Tormenting the Cat

Because we are old and have no children, we entertain ourselves by tormenting the cat with hi-tech gadgetry.

Yes, we need to Get a Life.

"I'm too sexy for yourself; too sexy..."

Sunday afternoon, 1:00 pm. Hubby is "suiting up" for a shopping marathon at Wally World.

From top to bottom his ensemble includes: a blue and gold ballcap from a community college; a gray and green Portland State University Athletics T-shirt; a pair of khaki Dockers with green paint splotches, holes and frayed hems; and a pair of ankle-high Red Wing workboots long past their prime. His hair is wild, he has a three-day beard stubble, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't bathed since early Friday morning.

He tucks in his shirt, loads up his pockets, then gives himself a last admiring look in the mirror.

Then he strikes a pose and starts singing, "I'm too sexy for yourself, too sexy for yourself, too sexy...."

Ah, yes, you are *waaay* too sexy for me honey. (eyeroll)

Tape Gun in the Bathroom

Hubby and I have been married almost 30 years. There are times when he asks questions of me he knows he probably shouldn't, but just can't help himself. Times, for instance, when I get quiet but he can see the wheels turning in my brain.

He knows I'm mentally chewing on something big and wants to know what that "big" involves. Namely, does it involve something he has done wrong or some project I want him to do? He's always on the alert for those kinda "bigs." Should he prepare himself for an ass-chewing or a trip to Home Depot? He wants to know.

More often than not my ponderings have nothing to do with him. I give him the long-married secret code reply that sets his mind at ease: "You don't really want to know." When we were younger he would press further, not satisfied with that answer so I would tell him what was on my mind. His eyes would glaze over and realize my original answer was succinctly accurate...he *really* didn't want to know.

The long-winded answer might include my ponderings on the metallurgy used in war-time coin minting, technologies of ancient Egypt, constructing woodworking jigs, and how all that relates back to wind turbines in west Texas. Yeah, you get the picture. Nobody wants to know that. But that's what I'm pondering at the time he asks.

Now that he is older and wiser, he takes the "You don't want to know" answer at face value. He also has learned I don't bother to ponder on ass chewings or fix-it requests. I just blurt those out the minute they pop in my head. But he still likes to check from time to time. Things may have changed when he wasn't lookin'.

The other day, he just couldn't help himself. He had to ask one of those questions.

He emerged from the bathroom with our tape gun in hand. It's a big honkin' tape gun; industrial handle, 400 yards of heavy-duty packing tape, and a Serious Business tape cutter that will take off a finger if you aren't careful. His voice has a quizzical timbre as he yells across the house to me....

"Honey, why is the tape gun in the bathroom????"

There is a long pause here on my part as I consider my answer. This is one of those "You don't really want to know" situations. It involves a long explanation about a Bad Hair Day which I imagine will lead to even more questions. None of those questions are worth asking or answering in the great scheme of things because the need for the tape gun in the bathroom has long passed and I just forgot to put it back in the drawer and they used tin in wartime pennies and wind-driven turbines in west Texas aren't yet fiscally practical because of start up costs versus the energy produced and the ancient Egyptians had some technology involving light bulbs with electric eels to light the dark insides of their tombs why can't Texans figure out that same technology and he does *not* want to know any of that.....

So there is a lengthy pause. I finally yell back:

"Sometimes ya just gotta tape stuff in there."

There is a long pause on his part as he considers my answer. While I didn't use the secret code words "You don't really want to know," he is quickly translating my response and decides that's what it means. He is also momentarily considering how a tape gun in the bathroom might have anything to do with the life cycle of cicadas, Aztec pottery shards, the manufacture of pink attic insulation, or something else he can't quite fathom.

He appreciates the fact I spared him from any of that explanation and groks that he is not in trouble nor is he required to break out the toolbox. Satisfied that all is right with the world and that he should let any sleeping dogs lie, he replies simply and quietly:

"I understand."

Smart man.

Who Stole my Bad Boy??? - Part Two

"We need to give you a haircut today. Your hair is looking pretty wild."

"How do you expect me to be a Bad Boy if you keep cutting my hair?"

"It's not wild as in 'Bad Boy, Easy Rider, Born to be Wild' wild; it's wild as in 'Einstein, forgot to put your pants on, mentally unbalanced' wild."

"Maybe that's the look I'm going for."

Who Stole my Bad Boy???

I married myself a Bad Boy. He was wild, had long hair, a leather jacket, a chopper motorcycle, and a switchblade in his boot. Even when he was cleaned up and wearing a nice suit he looked like he would kill you if you looked at him wrong.

I was in love. Momma was scared for my life. My girlfriend said he was "musty."

Then something happened, I don't know what. He cut his hair, got a respectable job, and sold his motorcycle. Now he drives my Granny Ride.

He was up early this morning playing on the Internet and didn't hear me behind him. I expected him to be looking at hot bimbo lesbian porn or something like that. You know what I caught him Googling???

Ziggurats of Mesopotamia, Sumerian water wheels, and ancient Assyrian history.

Who stole my bad boy and left me this geek?

He needs to find that switchblade again and cut the tape off his glasses.

Hubby has PMS

Hubby jumps up suddenly and announces he's going to the store for ice cream. Asks me if I need anything. Yes, milk and lettuce.

Here's what he bought:


...and milk and lettuce.

Submit!

"...and unto thy neighbor's husband be dominatrix."
I PETER 3:2



When we passed this sign today, I looked at Hubby and asked, "Did that say 'Wife submit to your husband'?"

"Yep."

"OH! OH! OH! Go back, go back! I've gotta get a picture of that!"

"I AM NOT turning around. You can take a picture next trip."

"NO NO NO! Turn around now! Pull in right there! (pointing wildly) Right there! Right THERE!"

Hubby sighs and hangs head in resignation. He swings the truck around in a parking lot and heads back down the highway.

"Pull in there, in the second driveway, on the far side of the sign."

"Yes dear."

"Roll down your window...now lean back a little...pull forward just a smidge."

"Yes dear, yes dear, yes dear (sigh)."

The irony of the situation is not lost on Hubby.

I take a few shots and we pull back out on the highway. I start laughing.

Hubby heaves another big sigh.

"You're gonna blog about this, aren't you?"

Smirk.

I don't think I would make a very good Churchachrister.

Minimizing the Damage

Hubby wants to go out to eat. I'm looking pretty rough - wrinkled sweats, no makeup, hair in a ponytail. Ewwww. I don't really want to be seen in public.

Me: "I look too rough to go out."

Hubby: "It doesn't matter, you're always beautiful. Just brush your hair and put on some shoes."

He's so sweet.

I putter around in the bathroom for quite a while.

Hubby: "What are you doing in there???"

Me: "Putting on earrings to minimize the damage."

I don't think it helped much.

Sigh.

Rainy Day Nuthin

A cold, drizzling rain was falling when I woke up this morning. Hubby yelled from the kitchen, "Do you want to skip sheetrocking today and stay home?" I yelled back, "More than life itself!"

So we flopped around in our PJs all day and watched West Wing and numerous episodes of Law & Order. We ate cold pizza for breakfast and warmed over pizza for supper. It was heavenly.

********************************

Cheezburger the Porch Cat has decided he likes it inside better than outside. I won't allow him in until late at night after everyone else has gone to bed. He gets rambunctious with the old lady cats and I don't want them to have a heart attack due to his presence. Poor Chelsea is a rickety 16 years old and she just can't take the excitement.

Cheezburger stayed in all night last night and went outside this morning to eat breakfast. When he was finished he wanted right back in. I'm standing at the front door looking down at him with his nose glued to the storm door waiting for it to open. Hubby is piled up nearby with his coffee and the morning newspaper.

"Your cat wants back in," I say to Hubby.

"So let him in" he replies from behind the paper.

I ponder that a moment. Cheezburger has been in for eight hours or so and he has just eaten breakfast. He probably hasn't left the porch since it's raining. He probably needs to pee and poo and I don't want that happening in the house.

Looking down at the cat I ask, "Have you taken your morning poop somewhere???"

"Yep" replies Hubby very matter-of-factly from behind the sports section.

"Not you, the cat."

Sigh.

Don't old people inquire about each other's colonic activity? Geez. And why would I have included the 'somewhere' part if I was asking Hubby? That's a little more than disturbing. We only have one potty.

"Have you taken your morning poop somewhere Honey?"
"Yep."
"Where exactly?"

I wouldn't want to step in it or anything.


************************************

Cheezburger still has the quick wits of an outside mouser and chases anything that moves. He was sitting on Hubby's desk when something up in the air caught his eye. He meowed that "I'm gonna eat that" meow and started pacing back and forth trying to figure out how to get to it. I couldn't see anything but guessed he had spied a bug up there somewhere. He continued to mewl and started to climb the bookcase.

Finally I figured out he was after the second hand on the wall clock! He worked at it quite a while, long enough for me to get a picture.



This is one big honkin' cat by the way. He is all meat and muscle, so very unlike our little lightweight old lady housecats. If he gets between your feet it's like tripping on a cinderblock.

************************************



Smirk.

Sheetrocking, The Saga Continues

The demo work at the farmhouse is complete. New thermal pane windows have been installed. A new closet has been framed out. (Please let my calculations for the rough opening be correct.) All critter holes in the exterior siding have been plugged, screened, caulked, and tarpapered over. Exterior walls have been insulated. Wiring has been run for the closet light. All sheetrock has been hung and the first round of tape and mud has been applied. That's seven days of work since finding the snake if anybody is keeping track.

Hubby and I have decided we are too old and out of shape to do construction work for more than two days at a time. We work two days and rest two days. Of course each day of work involves a three hour round trip driving over the back roads of rural Arkansas in a work truck. The trip alone beats us up pretty good and Hubby is already tired when he arrives to start work.

Friday we started the taping and mudding phase. Mudding sheetrock is probably the worst task on a rehab job. We learned how to mud sheetrock by trial and error so there is probably an easier way to do things. We've also probably forgotten a few tricks we learned along the way because too many years pass between sheetrocking projects. Of course each time a room is completed I vow I'll never sheetrock again, but somehow I keep getting dragged back into these farmhouse projects. The good thing about our inexperience is that no matter what we do, no matter how many mistakes we make, it always looks 100 times better than it did. Our motto: "It ain't perfect, but it's better than it wuz."

Saturday we sanded down the first mud. I forgot that sanding sheetrock is actually a worse job than mudding. We wear masks but I know half a pound of gypsum dust is probably sitting in my lungs right now; they are on fire. I always wonder if I'll end up with sheetrock dust pneumonia. My neighbor ended up in the hospital for seven days with it when they remodeled their living room.

Hubby put a box fan in the window to help exhaust some of the dust. He set it up on the sill, looked down at it, took it back out of the window and starting taking the grill off.

Let me pause for a moment in the story and tell you about my husband's obsession with box fans. We have two in our house that run 24/7. He loves the noise and the blow. I hate the noise and the blow. He is obsessive about keeping them clean. He periodically takes them completely apart and cleans them with a toothbrush and toothpick. Nary smidge of dust nor cat hair is tolerable on the precious box fans. In truth they would probably last a lot longer if he would clean them a little less fastidiously and a lot less often.

So he starts taking the grill off the box fan at the farm. I'm thinking, "Hellz bellz boy, don't clean the fan now, clean it after we get through sanding. A cat hair isn't gonna hurt a damned thing with this mess!" I go over to rip him a new one and I see what he sees. There is a dead mouse in the fan. Fairly large, healthy looking mouse except he's dead and all. Now how in tarnation did a mouse get inside a box fan? He was too big to fit through any space in the grill, and the housing of the fan was metal. It's a mystery, but there he was. Somehow he got in and couldn't get out and died in there. Ugh.

You will note I mentioned cat hair. Yes, there are four cats at the farm. Indoor cats. Worthless beasts apparently. I vote to turn them out and let them become hawk or coyote food. Might as well be good for something. Obviously they are not mousers.

So add one more dead critter to the list. (The mouse, not the cats.)

Having all these wild critters in the house without me knowing they were there would give me a big ol' case of the heebie jeebies. But that's life on a farm. Hubby's momma wouldn't trade it for nuthin'.

I'm glad I'm a city girl.

The Road to Sheetrock

Friday night Hubby comes home and tells me I have to hang sheetrock the next morning. Oh joy. Hubby is in the process of rehabbing his mom's old farmhouse...again. This time it's the living room and her bedroom.

She wanted new hardwood floors and once the old carpeting was ripped out she thought new windows would be nice. Oh, and a new hearth, and crown molding, and while you're at it.... Sigh.

The living room got demolished down to the studs. Hubby and his brothers finished the demo last weekend. During the week Hubby replaced the windows, repaired the exterior wood siding, replaced rotten studs, rewired electrical outlets, and insulated the exterior walls by himself.

The next step was to hang new sheetrock but he couldn't do that alone. All three of his big, strapping brothers suddenly and mysteriously had other plans for the weekend. That left me. Oh, my joy was immense.

I've been going to bed about 6:00 am and getting up around the crack of noon. Hubby told me I had to be in the truck ready to leave at 9:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and that was too late as far as he was concerned. We have an hour and a half drive to get to the farm and daylight was a-wastin'. The late hour was a concession to me.

I'm not a morning person, especially not after just two hours of sleep, and knowing I'm going to have to spend the day hanging sheetrock. I step out the door Saturday morning to find Cheezburger the Porch Cat has had a successful night hunting. He left us a dead baby mole and a skullless (sic?) mouse. The face is still there but the top of the head is missing. The little mouse brain is still in place and shining bright pink in the morning sun. Barf. How did Cheezburger manage that I wonder?

I stagger out to the truck and hunker down in a rather foul mood. The black cloud of seething resentment is visible over my head. My brain had not yet began to function. I need caffeine. Hubby knows not to speak to me or I'll rip him a new one. He brought Pepsi out of self preservation.

We drive in silence for about 15 minutes. We pass a church sign that reads, "Pray for the harvest, but continue to hoe." My brain couldn't quite comprehend what that was supposed to mean, either at face value or in a biblical sense. The Pepsi had not yet kicked in. After a few minutes it registered.

Then I smirked.

Pook! My little devil horns pop out. I break the long silence.

"I *so* want to steal me an "E".

Hubby smirks.

"You are so bad."

Bwahahahaha. He knew exactly what I was talking about. We have lived together waaaaay to long.

A few more miles down the road, there was a dead coon splattered on the center line. Five feet away was a mangled deer. I wondered if the deer was on his way to sniff the dead coon when he got hit, or the coon was en route to sniff the dead deer. It was odd. Of course I had to ponder on that a while.

There were so many dead critters on the road we started keeping count. Final tally: 5 deer, 3 coons, 2 possums, 1 skunk, 2 armadillos, 3 cats, 1 dog, 1 chicken, and a goat. Yep, a goat. Have no idea where he came from. Somebody is gonna be really mad when they figure out they've lost a goat.

A few more miles down the road was a little man walking along pulling a little utility cart thingy loaded with his belongings. Hubby said he had seen the guy walking through Our Town a few days earlier. Dude must be walking cross country. Sign on the back of the cart: "REVOLT - Fight for Jesus." Wasn't Jesus a pacifist??? Oh, the irony.

Touch the Money

I joined an on-line sketching group called "Everyday Matters." They have a weekly challenge to draw ordinary objects around the house. Since I'm such a hermit I thought that would be right up my alley.

This week's challenge was to draw paper money. The moderator said it would be interesting to see all the different kinds of money from around the world. Hubby has a small collection of international coins and paper money so I got him to dig it out. I picked a dozen of the prettiest and most interesting bills and laid them out to start the sketch.

My brain apparently was a bit Type-A with this challenge and decided a quick sketch wasn't going to be good enough. It turned out to be a full-blown art project.

I seriously underestimated the time it would take to draw 12 monies. I could only get about two done per day before my eyeballs exploded. I have a whole new appreciation for counterfeiters.

More than once I thought I would just give up and call it done. I pulled a Herculean drawing session last night and finally finished. I'll get to that in a minute but first I want to tell you a story.

I'm still a little kid at heart and when I draw I crave instant gratification of praise and encouragement. When I finish a drawing I squeal at Hubby, "Wanna see?" He, of course, has the patience of Job so he always say yes.

After each bill was finished I would trot over with the sketchbook and lay the real dollar next to the drawing for comparison. He would coo appropriately and pat me on the fanny and say, "Very nice" because, ya know, he has the patience of Job and knows with appropriate pacification I'll cook him dinner.

So, I finish the third bill in the series (the red and yellow Philippines one) and trot it over to him.


Instead of the usually nonchalant, "Very nice", he sits up, puts on his glasses, intently studies the drawing for a minute, then runs his finger across it.

"Why did you touch it like that???"

"I thought you had glued a color photocopy to the page and I was feeling for the edge."

Wheeeee! That's some high praise there. If someone thinks you faked it, you're doing a good job. It made my day. He got chicken fried steak for dinner that night.

Here is the finished drawing with all its warts and glory. (Click to embiggen)



Some of my favorite bits are these two portraits. They are the size of a thumbprint to give you some idea of the scale. This is some eyeball-killin' work with a ballpoint pen, lemme tell ya what.





And I really liked how this temple came out. It's about the size of a thumbprint too.



For the next EDM drawing challenge I don't think I will be so ambitious. My old eyeballs just can't take it.

Uvulan Violets

No, I have no idea where this stuff comes from. It just pops in my head and won't go away.

Yes, I'm weird.

---

That was going to be the entirety of the post for today until this conversation with Hubby:

I saw your sexual flower drawing...

It's not sexual.

I don't get it.

Get what?

The joke.

(sigh) It's not sexual and there is no joke. It's just a weird flower thingy I drew. A *uvula* (waggly finger pointing at mouth) is that little hangy down thing in the back of your throat. You're thinking of a *vulva*. I'm not sure what a vulva is but I think I've got one somewhere in my panties.

---

Well, obviously I need to tell the backstory of this drawing.

This flower thingy is something that's been stuck in my head and I needed to draw it out so it would go away. The crux of it is the balloony "E" shape. The shape itself was what got stuck in my head.

I saw it as a sci-fi futuristic flower that was red with a darker maroon interior. The whole drawing was supposed to be bright, bold colors with thick black lines. I tried drawing it digitally, but it just wasn't satisfying.




For my soul to be happy I need to feel the swooping motion of pen against paper. There is something timeless about old-fashioned drawing that digital just doesn't satisfy for me, so I dragged out my paper and crayons.

After drawing and outlining my sketch, I had the option to color it with Sharpies or colored pencils. While Sharpies would get me the rich color I wanted, the palette is rather limited and I can't blend the colors. The pencils are more forgiving of mistakes and I can blend the colors for life and depth. So pencils won.

When I draw I start out with an image in my head and try to capture it on paper. I know what the finished product should look like, but somewhere in the process the drawing takes on a life of its own and decides to be something else entirely. I end up being just a poor sap with a pencil who is along for the ride. Such was the case with these flowers.

After the drawing demanded the colors and shading it wanted, the flowers ended up looking like that little hangy down thing in the back of your throat with a tongue behind it. The heart-shaped leaves looked like the leaves of the wild violets that grow around here. So I titled it Uvulan Violets and called it done.

I tried to explain all this to Hubby. I even did a quick sketch with Sharpies to show him the flowers were actually supposed to be sci-fi looking, not sexual. I hold up this sketch to Hubby.



See???? Now does that look sexual???

He starts in with that husband-caught-with-his-ass-in-a-crack patter where his voice goes up a couple of octaves and is accompanied by much arm flinging.

I didn't know what it was supposed to be I thought you had drawn some girly parts flower picture with ovaries and vulvularies and I didn't get the joke I don't know what all those vulvulary things are or why you drew them as flowers......

Vulvularies. (grin) Yep, Hubby makes up words as he goes along too. As he is flinging around and ranting, I look up vulva on Wikipedia and read him what is says.

A vulva is, "the region of the external genital organs of the female, including the labia majora, mons pubis, labia minora, clitoris, bulb of the vestibule, vestibule of the vagina, greater and lesser vestibular glands, and vaginal orifice."

I stand up, circle my hands in my crotch area, give a little Michael Jackson hip thrust in Hubby's direction and say in a cutesy, squealy little girl voice:

A vulva is a *chootchie*!

His face brightens considerably thinking he has been proven correct.

Yeah, a chootchie! You drew a chootchie flower!

(sigh)

Uvula. It's that little hangy down thing in the back of your throat....

Disorganization Station

Normally I'm an organized person. There is a place for everything and everything in its place. I'm not Sleeping-with-the-Enemy obsessive about it, but I do have to be organized living in a tiny house or else I would go crazy.

Since Hubby has been home all day, every day, for months, my organization has gone to pot trying to keep him busy and entertained. I try to keep a list of honey-dos on the fridge at all times so he can occupy himself without bothering me. He washes the dishes every morning before I get up. Good boy.

He also likes to clean things. For today he was supposed to scrub the microwave, stove, vent hood, and toaster oven. Then he was supposed to crawl in the attic and fix the hot water tank exhaust pipe. He got all that accomplished before noon. Crap. He scrubbed all the paint off the underside of the vent hood. On tomorrow's list: replace vent hood.

Anyway, when he can find nothing else to do, he tidies up and organizes things. Not that I'm complaining, but he has rearranged the office closet three times in the last six weeks. The house is looking great. The problem is when he doesn't know immediately what to do with something he puts it on my desk. That would include:

1) This isn't mine, it must be hers;
2) I don't know what this is and if I throw it away she will yell at me;
3) I don't know where this is supposed to go and if I put it in the wrong place she will yell at me;
4) Any piece of paper.

So, today I sat down in my computer nest to draw. I couldn't even see my desktop there was so much junk on it. I didn't know where to start making it better. It stressed me out just thinking about the task, so I played a few games of spider solitaire, paced outside, drank a Pepsi, paced a little more, a few more games of solitaire, and more pacing. I finally decided I would go back inside, face the monster, and put one thing in its rightful place. Just one. Ya gotta start with one.

It gets more complicated if you understand I actually have two desks, a file cabinet, and four open shelves in my computer nest. I started picking out three-dimensional objects and leaving the paper to sift to the bottom to be dealt with last. I pulled everything out of the shelves that didn't belong. I was amazed at the crap that had accumulated that really lived somewhere else.

Some of the junk:

- old Rx sunglasses
- empty glasses case
- 5 bottles of fingernail polish
- fingernail polish remover
- container of cotton balls and Q-tips
- tube of hand lotion
- 2 tubes of hydrocortisone cream (one dead, one good)
- hairbrush
- pliers
- 2 screwdrivers (one flat, one Phillips)
- 2 half rolls of toilet paper
- bottle of 409
- 2 gardening magazines
- 2 big manila envelopes that came in the mail at least three weeks ago (unopened)
- 3 old car tag forms
- a glow-in-the-dark keychain fob with my name on it
- a ream of cardstock
- about 50 drawings in various stages of completion
- a bucketload of art supplies (this took up 1/4th of the surface space)
- 3 piles of paperwork for research projects
- 4 old hometown newspapers
- Sunday comics section from about a month ago
- the cats' flea comb
- a string of Christmas lights
- an acrylic serving tray
- an American history book
- a book of poetry
- my recipe book and a pile of loose recipes
- 3 small spiral notebooks all marked "blog fodder"
- a stack of freebie notecards received in the mail
- 3 freebie newspapers from over a month ago
- paperwork on the new hot water heater
- paperwork on the printer purchased two months ago
- warranty information on his truck
- 25 bits of paper that have phone numbers, addresses or passwords I need to record in the Rolodex
- my dead iPod, and
- 4 karaoke CDs (where the hell did *those* come from???)

That was all in addition to what should be there like the computer, printer, lamp, phone, file organizer, and office supplies organizer; bills, address books, phone books, dictionary, and thesaurus.

Yep, I was up to my eyeballs in the flotsam and jetsam of life. It took the better part of eight hours to get the computer nest and surrounds tidy and livable. I still have a stack of paperwork that needs to be dealt with but my brain was too tired to care. That's on the list for tomorrow.

Then I starting cleaning. It's been too long since Pledge was swiped across my desk for there was a wad of furry dust behind my computer monitor that looked suspiciously like a dead cat. I dusted up about two more by the time all was said and done. Sheesh!

So finally I had a clean space to draw. My brain wasn't up to pithy comic generation, so I decided to just sketch whatever. I tried drawing my normally comatose cat, but she figured out I was looking at her too intently and kept warily shifting positions. I switched my gaze over to Hubby's office nest, very tidy of course, and drew that instead. Here's the daily view from my computer chair:


I probably should say something interesting about this drawing, but my brain is dead.

Love Notes

Valentine's Day is a day filled with landmines for guys. They never are quite sure what to get their girl so they fall back on the old standards: cards, flowers, candy, perfume, jewelry, lingerie. They never do figure out what is the "just right" gift. Any of those can have a negative connotation for the girl depending on her hormone level that day, or the length or stability of the relationship as a whole.

Sometimes, though, it's the little things that show how much a guy loves a girl. Things a guy might not think about.

Case in point:

My sweet hubby has never failed to delight me with some little something on Valentine's Day because he is a big ol' sweetie. I'm assuming he will order flowers because I love flowers, carnations specifically (I hate roses.) He may even remember to get a card too.

But this year, it really doesn't matter if he buys me anything at all. You see, I stumbled upon a testament of his love for me quite by accident.

I was rummaging around in his desk the other day and found an envelope stuck way back in the back of the drawer. The front was labeled, "Notes from Speck." Obviously it didn't say "Speck", but you get the point.

I opened it to find little stick 'em notes I've left for him around the house, in his lunchbox, stapled to his briefcase handle. There are more saved in his papers here and there. I run across them from time to time.

The fact that hubby thinks these little notes are treasures worth saving made my heart fill with love for him. He must love me real much to save such mundane stuff as this.





I think I'll keep him around a while.

Happy Valentine's Day Honey Bunny.
I heart you real much.
Love 147.

It's Good to be The King

Mr. Pibb, our tomcat, has declared himself to be Alpha Male of the household, much to the chagrin of Hubby.

Pibb is the only male critter to ever live with us. All our doggies and kitties have been female. Hubby loves living with a bunch of females, his "girls" as he calls us. Yes, I'm included in that. He spoils us all rotten and we love all over him. He eats that up with a fork and spoon. Purrs all around. Hubby likes being king of his harem.

Well, Pibb has thrown down the gauntlet. He has decided he wants to be king and has challenged Hubby's sovereignty over the household.

The first show of dominance was Friday evening. Hubby was laying in bed reading when suddenly he bolted from the bedroom with Pibb at arm's length and a mortified look on his face. He unceremoniously dumped Pibb on the front porch.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" I asked.

"He was humping my leg!!!!" Hubby exclaimed, obviously all meshuganah.

"So what??? Why did you put him outside?"

"I didn't want cat spooge on my ankle."

(gales of laughter)

"Honey, I think Pibb just made you his bitch."

Hubby hung his head dejectedly, and I laughed and pointed. Hubby pouted for the remainder of the evening and Pibb was banished to the great outdoors.

Saturday Hubby was working at his computer. Pibb chirped at him then jumped in his lap. Pibb crawled on his shoulders, walked along the back of the chair, then started biting Hubby on the ear. Hubby interpreted this behavior as "Pet me NOW dammit!" so he got Pibb into his lap and started petting him. Pibb wriggled free down on the floor. Then Pibb repeated the same lap, shoulders, back, ear biting sequence. Hubby stood up and Pibb jumped into the chair and curled up for a nap. He didn't want pets, he wanted the chair.

Hubby looked down at Pibb just speechless. He couldn't believe he had just been reamed by a cat. He had that same mortified, pouting look. I once again laughed and pointed. Hubby hung his head and sulked off to retrieve a wooden dining table chair.

Hubby worked in that hard chair for the remainder of the afternoon while Pibb slept in the plush, ergonomically-designed computer chair. Much teasing and laughing ensued with Hubby looking gloomier and gloomier.

So this afternoon Hubby declared we were going shopping.

"Shopping??? For what???"

"A new office chair."



Now there are three chairs in our office: Mine, Hubby's and Pibb's.

Tonight Hubby looked down at Pibb napping in his old chair and said, "I hope you're happy now you damned cat."

Pibb just chirped and stretched, turned belly up, and poked his little pink tomcatness out at Hubby.

Yep, it's good to be the king.

Sunday Morning

The cat woke me up this morning. He was making kitty biscuits on the back of my leg in a dreamy-eyed kitty orgasm rhythm. The other two kitties were big furry lumps piled up on the other side of Hubby.

Hubby was asleep beside me, all snuggled and spooned to my body with an arm draped across the small of my back. He was snoring softly like a big jungle cat purr.

I looked at the clock; 12:00. The sun was shining brightly outside and here we were, all five of us, asleep in a heap at high noon. It was cold outside the quilts, the benefit of living in an old house...good sleeping weather. It was warm under the pile of covers and I was not in a big hurry to move from my spot. I turned over and snuggled closer to Hubby and watched him sleep.

Little gray flecks are starting to appear in his hair that weren't there last year. Likewise there are wild gray hairs in his moustache that quirk around funny and tickle his nose. I knew behind the sleeping eyelids were a pair of crystalline blue eyes that made me fall in love with him all those years ago.

I could smell his skin all warm and male. I marvelled at his maleness, so different than my femaleness, that made my teeth sweat. I watched him breathe oh so softly.

He roused a just a little when I turned over. He is vaguely aware that I am here beside him along with all three of his kitties and is happier at this moment than any man should be allowed. The beginnings of a smile are curling up at the corner of his mouth.

I laid there watching him, all full of love for this warm, snugly human being who thought sharing himself with me and the cats was a Good Thing.

I thought: These are the magic moments in life, the times that make life worth living. Let me remember this moment because there might not be another one.

Life Rule #37: If you wake up on a cold Sunday morning and find a warm, naked man under the covers with you, STAY THERE. The best is yet to come.

Daddy's Home!

Each day when Hubby comes home from The Daily Grind, I stop what I am doing, run to the door, and greet him happy squeals of "Daddy's Home! Daddy's Home!" He gets a big hug and some sugars. The cats and the dog join in the commotion making all kinds of happy critter noises. It is the highlight of his day and ours. This has been our routine for as long as I can remember. Yes, we call each other "Mommy" and "Daddy" even though all our "children" have fur.

I started the "Daddy's Home!" routine after a conversation with my father. He told me how he never felt as though anyone cared whether he came home or not. He related a story about how he had returned a day early from a two-week trip. (I actually remember this incident.) He opened the door with a bright smile and said, "Hi honey, I'm home!" Mom looked at him rather annoyed and replied, "What are you doing home early???" His smile faded and he stammered that he finished up sooner than expected and they let him go home early. His shoulders sagged as he dragged his suitcase into the house. Mom turned and went back to what she was doing. That was one helluva welcome home.

As I thought about it more, nobody ever greeted him with a smile or a hug; not me, not Mom, not my sisters. I can understand why he felt that way. Poor man, it's a wonder he ever came home at all.

I decided right then that I would not be the wife my mother was. I will greet my hubby at the door with a smile and a hug whether I feel like it or not, whether he's coming home from work, returning from a round of golf, or after running errands for a few hours. I do this because I *am* happy he came home. The world is a big, ugly place with evil forces that can keep my baby from me. One day he may not come home ever again.

I also figure that if I don't welcome him home, some other female surely will....and I'm not talkin' about one with paws.

Diarrheagram Oil Derrick

Here is what you do when you have too much time on your hands.



This is (obviously) an oil derrick. I made it for some project at Hubby's school.

I looked up photos of old wooden oil derricks to develop a pattern, then kinda fudged around with the measurements to find a happy proportion. I was afraid I was in over my head and had made it too detailed, but without all that detail it would have looked cheesy. It ended up having 164 parts and taking the better part of two days to build. I'm really proud of it because it came out just like I had envisioned it. That's rare.

Hubby and I were dancing around with glee because his oil derrick will be the best piece in the "diarrheagram", his scornful word for diorama. He hates dioramas, especially the ones made in pizza boxes, but I digress.

As we stood admiring the finished product, I said, "I have far too much time on my hands."

Hubby replied, "We need to get a life."

We have a life, it's just waaaay different from everybody else's.

You're Doing It Wrong

Sometimes I watch Hubby struggle with a project. He's struggling because he didn't make good plans for the project before he started. That makes me cringe because he usually ends up doing it the most difficult way possible and ending up with less than stellar results. I try not to be the Control Freak and add my two cents, but sometimes I just can't help myself. I offer, "Try doing it this way honey," and show him an easier solution.

He doesn't interpret this as help, he interprets this as condemnation of his male abilities and hears, "You're doing it wrong." He "hears" this from every woman in his life...his mother, sisters, sisters-in-law, and female coworkers. He thinks it is a female conspiracy.

Now when I find him piddling on some project, I ask, "Whatcha doin'?" Whatever he says, I immediately follow it with, "You're doing it wrong." He expects me to say that, so I go ahead and get it out of the way right up front.

At a funeral recently, the funeral director had locked his keys in his truck. Hubby had a Slim Jim and offered to try to get the truck open. He tried for a while, gave up, and let me take a crack at it. I opted for the coat-hanger-on-the-handle route since I don't know how to run a Slim Jim. I was marginally successful, but still didn't get the door open. Behind me I could hear Hubby telling the funeral director the story of women and "You're doing it wrong."

Hubby tried again with the Slim Jim, but was getting nowhere fast. Then our 9-year-old niece Jen wandered up. She watched Hubby for a while, then finally couldn't stand it any longer. She said, "Gimme that. You're doing it wrong."

Hubby shot the funeral director a knowing look and the funeral director burst out laughing. Hubby looked at me to see if I had been coaching her. I shrugged and said, "It's a Girl Thing."