be tacky."

"Dan! DAN! Come out here!"

Dan: *coming out* "What??"

Me: *rewinding* "That's a freaking Louis Vuitton suitcase under that pile!"

Dan: *giving me a look and leaving the room*

(What? It was a valid reason to drag him out to the living room. If he can interrupt my important television viewing to show me a video on youtube of a gorilla picking it's butt and then *gag* licking it's finger, HE can spend 2 minutes looking for an LV suitcase at the bottom of a hoard pile. It's called marriage. It's give and take.)

I know, I know. It's a sickness. While everyone else is focused on the mountain of dog and cat feces, I'm looking at the craptastic shoe hoard lying under it all and thinking, "Those aren't even cute shoes..."

*Sigh*

The Legend of Danook of the North

When Dan and I got together 10 years ago, my boys quickly gave him the nickname "Danook of the North." He was never cold and had a tendency to loudly proclaim his lack of body chill. If he went anywhere, no matter what the weather, he was in shorts, a sweatshirt, and some sandals. It was like cruising Walmart with Arctic Jesus... he walked on water and never seemed to get cold or wet. (Maybe he was more like Arctic Loud-mouth Jesus.)

Meanwhile, on the same given day, I would be ice cold, numb, and unable to feel my feet. The argument usually began when I would crank up the heater to 70 (I know... who does that, right? Who wants their house to be 70 degrees?) and Dan would immediately turn it down to 62.

I would huddle on the couch covered in seven layers of blankets, shivering and chattering and he would throw the windows open and inhale the hurricane force winds blowing into our house, swirling the 34 degree wind chill factor around our heads while he used words like, "BRACING!" and "INVIGORATING!" At the same time he would be calling the boys and I, who would all be clinging together for warmth like refugees abandoned on an ice flow, "A buncha PUSSIES."

Oh yeah, he was tough, our Danook. Tough and 100 lbs heavier than any given one of us but that was entirely beside the point. My scrawny kids and I were one giant goosebump while Dan worked up a sweat telling us stories about shoveling snow in his bare feet whilst growing up in the Snow Belt.

I would turn the heater up to 67, he would turn it down to 60. If (when) I complained about it, he would say, incredulously, "Dani! It's hot in here! You can't possibly be that cold!"

Even after placing my numb, white, icicles on his warm, fuzzy, belly to prove that I was, indeed, that cold (which he proved by screaming like a girl the second I touched him... yes, Dan, it is possible for me to be that cold) he would offer some lame suggestion like "Put on some gloves." (Because everyone wants to relax in their livingroom wearing gloves, a scarf, and a parka, right?)

Inevitably, smugly, and patronizingly (and annoyingly... did I mention annoyingly?), Dan would ask me: "What would you do if it was REALLY cold outside? You wouldn't be able to handle it in New York! Imagine 40 below and having to stand outside and scrape ice off your windshield..."

To which I would reply, " I don't have to worry about that, now, do I? If it was 40 below I would send YOUR ass out to scrape ice off my windshield. After all, YOU ARE DANOOK OF THE NORTH!! Or else I just wouldn't go anywhere. Seriously, dude. Duh."

And he would say, "What if you had to get to work and I wasn't there? Then what would you do, hmmmmm? What would you do if you had to work in 40 below weather?"

Me: "Ummmm... Not go? Where am I working in this mythical place where I'm scraping ice off of my windshield? Am I suddenly a manual laborer? I'll work indoors and have a garage and a personal assistant who'll scrape my ice for me, since we're making shit up that isn't going to happen..."

As it turns out, he got the last laugh because now apparently it IS going to potentially happen, since he dragged my native California ass to the frozen tundra of the Great White East.

Bastardo.

Anyway, it's been hot as BALLS (to quote my son, Brennan... when he was in Afghanistan, every time I sent him an email asking him how he was doing he responded by saying, "It's hot as BALLS here..." So I'm guessing that means it's really, really, really freaking hot) here this summer, which I assume is the Universe's little way of mocking me. ("Soooo... the little California girl was cooooold when it was 65 degrees? And she wanted it to be warrrrrrmmmmm? How about 95 with 1,237,948,564 percent humidity, hmmm? Warm enough for you? Bwaaahahahahaaaa!") and basically, I've been whining relentlessly since May. I don't think any part of my body has been dry for the past 5 months and quite frankly, it's sucked. Hard. Dan,on the other hand, has spent 5 months saying, "It's not THAT hot..."

Liar.

So something amazing happened yesterday... FALL CAME. It went from 80 degrees to 45 degrees, seemingly overnight. (Okay, it wasn't "seemingly overnight"... it actually was overnight. True story.) I have been so stinking happy about it that I've had all the windows wide open and have been inhaling cold, fresh air for the past 48 hours. My nose may be icy cold, I'm wearing 7 layers of clothes and am swaddled in blankets and my teeth chatter when I try to talk, but dammit... I'M NOT SWEATING. And I love it.

Meanwhile, Dan has suddenly turned into a little old Southern lady with the vapors fighting off a head cold.

Honestly. I'm like, "What the fuck? Where the hell is Danook of the North?"

He has been following me around closing windows, cranking up the heat, complaining that he's cold, and lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his neck shivering like a chihuahua in an ice storm. (Trust me when I say it's very difficult for a 260 lb man with a huge shaved head and a goatee to look pathetic while clutching a blanket up to his neck and trying to look like he's freezing. Rather than feeling sympathy, I have to fight the urge to dump ice water on him.)

Me: "Dan, the house is steaming up! It's at least 80 degrees in here! Crack a damn window!"

Dan: *through chattering teeth* "I'mmmm ffffffffreeeeezzzzzzziiiinnnnnggggg!"

Really? Really??

So after 10 years of freezing me to death in California, he's brought me to New York so he can cook me?

I smell a very large rat with a New York accent.