Sometimes when my husband comes home from working all day I like to boss him around. I know, it’s not fair, after all he works two jobs, 7 days, easily 80 hours a week. But you know, that kind of makes me a single parent, and for the one small hour that we are all awake at the same time I like to make someone else do some stuff. So I’m sitting at the island writing like a fiend, totally ignoring my child and our dogs when he walks in the door.
“What’s for dinner?” he says. “There’s leftover pizza hut on the counter.” Child says, “and we’ll never go back there again” (he’s right). Husband grabs the Fannie Mae’s from Grandma (actually my sister’s MIL but she is our adopted Grandma too) “Don’t eat those” I say. “Why?” Child says “they’re gross.” I say “Yeah they’re gross.” wink wink. “WE don’t need them.” So, he heats up the pizza hut junk. While he’s eating I start to smell something foul.
“What’s that smell?” I ask
“Did you make that smell?”
“Can’t you smell that, it’s like a sulfury rotten egg smell?” I asked incredulously
“I don’t smell anything.”
Later this is our conversation.
“Do we need this?” He says holding up the plastic cellophane Grandma’s v-day present came in
“Well, we might be able to use it for a craft, why don’t you put it in the Fannie Mae bag.” I respond
“What? The What bag?”
I am silent.
“What?” he asks again
I tell him “I’m not helping you with this one, try and figure it out for yourself.”
“The Pindrey Bag?”
“What’s a pindrey bag?” I ask in my most serious tone.
“I don’t know. Did you say something with the word pin in it?”
“No” Fully expecting him to work for this one.
He starts to wander around the kitchen. Trying to put the cellophane in various containers and contraptions, kind of like he’s playing the hot or cold game, only I’m just watching him and smirking. He tries an empty box, the sink, he finally says “the garbage?”
I say, “where were you standing when I said this?”
“Here” he says standing next to the Fannie Mae bag.
I raise my eyebrows. He turns to the Fannie Mae bag. He slam dunks it in the bag.
“There you go.” I say
“What? You actually meant the Fannie Mae bag?”
I roll my eyes.
I get up to let the dogs out because Daisy is acting odd. I turn around and there is poop on the floor!
“HUSBAND!” “What?” “Their’s poop on the floor!” I yell. “What? Who pooped on the floor?” as if there was an actual question. “Daisy!” I say. “Daisy, you naughty girl!” He says in a loving way, totally not meaning it. “Husband, I asked you what the smell was! IT was poop!” “How was I supposed to know?” Once again I roll my eyes.