My marriage is in trouble. The deep doo-doo kind of trouble.
Kevin and I don’t have arguments or fights and we can have a thorough conversation without communicating a single word to each other. It’s a gift we have. We might toss around the idea that one of us is completely insane for being with the other (the jury’s still out on that one), but overall we have an extremely (ir)rational relationship.
Kevin calls me crazy. All. The. Time. My usual response,
I’m crazy in love with you!
He rolls his eyes.
Kevin farts. All. The. Time. My usual response,
Eww! Put a plug in it.
His response,
Do you want me to blow up?
He has a point.
You can often find me running to the bathroom like a crazy buffoon about to pee my pants and when I reach the porcelain throne and realize the toilet seat is up, I start to panic. That 0.4 seconds it takes for me to put the lid down is critical. I could have an accident.
Fortunately, hasn’t happened. Yet.
I say the toilet seat goes down. Kevin says the toilet seat stays up. I’m always putting it down. He’s always putting it up. One of the many things I love about marriage. And living with a man.
While we’re in the bathroom and still on similar topic, we occassionally have an issue with the toilet paper. Kevin could give a hill of beans (a.k.a. he doesn’t care) if the T.P. goes over or under the roll, he just simply puts a fresh roll on the thingamabobber and goes on about his business.
When we remodeled our bathroom we installed the toilet tissue holders that have the little arm thingy that the T.P. slides on, instead of the roller-springy-thingy you have to take apart, remove empty roll, insert new T.P. roll, and squeeze back on.
Did you get that? I’m not sure I did either. Moving on…
What else do I love about my husband?
The man will cut the balls (ahem, testicles – sorry Mom) out of a bull calf, but he simply REFUSES to touch a dirty dish. He’ll be knee-deep in horse poop, up to his elbows and eyeballs in grease, or weld a metal pipe fence, but don’t expect him to touch anything in a sink of soapy water. Oh. Em. Gee.
Where am I going with this post?
(waiting for the light bulb)
Oh, I remember!
Kevin thinks I’m crazy (he’s right), I think he’s crazy (I’m right), but one thing we both agree on: I drive him absolutely bananas when I leave the light on in the garage. I don’t think it would be an issue if I didn’t do it all the freakin’ time.
We have two doors in our utility room. One goes outside and the other into the garage. There is a light switch near the door to the garage with two lights: one for the outside security lights and the other one for the lights inside the garage. It’s taken me four years, but I’ve memorized which switch works for which light. What I have NOT memorized is to turn the lights OFF upon my re-entry inside the house.
Take last night for example…..
6:30 – Kevin had already gotten home from work and left with Blue for the roping pen
7:45 – About dark, I turn the OUTSIDE lights on. A nice gesture on my part, right?!
8:30 – I turn on the INSIDE garage light because I’m getting my school bag out of my car. I retrieve the bag, return to the living room.
9:00 – Kevin gets home and turns off all the lights.
9:05 – I return to the garage for my cell phone. (lights remain ON)
9:15 – Kevin goes outside to the barn to check on horses. Turns OFF all lights.
9:30 – I go to the garage to get my wallet. (lights ON again)
10:00 – Kevin goes to bed.
Guess what’s on all night?!?!?!
7:00 am – I head into the utility room to retrieve clothes I’m going to wear and wouldn’t you know…
HOLY CRAP
Sweet Baby Jesus, thank the Good Lord, that I found it BEFORE my sweet, loving, caring, and compassionate hubby-dearest found it. Ohhh, that was a close one.
For the record: when I left the house this morning, I checked, double-checked, and triple-checked that ALL the lights (inside and out) were turned OFF.
If I were a cat, I’d be down a life or two right now.
Have a great day, Y’all!!!!!!
27 & Counting 