Posts Tagged 'dick husbands'

Glade Plug-ins are a cock block

Someone once told me my house smelled like a Jolly Rancher.  I remember it well.  Let me clarify; my memory is like my hearing.  Very selective.  I remember someone once telling me I walk like I have a board up my ass, I remember someone telling me that when I talk my mouth moves like I’ve done several lines of cocaine (What?? Thanks!)  And who could forget the brother-in-law who told me the caloric content of iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton’s.  Dick.  Beyond that, I can recall bits and pieces of whatever the fuck I choose apparently- or whatever my sister deems really happened.  She, of course, remembers swimming out of the birth canal.  But the Jolly Rancher compliment??  It always makes me smile.

I have always had a candle fetish.  I like potpourri and incense and cinnamon and tend to impulse buy any new contraption promising to deliver strong scents.  Gone are the days of candles alone!  Wax melts? Scentsy? Wallflowers?  Oil warmers? Febreeze Noticeables? Glade Plug-ins?  Yep, I have them all.  And God forbid when I find a scent I like.  Then I must purchase the spray, the designer one-touch spray dispenser, the decorative things that look like gel, the melting candle cubes, and whatever else I have a coupon for.  I am sure I would give the marketing director at Glade wet dreams.  I wish I could say the same!

The husband does not bitch about much concerning the interior of the house.  Not that he can.  It is an unspoken agreement that it is my domain.  He does not complain about the quantity of candles I purchase; nor does he give me shit about how much money I spend.  Not the he knows.  Another unspoken domain.  But he does not (physically) pay the bills and definitely does not (physically) clean the house.  So we are both happy.  Except for the electrical outlets that I whore out to all my little smell good friends.

We have three kids and a dog.  I do not want my house to smell like we have three kids and a dog.  Therefore, I keep the 16-year-old’s door shut, a three wick candle (or three) in the kitchen, and random plug-ins throughout the house.  I strive to be accommodating.  I make sure I leave one attainable electrical outlet near each of our end tables to allow the husband easy access to our ever disappearing phone chargers.  He still gets angry.  Apparently it is a fucking inconvenience to reach BELOW my plug in and use the other outlet.  Of course, this is only when he is sitting on a certain part of the couch.  If the charger is plugged into the bottom outlet, it does not quite reach past the arm of the couch which causes the husband to have to tilt his head slightly to the left.  Which apparently hurts his fucking neck.  If I move the plug in to the bottom outlet,  this hinders his ability to smoke a cigarette in the garage while using his charging phone.  This also causes him to have to more pronouncedly tilt his head.  Yes- I realize that a longer cord for the charger might solve this issue, but

1.  I REFUSE to buy anymore fucking chargers.  We have had seven I-phones in the past year and I still have purchased three new chargers; two of which we have left that the five of us fight over daily.

2.  It would still piss him off.  Like he mistakenly believes that the electrical outlets are his domain.

My solution?  Charge your fucking phone before you use it.  The husband charges his phone like he puts gas in his car; only when it is below empty  or at two percent.

So tonight the husband moved my plug in to another outlet.  When I noticed, I moved it back.  I figured one of the kids had moved it.  Nope.  So we argued about it for a few minutes.  I tried to rationalize.  I pointed out the fact he still had an available outlet but made the mistake of pointing out the laziness I associate with his lack of understanding.  I know it was a silly argument.  No matter.  He is in bed and I am on the couch enjoying my last Bass.  I will meander upstairs eventually; but I am sleeping with my clothes on tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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i fucking hate christmas(and people who won’t call it Christmas)

I am in a pissy mood.  I don’t necessarily have a reason either.  Sometimes, I like to think that because I have not had a period for the last 17 years that grants me pms days whenever the fuck I feel like it.  What set me off? I had just finished making dinner and my daughter grabbed a can of soda from the fridge.  She asked if she could pour it in a glass.  Let me explain.  I empty the dishwasher almost as much as I do laundry.  I fucking hate it.  While I was making dinner, I realized that the dishwasher had reached its maximum capacity.  However, I pride myself on my dish loading skills.  The husband wholly believes I should never have to load or unload the dishwasher.  We have three kids for Christ’s sake.  I agree.  But they, like him, tend to fuck shit up so they do not have to do it again.  No one in my household understands the concept of rinsing off debris from plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“What’s the point of washing the dishes before we wash them?”

I refuse to buy Cascade Complete.  Too fucking expensive.  I do, however, buy Cascade.  The off brands don’t seem to work as well.  Have you ever bought a generic magic eraser? Yeah- not the same.

So I questioned why the daughter needed a glass when she usually drinks soda straight from the can because the dishwasher was already full and the husband had just brought in 6 tumblers from his car that he toted his coffee to work in for the week.  Because God Forbid anyone(the husband) in my house uses anything(a  travelling coffee mug) for anything it was meant to be used for.

The husband gave me shit for giving my daughter shit (yeah- he understands) so I fell silent.  Because I am passive aggressive.  My best friend chose the next moment to call me, when I had already fast forwarded to all the reasons my life sucks right now; including but not limited to the fact that I need a vacation yet my husband gets motorcycles.

“Why did you call me?” I asked her.  Her turn.  She fell silent.

I tried to explain that she called in the middle of one of my “I’d probably be pms’ing if I had a period,” moments.  (God love Mirena!!)

I tried to assure her that it was NOT because she had told me a few hours earlier that she had most of her Christmas shopping done.  She has three kids too.  But they don’t count.  Because they are young and not demanding.  Her husband, on the other hand…

I am Jewish.  I do not like Christmas.  I grew up celebrating Chanukah (pick your own spelling!)  I never had the visceral experience of running down the stairs on Christmas morning and tearing into present upon present that Santa had delivered under an adorned Christmas tree.  Nope-Jews drag that shit out.  Over 8 days.  One year, before my daughter was born, the husband’s best friend gave each of our boys $100.  He gave kid #1 a hundred one dollar bills.  He gave kid #2 one $100 bill.  Kid #2 freaked the fuck out because he thought his brother received more money than he did!  Yup, sums up my thoughts on Christmas!

Two years ago, I asked the kids what they had gotten for Christmas the year before.  Not one of them could remember.  I told the husband, “No more! We are only buying them large, tangible gifts!”

And yet, I still find myself shopping Christmas Eve every year because we do not think we have bought them enough.

Another reason I hate Christmas?  Because my birthday is in December.  What a bunch of shit!  Every year I pray for cash.  So I can buy my ungrateful kids MORE presents.  Christmas music?? Pshaw.  Unless it is “Please come home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby.  The only Christmas song I love.

I am currently trying to arrange a Christmas get together for all of my high school friends and our kids.  Mainly because one of our friends works for Bath and Body works and I want to solicit her for discounted gift certificates.  Not necessarily for gifts; my candle infatuation is quite ridiculous.  But it makes a good cover.

“Just ask her! She’ll understand- she’s Jewish too!” my best friend said when I told her my plan.

She isn’t really.  She may have married a Jew but deep down she is as Jewish as I am.  Which boils down to CHEAP.

My other best friend agreed with I’ve- got- my- shopping- done best friend.

She has five kids- twins and triplets.  And I hate Christmas more?

I do, however, LOVE Thanksgiving!!

My best friend’s husband is a DICK

Really. He is.
I have great friends. I have several best friends. And then I have ‘Carol Green’. My best best friend.
I have known Carol Green since I was 5 or 6. Carol Green, her moniker, came into existence during high school out of sheer necessity. My mother was quadriplegic and I often times needed to leave school to check on her. More often, I did not. For 3 out of the 4 years I spent there, the school secretary thought the home health aide that worked with my mother was “Carol Green”. Carol Green called, and I left school. With Carol Green.
We were in Brownies together. We played softball in the same little league. One year we attempted to perform together in our elementary school talent show. I played the piano and she sang “The Rose.” I forget why it did not work out. We went to the coveted 8th grade dance together. And then we entered high school.
Carol Green has introduced me to every bad drug I have ever done.(She HATES when I say that!) I introduced her to her dick husband. Does that make us even?
I contemplated creating a separate category for Carol Green because I have so many Carol Green stories that I love. In fact, I may have if I understood how to navigate Word Press and this blog in general.
Carol’s birthday is in August. At the end of August. Like the 30th or the 31st. I am a horrible friend and can never remember. Hands down my favorite thing about Facebook! Last year she called me on December 9th to wish me a happy birthday. (My birthday is on the 10th). I fucking laughed.
Why is her husband a dick? He is a Virgo. So is she. In fact, I would have posted this entry a week ago but I had to remind myself about the ins and outs of Virgo personality and that led me to several hours perusing the internet about Virgo personality, Virgo married to Virgo, Sagittarius(me), Aries (the husband), and Sagittarius and Aries. Not that I blame EVERYTHING on Carol Green, but I promise I would not be so fascinated by the whole horoscope thing had I never cohabitated with her. She went through a phase where she would not date guys she was astrologically incompatible with.
“He’s cute but he’s a Libra!!”
Again, Carol Green tends to deny such accusations. She forgets because of the drugs.
I actually went on a date with said dick husband. He was friends with a good couple friend of mine. I drink a lot; which summarizes much of our date. We ended up going to visit Carol because she was home from the Navy. The dick was smitten. Granted, it was not until a nasty break up years later that I brought up the fact that the dick was smitten with her and suggested they go out.
The dick is not always a dick. But he is like the girl with the curl; when he is bad, he is very bad. He has female tendencies. He collects shit, tends to be controlling, and makes my husband look like a fucking angel.
Point in case. Carol purchased a membership to a popular gym. If she drafted a few of her friends to attend a class with her, she would receive a discount. I hesitated. I have joined a few gyms in my LIFETIME but this gym is particularly fueled by commission apparently. I run. I do not do squats and stupid shit like that. But Carol asked, so I obliged. I went to this anonymous gym with her and her buddy Jamarr immediately asked me to fill out paperwork. I sighed and picked up my pen. Should I change the last few digits of my cell phone number? Should I lie and say I do not believe in technological advances and therefore do not own a computer, making it virtually impossible that I could have an e-mail address? (Which, on a side note, is a Hotmail address which I never thought was outdated or passé until the husband’s sister laughed about it when she was trying to transfer me money from her Chase account. Bitch.)
I finished the paperwork and begrudgingly sweated through a cardio kick-your-ass class with Carol. Afterward, I lamented to Carol that I gave my real e-mail address and cell phone number to Jamarr. She did not understand. I told her Jamarr’s future now rested upon me joining his gym and that he would relentlessly bombard me with texts and e-mails. She innocently pretended to be surprised.
A few weeks later, I had had enough. Every time I call Carol on her cell phone, I am subjected to listening to some dumb ass country, Christmas, or Top 40 song I have no desire to ever hear again. Enter Facebook. I posted a message on her page that read:
“As much as I love and appreciate you, I think your blatant disregard (that is bordering upon complete subordination) of my musical preferences is driving me to reconsider your position in my friend hierarchy — you have now been replaced by Jamarr. He calls me more often anyway and I seriously doubt if I ever called him back that I would be subjected to Christmas, country or Pink. Ho ho ho”
Within 5 minutes of the posting, the dick had called Carol to ask, “Who the fuck is Jamarr?”
Carol is my rock. I love her more than my sister. I do not know who is crazier; my father or her mother. We have grown up together. (Maybe.)
Carol served in the Navy for 5 years. Hence, she was married twice. Isn’t that what people in the military do? Get married? Get more money? (And I’m the Jew!)
I missed her when she left for the Navy. Carol picked her tours well, though. She was stationed in San Diego and Hawaii. Which makes for a very happy best friend!
When she got stationed in San Diego, I drove cross country with her to help her move into her new digs. I was real gung ho about the trip until I slept with her ex boyfriend a few weeks before the trip (who ended up being husband #1) and remembered that every (2) bad car accidents I had ever been in occurred when Carol was behind the wheel. (Yeah- that was a real dick move on my part. Here’s where I blame it on the drugs.)
The drive was beautiful. Our soundtrack? Beck (top 5 concerts) and The Doors. I took one joint with me since Carol could no longer partake. Thank god she fell asleep in Arizona. I do not have the best memory. But I vividly remember smoking that joint! It was 7 a.m. and the blue sky was cloudless. Cacti bordered the ‘freeway’ and mountains peppered the horizon and The Doors blared from the car stereo. I can’t even remember which car(separate entry) of hers I was driving. Caroline woke up and I was completely enamored with the scenery. After asking me a random question, it took her all of 2 minutes to ask,
“Are you stoned??”
Hawaii? I flew. I went with another one of our friends. Carol lived outside of Oahu in a beautiful house. She embraced the Hawaiian lifestyle. (Her mom-when she chooses to talk to her- STILL gets mad when Carol asks her take her shoes off at her house!) The flight to Hawaii lasted FOREVER! Thank god for beer. They actually cut us off on the plane in the 7th or 8th hour. Don’t get me wrong. The attendants loved us. We had pretzels, countless wing pins(is that southwest?), and a handful of new best friends.
Carol greeted us in Hawaii and we drove to her house to throw a few things in a smaller suitcase to go stay in downtown Oahu for the night.
“Where’s the key to your suitcase?” Carol asked me.
“My suitcase doesn’t lock,” I slurred. Probably because I had made Carol stop and buy a bottle of Malibu. Malibu!! What??
Back to the airport we went. So my drunk ass could collect the right suitcase.
Hawaii stories stay in Hawaii. Bars open until 4 a.m.? $530 bar tab at 3:00 in the afternoon? Coconut bras? I’ll stop there. I will say I can not believe she ever moved back!
But I am thrilled that she did. I can’t decide if she will ever really like her dick husband. I mean, we all go through ups and downs. Sometimes he is really mean. Mine is too at times. I don’t know the answer. I just want her to be happy… because she makes me happy. This morning she sent me a text.
IMG_5085
And I fucking laughed.


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