Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Things my husband should divorce me for:
We were inexplicably watching some awful reality show together. If I am remembering correctly, the tv was on that channel and we were both too lazy to look for the clicker. As an aside, do you call it the clicker or the remote? Is that a regional thing? When I moved to California, my friends would make fun of me for asking to stop at the Time Machine on our way out.
"What are you going to go back in time and stop yourself from buying those jeans again?"
"Looking for your boyfriend Scott Bakula?"
Yeah, ha, ha, ha. When I was growing up in Wisconsin, the company that owned most of the ATMs was named Tyme, hence people would say "I need to stop at a Tyme machine."
Anyhow, back to the awful reality show. It's about some Vegas pool party schizz and there were these two Guidos picking up on their servers. They were pretty douchy but in really good shape. My husband noticed and said,
"these guys clearly have no kids or high stress job if they have time to stay in that kind of shape. I'd love to have a fraction of those muscles."
"Yeah me too."
"No, I meant me, I would like to have some of those muscles, not you.
"Whatever, I guess I won't be having dessert."
Then this weekend we were talking about replacing our carpet with hardwood floors because we have three animals and pissy carpet. My husband wants to do it himself and I am afraid of having to live with floors that look like we did them ourselves. Plus, I am allergic to physical labour of this sort and I am pretty sure I would have to be his ass-istant on this one. So I was trying to convince him to hire someone to do the work or at least let me pay one of my client's husbands who does hardwood floors to walk us thru the installation.
"Honey, I can do this myself, what are you worried about?"
I then proceed to laundry list every fail or semi-fail we've had on the diy projects. Note to wives, this is apparently tantamount to your husband commenting that your ass is getting fat because I hurt my man's feelings. Then I top it off with the kicker, slipped out of my mouth before I even thought about it.
"Honey, you're no Mike Holmes."
The silence was deafening. Of course there was only one way out of this one,
"I mean with home improvement of course, I mean come on honey, it's Mike Holmes. But when Mike Holmes goes home and doinks his wife every night, you know what she says to him? Pretty good honey, but you're no Mr. FormelyFun."
I am a bad wife.