(Truth) A Handy Husband Around the House

Ladies, you will be jealous of me when I tell you this.  I have a husband who helps out around the house.  Granted, he has an odd work schedule that allows him to be home more than some other husbands.  But even if it were not so, he would still do things that he thought needed doing.  Of course, he takes care of the mowing, weedeating, and such.  But on any given day, he also might vacuum, clean up the dishes after dinner, do laundry, or give the kiddo a bath.  It’s lovely, to say the least.  He’s a hard worker, and a wonderful person.

Now, before you start asking what I put in his food to elicit this behavior, I do have one “however” for you.  Here goes:  He is, HOWEVER, still a typical man with challenged sense of aesthetics and décor.  He can make something look neat.  And he’s very sensible about re-using and recycling things, which is a great quality to have.  (Now do you have an idea where I’m going with this?)  But it’s still my job to make things look homey.

So, we had a cactus that was thriving on our back porch, and growing every day.  We actually discovered it was several plants, and could be transferred into separate pots.  Transfer we did, and the plants have done very well.  One in particular was growing so tall that its little pot was no longer sufficient.  So for a while, I walked past it on the back porch every day and thought, I really need to do something for that little plant.

Handy hubby to the rescue.  I was upstairs working the other day, and he was doing his usual helpful things downstairs and outside.

He came inside and informed me:  “I repotted that little cactus.”

I responded gratefully: “Oh, wonderful!  Thank you!”

After a pause, he smiled and said, “You’ll have to see what I used.  You’ll think it’s funny.”

I smiled and silently prayed, Thank you, Lord, that it’s on the back porch and not the front.  I’ll check it out later.

And before I go any further, please note that I am NOT complaining in any way.  I just think it is extremely funny.

So, here is what he used:

 

First, he put the plant in an old, broken, plastic pot that had been put in the recycling because it was dropping soil.  Then, he . . . What’s that?  Why yes, it IS sitting inside one of my old kitchen pots that I was going to throw away!  Now, here’s the best part!  He went to the trouble to rearrange all of the plants in (a man’s idea of) an attractive manner.  It’s really a very nice display, with one exception.

 

Maybe you remember the old Sesame Street song and can sing along with me:

One of these things is not like the others,

One of these things does not belong!

Can you guess which one is not like the others,

Before I finish my song?

Lala la la la la la lala lala . . . .

Not only does he help out a lot, but he’s environmentally aware and very entertaining!  I love that man.

 

Valentine Adventure with a Knight on a White Horse

Being single until I was 33 years old added up to a lot of lonely February 14ths. Now, there are plenty of single people who have a healthy, positive attitude toward the day, but I was not one of them. I had some good Valentine’s Days, sure.  I had some boyfriends along the way who spoiled me with flowers and love letters and the like. But most February 14ths were gloomy for me. I won’t bore you with my sob stories, but literally, my chest used to tighten when I would walk into a Target or Wal-Mart after Christmas and see that heart-shaped things were being stocked on the shelves.


In 2006, all of that changed for me. Let’s just say I was very interested in someone special in the early part of that year, and had pretty good reason to think he was equally interested in me. That “someone special” turned out to be my husband, Chip. We had shared hours of deep conversation, a long walk back and forth across the Arthur Ravenel Bridge, and had even prayed together. So when he called me in early February and asked me out for “February 14th,” I said I thought I was probably available. Then I tried not to breathe heavily into the phone, since I was bouncing up and down with excitement.

When I left work on February 14, 2006, I raced home to get ready. Because Chip was working into the early evening, we had agreed that I would cook dinner for him at my condo. Simple enough, right? I’m not sure how, but somehow I managed to char the stir-fry in my fancy Le Creuset pan. (See my earlier post about a small fire that was later set in this pan.) The stir fry was still edible, just a bit on the well-done side. But the smoke that filled my condo was overwhelming, setting off the alarm. It smelled awful. Well, this was a dilly of a pickle. Chip had never been to my place before, and his first impression of it was going to be clouded by a stench and a fog so thick you could barely see your hand in front of your face. He was due any time, and I panicked.

Throwing open the sliding glass door, I placed a box fan in front of it and tried sucking the smoke out of the house. I sprayed Lysol. I opened my front door and stood there swinging it back and forth like a madwoman. The freezing cold air rushed in from outside, and toasty heat disappeared. Cold and stinky. My home was now cold, stinky, and made my eyes burn. Well, he’s a fireman, I told myself, so maybe this will make him feel right at home. I changed my smoke-tainted clothes, sprayed perfume on my hair, and prayed for the best.

Thank the Lord, Chip called to say he was running late. He had been detained at work.

So by the time he arrived, I am pleased to report that the condo was back to normal. Warm, decent-smelling, and non-allergenic, at any rate. I was able to open the door calmly and play the hostess who has it all together. He came bearing a big bouquet of flowers and sincerest apologies for being late.

I had chosen a Pinot Grigio to accompany the meal, and pulled it from the fridge. I smiled to myself. Just a couple of hours earlier, I had noticed that I had inadvertently purchased a bottle whose label pictured a knight on a white horse. I hoped that this was God’s way of foreshadowing that my knight on a white horse had finally arrived. I knew one thing . . . this was already the best Valentine’s Day I had ever had.

We chatted in the kitchen as I opened every single drawer and fumbled through them all . . . unable to find a corkscrew. Chip began helping me look. “Maybe you don’t have one?” he offered. But I knew I did. I had more than one, and told him I had just used one recently. After a few minutes, I handed him a good, sharp knife and he proceeded to dig, pull and push at the cork. He was successful, and we had our Pinot.

As we sat down to eat, I told him why his late arrival worked out perfectly, describing in full humor the reason I almost called to tell him to bring an oxygen mask. Then I found out, to my delight, that there are some foods he actually *likes better* when they are slightly charred. Stir fry qualified. He cleaned his plate, emptied the pan for seconds, and proceeded to eat what was left on my plate, as well. Count me starry-eyed. I was impressed by his good table manners, and he by my collection of baseball cards. We picked little pieces of floating cork from our glasses of wine as we drank. We talked and laughed. When he said it was late and he should go, we walked to the door. There, we ended up sitting on the floor and talking for another two hours.

In the weeks that followed, we would find six corkscrews in my kitchen. We still laugh about that.

Men vs. Women: This is Funny

Below you will read an exchange between my husband and me.  It took place this morning.  I was sitting in front of my computer and reflecting on how our little boy gets so angry when one of his toys breaks.  He and I have discussed how he is actually sad, but it feels safer to be angry than to be sad, so he prefers anger.  Just like most men.  I started giggling.

Chip:  What's funny?
Me:  Men and their anger.
Chip:  Why?
Me:  I dunno, even from toddlerhood, it seems men are capable of one emotion: anger.
Chip:  Yeah?  And?
Me:  When you're sad, you react with ANGER!  Frustration?  ANGER!  Disappointment?  ANGER!  Stress?  ANGER!  Vulnerability?  ANGER!  Depression?  ANGER!
Chip:  Yep.  And you wanna know why?
Me:  Hm.  Women?
Chip:  You got it.

I thought so.  I was just checking.

The Booster Seat . . . It's a Whole New World

I don't drive stick shift.  Don't want to.  Never will, probably.  When I was a college freshman, my roommate, Kim, said, "Oh, no.  This won't do.  We've got to teach you to drive stick."  I was used to my old diesel-powered Mercedes which moved about like the cars in the Flintstones cartoons, but Kim had a red Honda Prelude (Zowie!).  It was fast, fun and powerful.  The first (and last) time she tried to teach me to drive her car, I laid rubber in the faculty parking lot at Agnes Scott College on a Sunday afternoon.  No one has ever tried to teach me again.

When my husband and I got married, my husband said I would have to learn to drive stick so I could drive his truck.  I said no thanks.  I didn't and still don't want to drive his pickup truck.  My car is newer and nicer.  Guess what?  He thinks it's newer and nicer, too.  I knew, just KNEW that if I could drive his truck, I would get stuck driving that thing around town when I didn't want to someday.  Like to a Junior League meeting or something.  Don't get me wrong . . . I'm very thankful for my husband's vehicle, and it has been an enormous blessing to us in so many ways.  But I don't want to drive it.  #endofthatdiscussion

So since my son was born almost four years ago, we have operated 95% of our lives with one car.  On certain special occasions, like getting my car worked on, we have squeezed the car seat into the back seat (and I use the term "back seat" loosely) in the old pickup truck.  But other than that, we have operated largely as a one-car family on my husband's days off from work (which are plenteous, since he is a firefighter and has a weird schedule).

Certain people, and particularly one family member, have scoffed at the fact that the three of us basically load up and go everywhere together.  We love it, thanks.  I enjoy spending all the time I can with husband and child.  So when I have to go to the bank and all three of us load into the car to get it done, I think nothing of it.  But OTHERS think we are aliens from outer space because of this practice.

But lo and behold . . . my son is now old enough to fit into those little booster seats that cost like $15 and fit very nicely into the back seat of the truck.  So after four years of parenthood, we finally sprang for a *gasp* second car seat in the form of a booster.

Now, when my husband and son go on an errand and I have to stay at the house to work, I am no longer trapped here with a truck I cannot drive.  Husband pops child into the booster seat in the truck and takes off.  I am still here with my wonderful automatic SUV.  I can suddenly up and decide to go deliver books (which I did, two days ago).  This may just be the best development in time management that has happened to our family.  The convenience this has introduced will be a blessing, no doubt, and probably in ways I have not even imagined yet.

But I will still love loading all three of us into the car to go grab a tube of toothpaste at the Walgreen's.

I'm a Natural Blue: Spray the Pam Before Heating the Pan

I was single until I was 33 years old. I had spent the previous 12 years as a busy professional reading a lot of instructions on Lean Cuisine boxes. I didn't pretend to be a gourmet chef. But I did love my Le Creuset cookware. It's indestructible. In a smackdown between the cookware and a steamroller, the Le Creuset would win. So when Chip and I got married, my favorite fry pan was my big periwinkle blue fry pan. It's a most wonderful conductor of heat.

One day, Chip brought home a London Broil. I had never cooked one before. After consulting a few recipes, I determined I would start by browning it in my big blue pan. I was supposed to get the pan hot before slapping the meat on there, so I turned on the eye. After a few minutes, though, Chip made a comment about putting something on there so the meat wouldn't stick. Ohhhhh, duhhhhh, I thought, I forgot to spray it. At this point, the pan was already about 1400 degrees, and I didn't want Chip to know I had forgotten to spray it. So I just waved the can over it quickly and sprayed enough to give it a thin coat. I thought I was being surreptitious. WHOOOOOSH, went the orange flames that licked out from my big blue pan, nearly reaching the hood over the stove. "Oh my gosh!" I screamed and jumped back.

"What?!" Chip yelled from around the corner.

"Nothing," I chirped cheerily from the kitchen.

"Yeah, right," he called back, but fortunately did not come to investigate. It looked like the griddle at a Japanese steakhouse. All I needed was a tall, white hat and a couple of meat cleavers to juggle. Ching-ching, chingity-smack. Applause. It died down soon enough, though. After making sure I still had my eyebrows, I tried to move the pan over, but the bottom of it had melted to the eye of the stove. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I rocked it back and forth until it came unstuck. Whew. But I had to continue to loosen it every minute for the remainder of the experience. And there was some blue paint stuck to the eye. I'll have to explain that to him later, I lamented.

Surely the pan was hot enough to sear the meat now, so I tossed the London Broil into the pan. WHOOSH again, but this time it was mostly smoke. And the loud sizzling sound could not be concealed. Chip came out of the bedroom, looked at the billowing smoke rising from the pan, shook his head, and went back into the bedroom.

You can guess what happened next . . . the smoke alarm squealed. I scurried over and fanned a newspaper under it until it stopped. But then I had to return to the stove and FLIP THE MEAT OVER. Yeah. I pried the blackened meat up with a meat fork and spatula, then flipped it over to create the same lovely hissing sound. Now, I had already turned the burner down some, but it was still about 800 degrees. So, the smoke alarm went off again. I rushed to open the sliding glass door just in time to see a fire truck turning into the complex. "They're here because of me," I half-wept. I just knew it. Someone must have reported the smell of smoke or the alarm going off repeatedly.

My husband is a firefighter, and would be humiliated by the fire department coming to his own house because his wife is spastic in the kitchen.

I sat down in a heap on the floor and prepared myself for the heavy, booted steps on the stairs and banging on the door. I started to rehearse in my head what I would say. I pictured Chip standing outside with his arms folded, talking to the firefighters, apologizing for the false alarm. But as the minutes passed, no knocking came. In fact, a short minute or two later, I saw the same truck leaving the complex. Ahhhh, I sighed. They were just out driving around. Thank you, Lord, for sparing me that embarrassment.

Fast forward about 30 minutes later, and Chip I were bravely knawing on pieces of charred leather, hoping for the best. He, who will usually eat anything, took the hunk of meat and tossed it into the garbage. Then we ate a pizza.

A Battle Royale

"I just don't understand why you care," said my husband last night. This was, of course, in reference to Will and Kate's royal wedding that took place this morning. I tried my best to explain it. It's beautiful. It's romantic. It's historic. It's grand. I remember getting up in the wee hours with my mother, thirty years ago, to watch Will's parents walk down the aisle. My husband wasn't persuaded.

If you're a young girl, watching a prince and princess get married is like a fantasy come true before your very eyes. You can think about what your own wedding will be like. If you're a married lady, it might make you nostalgic about taking your own vows. It made me remember the excitement I felt on my own wedding day. I tried to explain all of this to my husband, to no avail. He just shook his head at me, unable to grasp why I would get up at 5am and turn on the tv, riveted for four hours. Yeah. There are some sports events about which I feel the same way.

Anyway, I thought it was just Chip who didn't get it. Then I logged on to Facebook and saw how many of my friends were posting that their husbands just didn't understand why their wives were setting their alarms to get up and watch a wedding on tv. They were having the same conversations with their husbands!

So yes, I got up at 5:30am and watched it. I loved every minute of it. In fact, it put me in a wonderful mood for the rest of the day. I did have to pause to get dressed, but I raced back down the stairs in time to see the royal couple kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Chip still doesn't get it. I don't expect him to, though, because men and women are just plain different. We always will be, because God made us that way. And praise the Lord for that.