Thursday, 28 October 2010

Haven't burned the house down. Yet.

Hubby and I have a new hobby.  Fire.  

Wait, no, we're not pyromaniacs.  We just recently confirmed that our fireplace is not dangerous (or at least we think it's not dangerous), so we started using it... every day.  

We've been living here for almost two years.  When the inspector evaluated the house before we bought it, he suggested we have the chimneys cleaned.  So we did.  The chimney sweep said they needed to be fixed.  We weren't sure if we believed him, so we lit our first fire.  Bur after a while, the fire started to smell like cancer - like burning plastic, or a chemical reaction, or cremation.  (Ok, I don't really know what cremation smells like, but it can't be good.)  So we immediately put out the cancer fire and haven't used the fireplace since. 

Until last weekend.  

We decided that we were done living with two - yes two - unused wood fireplaces.  So we called a few guys to book an inspection.  The least expensive company was going to charge 90 bucks - 90 bucks to basically look at our fireplaces.  Whatever.

But then we called one guy, who, despite the fact that he was either drunk, or crazy, or both, seemed to want to help us. 

He talked Hubby through a self-inspection, and helped us diagnose the problem - that is, that there was no problem.  Maybe the cancer smell was coming form the foam insulation underneath. 


So Hubby ordered wood, had it delivered, and stacked it in our shed. 

And voila!  We've been lighting fires every day since. 

But our fires aren't really burning that well, so I started to think Hubby didn't really know how to build one.  "Did you shovel it out so it gets enough air?" I kept asking him.  "Did you put kindling in there?"  "Did you crumple the paper?"  

Yes, yes, he knows how to build a fire. 

So why isn't it burning? 

Turns out, the wood is wet (haha, that sounds dirty).  So we thought about taking it all back, but who really wants to un-stack and re-stack a bunch of wood?  No one. 

So we're tolerating the wet wood (haha, dirty again), simply because there's nothing like sitting by a warm fire on a cold damp Autumn day (even if it is a slow-burning pile of hissing, damp, and sizzling coals) . 

I just can't believe we waited this long to jump on the fire bandwagon.  I guess all we have to worry about now is that the fireplace is actually safe.  I think it is.  Yeah, I bet it's fine.  No more cancer smell, anyway.  And we haven't burned the house down.  Yet.  

Saturday, 23 October 2010

Mmmm... pudding...

Hubby made a funny observation the other night.  He said he's cooler than me (which isn't the observation, although that is pretty friggin hilarious).  Apparently he isn't just claiming that he's cooler than me - apparently he can prove it.

He said:

Just look at your night table, and then look at mine.  Mine has concert tickets, a book, guitar picks, and a Blackberry.  Yours has Kleenex, Advil, body lotion, lip balm, a mouth guard, and Vicks Vapo-rub.

Basically, the proof is in the pudding, is what he appeared to be getting at.

Well, now, let’s think this through.  Keep in mind that I was SICK.  Vicks isn’t a regular fixture on my night stand – it was a necessary evil for the time being, so I could breathe.  And Hubby doesn’t even read his book – it mostly just acts as a screen to block the blinking light of his Blackberry so Sleeping Hubby can get his rest.

But I’ve since started wondering if this Hubby logic could be applied to other aspects of our lives.

For example, our vehicles.

Hubby’s pickup truck: cool and manly.  My Honda Civic: popular and trendy.

But, let’s think that through.

Hubby’s red 1998 pickup truck says: “I’m a 65 year old retired farmer.”  And my four-door Civic sedan with stereo deck says: “I’m a 40 year old soccer mom pretending to be a 17 year old high school student."

So I guess that’s not very promising.

Ok, what about some of our personal possessions…

Hubby’s squash bag:  On the surface, Hubby is athletic and fun.  But after a closer look, he is competitive and has a significant odour problem.

My purse:  At first glance, I’m stylish with expensive taste.  But upon closer inspection, I experience severe separation anxiety at the thought of parting with my favourite - but very dilapidated - fashion accessories.

Hmmm, this analysis isn’t turning out so well.

How about our favourite tv shows...

If you just met me, you might notice that I like to watch the news, which clearly shows how sophisticated and knowledgeable I am.  But then you’d eventually learn that I record Young and the Restless every day and watch each episode at 1.3 times the speed on weekends, which unfortunately indicates that I'm totally unrefined, highly emotional, and exhibiting some serious addictive tendencies. 

If you just met Hubby, you’d think he didn’t like tv.  He’s too intelligent for that, and is more appropriately entertained by stimulating his musical senses.  But then you’d get to know him, and learn that his new favourite person is Snookie.

So what have I learned from this little exercise?  I think the whole point is, you can’t judge people based on one little insight into their lives.  There are always external circumstances, or skeletons in the closet, or cracks in your logic.  Apparently you can only judge them based on a series of little insights, considered as a collective.  Yeah… that sounds right... doesn't it? 


Tuesday, 19 October 2010

I HATE being sick.

Ther's really no other way to put it.  I, simply put, effing HATE being sick.  

Of my very long list of things I hate, being sick is damn near the top.  

I hate so many things about being sick that I should make an entire list just devoted to illness alone - like a sub-list of things I hate about things I hate.  

Obviously, I hate that I feel like shit.  That achy joints and sore throat feeling. That, wait, hot again feeling.  That post-nasal-drip-gonna-make-me-puke feeling.  That I-can't-breathe-and-yet-can't-for-the-love-of-god-unplug-my-nose feeling, and the related if-I-blow-my-nose-one-more-time-my-brain-is-going-to-blow-out-my-eyes-and-ears feeling.  And, finally, that I'm-so-hungry-I-might-faint feeling that is so closely linked to the if-Hubby-mentions-tuna-one-more-time-I'm-going-to-projectile-vomit-on-him feeling.  

Not fun.  

Some people like that they get to skip work, but let me tell you: it ain't worth it.  First of all, I was sick all day Sunday anyway, which just wasted my weekend.  And I'll only have more work to catch up on when I go back anyway.  

And beyond that, it's. so. effing. boring.  All of the physical feeling like shit is magnified by wanting to attack Drew Carey with his own damn Plinko board, and plotting to murder Barbara Wawa for being subjected to her old, rich, white lady "views".

Even with Hubby taking care of me (which he is very good at - bringing me apples and toast, rubbing my neck, and comforting me in general), it's no damn picnic.   

Not only do I have to nurse my illness and my murderous rage for daytime tv hosts, but my hips, back, and legs hurt from sitting on the effing couch all day.  Even when I try to get up, I can barely walk to the fridge without falling over.  And when I think I have the strength to go upstairs (to at least bathe), I end up doing that walk/crawl thing up the stairs until I'm simply a pathetic, out-of-breath, heap of shame at the top of the landing.  

Even when I get to bed, I end up with effing restless leg syndrome while I'm trying to sleep (which I can't do anyway, because I'm a hot-cold, nose-plugged, head-throbbing, gonna-puke mess).

Hubby might say I'm a baby.  He might even go as far to say that he would rather be sick himself - not because he'd rather endure the discomfort instead of me, but because taking care of me when I'm sick is a full time job that isn't really as rewarding as a full time job oughta be.  


He takes care of me anyway, of course.  Perhaps because he knows that just because he never gets sick, I still take care of him all the time.  

Oh, and because he loves me, I suppose.  

In any case, being sick SUCKS.  He can't argue with that.  Nobody can.


Thursday, 7 October 2010

We're a whole family of AWESOME

We were just about to go to bed the other night, and Hubby was feeding the cats.  

He reached up to get the plastic container of food out of the kitchen cabinet, and then this happened:

Wow, Hubby, you're awesome too.  

Hilarious and awesome.   

And we have to put the food back in the bin, because Patches and Tuxedo are royalty, and their food costs more than ours does. 

But they don't mind.  It's all part of being part of the family.  We're a whole family of awesome.  It's a group effort to be as awesome as we are.  

And even more awesome when Hubby has to stick a giant folk under the stove to find the left-over pellets - or at least try to find the left-over pellets... Tuxedo is still emerging from the kitchen periodically with a new-found pellet that was previously unbeknownst to us.  

There's really nothing else to say. 

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Dirty Tony Morano

We’re car shopping.  And it’s NOT easy, let me tell you.

We drove a Nissan Morano, but the salesman was a greasy and condescending fool.  I think his name was Tony.

So we spoke with a friend who happens to be a car salesman (we don’t hold it against him), and he gave us a few tips.

#1: The salesman is not on your side.  Even if he’s the nicest guy you’ve ever met, he is only saying whatever you want to hear.  The higher the sale price, the more money in his pocket.

No kidding!  Dirty Tony Morano was pleasant enough (in a you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about kind of way).  He acted like he didn’t mind helping us – he had nothing better to do.  But he was, right from the start, luring us in... leading us bit by bit into the dark cave…

Test drive the Rogue.  Test drive the Morano.  There’s no reason we wouldn’t like the Morano – everyone likes it, it’s perfect.  Look at the list of features.  Do we want to trade in our Civic?  No?  Well, he’ll check anyway.  What’s our monthly payment price range?  He’ll run that by his managers.

Luckily, we’re not that stupid.

#2:  The salesman is lying to you.  He’s hiding things.  He is two steps ahead of you, and he knows it.

You bet.  Once Dirty Tony Morano got into the numbers, the sharks began to circle...

But we’re RIGHT in our monthly payment price range, just like we wanted.  Sure, it’s at the high-end - and for a LEASE - but it’s worth it!  The base model Morano is better than the best Rav4.  And with a LEASE, we’ll get a new car every four years.  It’s a great deal.

Sure it is.

#3: The salesman will always try to convince you that you can afford more.

Well, of course.

So, if we want to BUY, what’s an extra 100 bucks a month?  Nothing!  It’s SUCH a great deal.  No?  Not convinced?  Well, that’s the best we’re going to get for our old Civic.  No buyer in the city will pay what we want.  So what could he do to seal this deal today?  Nothing? Really?!  Nobody’s ever said there is NO price they’d be happy with!

Yeah, I’ll just get my wallet out.  Don’t hold your breath, Dirty Tony.

But 2010 models are getting scarce.  And we’ll just get confused if we test drive anything else.

Really, Dirty Tony?  Do you get confused when you drive more than one car?

#4: You need to know what you want and how much you want to pay.  You need to know the promotions, and what you can afford.  And then you need to offer thousands below that.

And we will.  When we’re ready to buy.  And in the meantime, I’m happy to waste Dirty Tony’s time – I’ve got nothing to lose.


Friday, 1 October 2010

Sleeping Hubby

Hubby can't sleep.  Well, not so much that he can't, more that he chooses not to.  Ok, no, that's not quite right either.  He goes to sleep, he just doesn't stay there. 

Allow me to explain.

I can sleep through near anything.  I tune things out.  I avoid engaging in conversation.  I cling to my slumber. 

Hubby, on the other hand, has a habit of emerging from sleep at every opportunity and disturbing me in the process. 

The other night it was Hubby's birthday (happy birthday Hubby!), so I, of course, hung balloons.  (You have to have balloons on your birthday.)  When we were going to bed, I thought he should enjoy his balloons for one more day, so I tied them to his bed-side lamp. 

Well, apparently the wind from his window was blowing the (two) balloons "all over".  Hubby jumped up in a huff and basically tore the balloons down, throwing them into the closet.  Emotional outburst.  

A few hours later I was yet again disturbed.  My window isn't easy to latch, so I don't latch it.  I guess it was windy and my window was creaking - which was an unbearable disturbance for Hubby.  I guess I could hear it too, but I'll ignore a problem for hours in a semi-sleep before I'll pull myself entirely out of my slumber to resolve it.  

Anyway, I eventually opened my eyes to a sound next to my head, and was terrified to see a creepy guy in his underwear leaning over my bedside table.  Hubby.  Closing the window.  Emotional outburst number two.

Now, let's be clear:  This process only occurs throughout the night.  In the morning, Hubby is an entirely different person.  In the morning, I am the devil, and sunlight is my minion.  Or vice versa.  I'm not sure.  In any case, Hubby will get up and pull a sock off the floor (clean or dirty, whatever's closest) and place it over his eyes.  From there, he will bury his head in the covers and moan and groan every time I come near him, or speak to him, or (god forbid) turn on a light.  He's like a 6-year-old.  I'm just waiting for the obligatory temper tantrum.  

I'm not an angel in my sleep either.  But I'm not insane.  That's the difference.  I'm logical.  For example, he mustn't dare talk to me just as I'm falling asleep - he'll be lucky to survive that.  And he'd better check for spiders when I wake up and am SURE that I just saw one behind the dresser.  That's just common sense.  And I can sleep in because I have a good reason. 

These are all perfectly logical sleeping rules.  And you can't argue with pure logic.  And you certainly can't argue with a Sleeping Beauty... a Sleeping Hubby, on the other hand, is a whole other story.