Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Five Questions For My Husband

The following are questions I would really like to ask my husband, the irascible yet cuddly Cap'n Coupon.  You know who I'm talking about, right?  The other adult in my house? The one who's supposed to help me set a good example for the little terror suspects?  Yes, that's the one.  The attractive one in the blue chair. The one who's watching football so intently that if the house caught on fire, until the TV was in flames, he might not notice.

Where do your shoes go?
At our house, we try to encourage people to put their shoes in their room.  Because five of us live here and, for some reason, we all seem hardwired to kick off our shoes in the living room.  But if we were allowed to do that, the floor would be covered with cast-off shoes within minutes and chaos would reign.  We would no longer require an area rug because children's Crocs and sneakers and half inside-out socks would cover all the available floor space.  We would trip over them constantly and the living room would smell even more like feet.  This must not be allowed to happen.  I have therefore become a nag on the subject of putting shoes away.  If I were a talking Mommy doll and you pulled the string in my back, I would say: "WHOSE SHOES ARE THESE?!  Do they belong here?!" 

And yet, though you too have tripped over stray sneakers and cursed as you narrowly avoided injury - you somehow think there is a Daddy Exemption to the Shoe Rule.  There is not.  You wear a size 13 shoe. Your snow boot is bigger than my first car. There are kayaks smaller than your dress shoes. Put them away, dude.  Because when you don't - the kids are like "but Daddy leaves his out and one of his are as big as six of mine so that's not fair!" and they're right.  And I hate to be outwitted by people who have to ask my permission to poop.

We Don't Have a Reading Room, Do We?
Our house is pretty standard.  It doesn't come with a library. The absence of a room specifically designed for reading does not mean that you can designate one for that purpose.  Especially not when that room already has a purpose.  You guessed it - the potty room.  Here's a new rule regarding the bathroom:  If you bring three sections of the Wall Street Journal in there for your morning constitutional, please take them back out with you.  And carry them directly to the outdoor recycling bin.  Also, the use of certain electronics - such as MY SMARTPHONE - in the Reading Room is strictly forbidden. Just because the web browser on my phone is awesome does not mean you can bring it in there. Just please don't do it because I will know

Congratulations. You Changed a Diaper.
Thank you for changing a large, nasty poopers.  I am very grateful.  As you may have noticed, our children have extremely unfortunate timing when it comes to their bowel movements, so your assistance in this matter was very helpful and much appreciated.  The act of changing a disgusting diaper, however, does not render you off duty for the remainder of the day.  There is no Nobel Prize for periodic parental chores.  I am very sorry if this statement makes you feel that I am not sufficiently grateful for your help.  I change them all the time, and I do not require copious amounts of thanks for doing so.  If that's how things are going to be moving forward, I will be happy to call you at the office six times per day and say: "I just changed a diaper. Praise me, for I am good."

Also, I get your point about how there are plenty of men out there who do nothing around the house, fail to engage with their kids and never, ever change diapers.  They're called douchebags.  I understand that you're awesome and the opposite of that.  But please don't expect a medal for a wiping.

Here's the actual question: Could you please refrain from describing the aroma and consistency of the substance in the diaper? For example, if it looks like chili - I don't need to know that and I certainly don't need to hear about how it would look in a bowl surrounded by Fritos.  Thank you.

I Did Not Throw Away Your Driver's License
Every once in a while, it is incumbent upon me to sort through piles of crap and paperwork and make decisions about what needs to be recycled, shredded, or tossed.  I don't enjoy doing this.  Mostly because I hate cleaning.  But also because when you get home, you see that the piles of crap have been sorted and instead of saying, "Thank you, darling. Would you like a kiss and a glass of wine?" you say: "What happened to that pile? The one that was right there? Did you throw away my driver's license?" No, I did not. And just because I accidentally recycled my W-2 form once right before tax day does not mean that I always get into a sorting frenzy and randomly throw stuff out without really looking at it. Ahem.  Usually.

And every pile is an important pile to you.  So I don't understand what I'm allowed to toss.  I'm sorry but what very important pile were you referring to? The one comprised of Val-Packs, Pottery Barn catalogs and fliers for tree pruning?  That pile?  Or the pile of discarded newspapers and Starbucks napkins?  If items are important, let's put them in an important place.  Here's a suggestion - let's not make the "important place" be a pile precariously balanced on top of the Honey Nut Cheerios in the kitchen directly above the garbage can.  Because then your driver's license will get thrown away - either by force of gravity or one of our offspring who is trying to get some cereal. 

Let's be honest, between my irrational hatred of cleaning and your insistence on me not touching the piles, we are probably going to end up hoarders, so let's please put off that undesirable outcome just as long as possible.  Shall we?

How Do You Think People Get Cards?
The holidays are coming.  Birthdays, anniversaries, new babies, and graduations happen throughout the year.  How do you think people get greeting cards for these events?  Because apparently there was a silent clause in our marriage vows that stated that I was responsible for the timely sending of cards and gifts.  Have we met?  I am the wrong person to put in charge of this task.  First of all, I forget things. Second of all - I hate the post office.  Hate it.  But I still do it.  Thirdly, I . . . can't remember exactly.

You actually care about sending our Christmas cards.  I do, too.  So this year, could your participation in sending out our holiday greetings consist of more than:
  • Speculating as to whether the intended recipients of our festive holiday greeting are still alive.
  • Exclaiming: "These cards cost WHAT?!" and then having to sit down and quietly sip scotch for a while.
  • Taking a stack of cards, writing very long notes on three of them and then turning on the TV, stretching and saying: "I think it's so important to stay in touch."
  • If, in fact, the envelope glue is poisonous (a la Seinfeld) then I will surely die if I have to lick all of them by myself (again).
  • I know how much 75 stamps cost.   You don't have to do the math.
Those are all the questions I have for you.  For now...

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

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