Bread Crumbs In The Butter

He Had It Coming

I can see the judge now.

"Mrs Hubert, how do you plead?"  He'll give me that stern look reserved for the worst offenders.

"Your Honour" I'll say. "I plead guilty, but I do have something to say in my defence!"

I hope he'll let me speak. I plan to bat my eyelashes and cry a bit. That gets me out of tickets, so it has to work on a murder charge, no?

"You see, Your Honour, on Sunday afternoon, May the sixteenth, I had a hankering for cherry pie. Not just a regular cherry pie, but one of those awesome Farmer's Market cherry pies. You know the ones? They cost a frigging fortune, but they're so good that I didn't care. I got one.  And well, you see, there was one piece left after my family ravaged it.  Just one piece!"

"And what did you do with that piece?" The judge will say.  At this point, my tears will be flowing freely and he'll be wondering where the hell I am going with this.

"I saved it in the fridge. I knew that Monday at work would be busy and awful, so I wanted to know that little slice of heaven was waiting for me in the fridge. It would make my day so much better."

At this point, the judge will get impatient with me. Let's face it, I'm stammering about pie.

"Mrs Hubert, what does this have to do with you bludgeoning your husband and burying him behind your barn?"

"Well, you see Your Honour Sir..." Right about now I will have mascara streaming down my face and hair so disheveled I will look pathetic. "At about noon John sent me a text message."

"Saying what?"  the judge will ask, curious and suspicious.

"That he had eaten the pie!"  Tears will flow, snot will bubble and my heart will break in agony. "But that's not the worst part! My husband, the father of my children and disposer of dead mice took a picture of the empty pie plate and then texted it to me"

My case will be dismissed you know.

What he did to me today was the very definition of justifiable homicide.

Watch how you open the door!

I wasn't feeling so hot Saturday night. In fact, I was feeling very hot. I had a fever and some chills going on. I'll spare you the details, but it's all good now.

All that too-much-information stuff aside, John and I settled in early and ordered a movie. I was beyond excited because I had been dying to see "Zombieland" forever!  I was all snuggled and toasty (for real, I was burning up!) and very much enjoying the bowl of salt and vinegar chips I had in my lap.  All of a sudden, and if you've seen the movie you know what I'm talking about, a freaking scary-ass clown comes up under the bathroom stall where the films' star is doing his business.

It's one of those flash quick, freak-you-out as you fall asleep images that will haunt me for a long time.

Let me tell you now, that clowns scare me. A lot. Not only that, but I'm going to tell you a nice story of the time John had a clown come to the door of my parents house when I turned twenty years old. 

The year was 1995.  I had just returned home from my first year away at school and John was very glad to have me back in Ottawa.  Determined to convince me not to leave and to transfer here to Carleton University, he really poured on the charm.  Dinners out. Sweet nothings in my ear. And promises. Promises of the best birthday gift EVER.

I was convinced it was a dog. So convinced that I would have bet my entire student loan cheque on the fact that come June 30, John was going to show up at my door with the world's most adorable golden retriever ever. What else would keep me in town? It's not like I could bring a dog back to residence in Halifax, right?

He hyped this event like you would not believe. It was all he talked about. Any chance he got he'd get me to try and guess. Every time he asked I'd guess that it was a puppy. Oh, and he was sly! He denied it was a puppy each and every time. I knew better though.

On the appointed day, that being a scorching hot end of June morning, he had my closest friends show up early so that they could all "enjoy the gift".  I was thrilled! Of course they all wanted to see my reaction as I met my new best friend!

I clearly remember the doorbell ringing and the look on John's face. It almost pains me to remember now because he was so full of charmingly boyish anticipation I almost feel bad that I completely lost my shit when I opened that door.

The big heavy front door swung upon and in walked the biggest, oddest and most frightening birthday surprise EVER.  I wanted to cry. I wanted to run and scream.  I wanted to throw up a little bit.  But John, he was so thrilled, I tried to keep it together, even if the clown was a bit pervy and completely excited to be performing for a room full of scantily clad twenty year old girls.

What do I remember most about that day?  Turning to John and saying "Where's my dog?"

In his defense, he had told me at least a hundred times that it was not a dog. I just thought he was trying to be coy.  When I look back, I realize I was a huge bitch about it, but when John looks back he realizes that it was a bit of an odd gift.  Of course, that's because he now knows that I'm really afraid of clowns. And revolving doors. And elastics. And Pillsbury Dough cans. 

So please, don't ask me to hit the circus with you. Unless you plan on getting me really drunk first.

How it turns on a dime

John's hockey league is in playoffs right now.  During the month of March, a league that is usually filled with guys who warm up by lifting a few beers before games becomes very fierce.  All of a sudden, a team that has barely won a game all season has a shot.  Isn't that the beauty of playoffs?

The last two games being the pressure-filled parties they have been, I wanted to go and watch.  Before the first game last Thursday I told John that I would be there to cheer him on.  He seemed reluctant and I asked him why.

"Well cause, Babe.  You're kind of bad luck."

Which, really, is complete bullshit, because the one time I've gone to watch this year, they won.  I figure he just didn't want me to cramp his style in front of his friends.  I wasn't worried and decided to stay home and catch up on Cougar Town.

But, he did it to me again this Sunday!  I was willing to get up on my one sleep-in day to call his name from the stands.  Okay, I wouldn't actually do that, but I would still be there.  Nope, he didn't want to choke with so much on the line.   Again, fine, I slept until 10:00 am and asked him to bring me back some coffee.

Earlier today, he told me that he wouldn't mind if I came, explaining this could be their last game and he was okay with me tagging along.  Really, I think he wanted someone to drive the team home should they win.

"Call Lucy!" he said.  "We're playing Dave's team. She'll come and watch too!"

So I did.  I rang up the lovely Lucy and asked if she would like to come and join me.

"God no!" She yelled into the phone.  "Why would I do that?  I don't want to sit in a freezing cold arena when I've got a perfectly good hot tub here?  In fact, you should come here and sit in it with me!!"

That girl. I don't know if it's the British in her, but she's got some wicked ideas.

"Now you're talking!"  I replied. "See you at 8pm!"

So, I kind of got a better offer.

I think I win.

My Husband's Crush

My husband has a new crush.

On a man.

Named Dr Mehmet Oz.

I don't know how it started, but at work,  he watches Dr Oz every day at noon.  Slowly, he started to sneak little tidbits into our conversations.

Over dinner:

"You know, Babe, Dr Oz says that raw spinach is one of the healthiest greens you can eat. "

Which, I do know, and I've been telling him for years.

Or through midday texts:

"Babe, Dr Oz says that almonds are great for PMS.  You should get some almonds. I'm just sayin'!"

Why thank you honey.  Nothing like a midday text to say I'm a moody bitch.

As foreplay. I swear to God! 

A few weeks ago he leaned in for a kiss and I thought I might be getting some, but you know what he said?

"I forgot to tell you, I programmed our PVR to record Dr Oz every day. We can watch it right now!"

And now, every night for the last good while, we've tuned in to Dr Oz on our PVR.  John brings a beer to bed and a glass of wine.  It's quite nice.

It was only last night that he turned to me and said "Um, Babe, he sure talks about women a lot, eh?"

I had to break it to him that his beloved Dr Oz has a target audience of women aged 35-60 years old.

Poor guy.

Thirteen

From this:

 

To this:

To this:

 

In thirteen of the shortest, longest years of my life we find ourselves here. With a whole bunch of kids, a house we can no longer afford and an (almost) embarrassing stack of beer empties.

I've blogged about this marriage more than he's probably comfortable with. (Evidence here and here).

After all this time, on the days where I count the multitude of things that frustrate me, he's only on the list half the time - and that's pretty freaking good, no?

Beautiful

Every once in a while (let's say every three months or so, or when John's quarterly reports are due and we're both screaming from stress), I encourage my husband to leave me alone for an evening.  I pour and nice big drink and pop in Beautiful Girls.  My all time favourite movie.

It's a flick about a group of high school friends in flux and I hugely attracted to flux.  I don't know if it's because I constantly put myself there or if it's just my own bad luck, but I find I'm always thinking "When things calm down I'm going to ... "

We had that for a bit. Maybe a year or so after we moved here.  I didn't have to work, so I didn't. John and I didn't have to worry about money, so we didn't fight about it.  For a while, life was blissfully quiet and non-threatening.

What happened next is no secret. The shit hit the fan, I got a job, we decided to move and now we wait.  Our house is for sale and being such a "unique property" it's not going to fly right off the market.  That perfect buyer is out there somewhere. I just wish he/she would find his way here a bit faster.  I want to move on.   It's almost like this house is an ex I still have to live with.  I am done with it/him and I want to get away as fast as I can, but I'm stuck.   I have to stare at his face as I pay the hydro bill.  Did that make sense?

I'm sorry. I told you that movie makes me drink.

The best line in the movie is "I just want something beautiful ..." to which Mo replies "We all want something beautiful ..."

And each and every time I hear that  line I get up out of my bed (cause you have to watch this movie while in your jammies and covered by your favourite blanket) and walk to where my children sleep.  That's beautiful. Right there.

And each and every time I watch this movie while alone John gets home just as I've fallen asleep and the movie has ended.  He usually turns it off and I'm pretty sure looks at me just the same way I've looked at my kids.

That someone, even after I've bought too expensive yogourt, bitched at him about peeing on the seat, told him that there are days when I hate my life or asked him if he thinks I'm too fat, still looks at me and sees beauty?  That's amazing and beautiful too.

Inherent Jobs

It's a beautiful Easter Monday morning and with our house going up for sale soon, I am on a mission to get rid of stuff. I've got a massive pile by the front door just waiting to head either to the dump or the barn.

"So Babe, think you back up the truck and trailer to the front door so I can just start hauling shit into it?

"What kind of shit, my eloquent delicate flower?"  (Okay, he didn't say it quite like that, but he did make some remark at my language.)

"Stuff to take to the dump mostly. Trash that's too big and too costly to put out with our regular garbage. (We pay for our garbage here, people!)

I could see the wheels moving in his head. The blood boiling.

You see, he thinks his life is full of running little errands just like this one for me.  Pick up the pizza. Take this to the dump. Screw in this light bulb. Take out the garbage. Clear the driveway. Pressure wash the house. Clean the garage. Go see whose ass needs wiping I have my hands in a chicken. When you're in town getting gas for the plow/mower/chainsaw, can you get me some tampons. Cut the kids toenails, they look like Fritos. Return the beer empties and get a new case of beer, but make it PC Light just for me.

And on and on and on.

Most of these are jobs I not only am too busy to do, I just don't want to. There are certain things in any house that are just inherently male or female. They might vary from household to household, but we all have those little niggling things we refuse to do.  I rarely do any of the things I mentioned, but in my defence, John rarely empties the dishwasher, puts away groceries, plans our meals, barbecues, gets propane for the barbecue, pays the household bills, takes care of the pool or handles first aid.

This is how our marriage works. It works just fine.

Even still, I know he has a busy weekend coming up and the idea of taking our household castoffs to the dump just isn't something he's into.  So, because I'm either nice or horny or both, I thought; "Would it be so bad to take a load to the dump on Saturday?  I have four helpers and I've never been. Who knows? It might be fun. I might find a new hangout!"

So ...

"It's fine, Babe."  I said, batting my eyelashes. "Just pull it up to the house and I'll take it to the dump!"

"Awww... thanks!" he said, tilting his head to the side. "That would be awesome! Cause I'm headed down to Blahblahville that day and I don't know if I'll have time!"

"OH!" I squealed in delight!  "Blahblahville is the only place that sells Tampax Light Tampons! Can you grab me some at the Wal-Mart while you're there?!"

He Just Knows

There are days where I wonder why I married him. Not the whole day, mind you. Just snippets here and there. Like when he eats and his jaw clicks so loud I am sure it's going to come off his face. Or how he washes his hands and then leaves the paper towel he used to dry them on the counter or next to the computer.

Some days just talking to him can be exhausting. We discuss but I'm almost wholly consumed by the mundane nature of being married to someone for so long.  My mind wanders and I wonder how long it's been since I cleaned the toilets, or washed our sheets or emptied the vacuum canister in the garage. We're talking, but I would bet dollars to donuts that neither one of us is listening. We're just waiting for our own turn to speak.

Then there are days where he just knows that I need something more. Something concrete and real and beautiful. Days where I'll be standing in front of him in my soft, fuzzy, ratty bathrobe with disheveled hair and a sore head from lack of sleep.  He'll walk to me, taking sure steps, each with purpose. He wraps his massive arms around me and pulls me in.  I can smell how familiar and comforting he is. I'm not bitching silently that he buys his deodorant at the dollar store or that his shirt is getting old and faded.  I'm taking in the massively comforting man I married and listening to him say "I love you so much. You know I do all of these things for you and the kids right?  You make all of this shit so worth it."

Right then I'm not concerned that he doesn't ravish me like he did when we first met. I don't care that he doesn't make my stomach lurch like he used to in those early exciting days. I'm immensely proud of how comforting he can be and how he still knows just when I need to hear how important I am to him.

And wouldn't you know it, my stomach does a little flip flop.

Anger

Let's call this day "Angry Day", okay?

These last few weeks have been those kind that make me want to just quit and run away with the circus. Or the gypsies. I bet gypsies would know how to party.

I'm angry because I've got a sick kid who is up all night and not only do I get to stay up all night with her, I get to get up in the morning and look refreshed for work. In this task, I fail miserably and spend the entire day hearing "You look tired!" from coworkers and customers. Tired is small-town code for "You look like shit!" you know.

I'm angry because there are bills to pay, a mortgage that just swoops out of my bank account every two weeks and cheques that bounce because the company I work for can't get it's head out of it's ass long enough to ensure my pay gets put into my account on time - because of a clerical error.

I'm angry because John gets mad that I don't want to discuss our finances every second of every day. He mistakes this for not caring. I care. I care so much that even if our daughter didn't have a fever of 104 and didn't want to watch Scooby Doo at 4am, I would be awake worrying about it. Sometimes I just want to sit with him and gossip or tell him how ripped this girl is at my gym. I can tell he's just waiting for his turn to start talking about it again.

I'm angry because I had to give up my precious Wednesdays off. We need the money. So now the one day a week I had to take a breather, catch up and clean up without the usual distractions of the weekend is gone. I'm mourning the luxury of that one day like you wouldn't believe.

Beyond all that, I'm sad. I'm tired of hard. I'm tired of worry. I'm tired of hiding the bags under my eyes and looking forward to that one day where I can just be. Cause that day isn't coming anytime soon.

Christmas really is for the kids

A few days ago, John walked in with a whole whack of shopping bags.

"I finished my shopping all in one day!"  He was very proud of this. "Want to see what I got?"

I didn't really have time to answer because he had already emptied the bags out onto the table.

He had some good stuff.

A hair dryer.

Some hair barrettes, brushes, shampoo.

A space heater for Meghan's freezing cold room.

A Star Wars Light Sabre.

Wait. What?

"Um, Babe. I already got the Light Sabre on Alex's wish list."  I said, confused and hoping he still had the receipt.

"I know you did. A green one. This one's for me."

"For you?  Why in the world is this one for you?"  I think I knew the answer, but I had to hear it to believe it.

"Well..."  he said.  "Who's he gonna fight with just one? See, mine's purple!"  He opened it up and slashed the air with it.

He looked so amazingly adorable I was immediately reminded why I married him.