My husband's crappy birthday

In the 17 years that I have known my husband I have only managed to throw him one decent birthday party. His birthday is two weeks before our Anniversary, so when he turned 30 it got lost amidst all the wedding plans. Then, 4 days before he turned 32 our daughter was born and his birthday was destined to be upstaged for eternity. Add into the mix the fact that Father's Day usually falls on or in between their two birth dates and by the time his birthday rolls around we all groan at the sight of one more cake.

Also, there's never anything he wants. He buys himself whatever gadgets he's into, and his only hobbies are golf and rock concerts. He buys his own clothes and needs no help picking them out.

The real problem: he's SO much better at birthdays than I am. I've had surprise parties, trips, and gifts I didn't even know I wanted but were so perfectly me. HE is the one who plans the kids' parties - and they are always fabulous. He even gets the stuff for the goodie bags. He's thoughtful and detail-oriented and I'm.....about to go make a cake because that's all I can do. Did I mention our son has a swim meet tonite, so there won't even be a dinner out? Oh, and the cake is from a mix (and my daughter is making it). And none of us woke up this morning before he left for work so he had to open his two small presents alone in the kitchen.

Happy Crappy Birthday, hon!

A Prayer for Monica

If you're not praying for Monica Conyers then you are just adding to the problem. That's what this self-proclaimed Child of God told the viewers of her weekly TV show yesterday. "The problem" is the fact that the FBI wants her to take a plea deal for accepting bribes in the Synagro scandal.

I'm not sure that I'm "adding to the problem" by not praying for Monica, but I do believe that she is, indeed, in need of prayer. So let's all take a moment.....

Dear God,

Please help Monica Conyers realize that she is A) not above the law, B) not "chosen" by You to be on the Detroit City Council, and C) one of the worst examples of Public Servant that the City of Detroit has produced.

Amen

Summer, Day 1, I'm already screwing up

I signed up to contribute brownies to sell at Son's swim meet tonight before I realized that Son has a baseball game and, therefore, will not be attending the swim meet but couldn't cross my name off the Contribution list because there were other Swim Team Moms standing around the list at practice last night and I did not want to look like an ass. Daughter has agreed to bake brownies in exchange for permission to avoid baseball game and go to a friend's house.

Conversation from two minutes ago:

Daughter: Mom, I can't make brownies. We don't have butter.

Me: Fiiiiiiiiiine. I'm going to the store in a minute to get butter.

Daughter: Can you just pick up some brownies while you're there?

The Bachelor open casting call

As I was sitting here praying for creative inspiration this email popped into my inbox:


Open Casting Call for ABC Bachelor Show: If you want to appear on ABC's next season of the Bachelor, either as the one lucky man or one of 25 lucky ladies, you're in luck.


First, I'd like to say "Thanks, God!" You're obviously a much better listener than I've been giving you credit for lately. Second, well, I'm pretty sure there's not enough spackle-like concealer and constricting/uplifting undergarments that could disguise me enough to even get in the door for this (Oh, and before I forget, I AM happily married, so I really don't need a Bachelor) but then I started thinking "How is it fair that only young, hot women get the opportunity to live in a fancy house with no responsibilities and (apparently) all the booze you can drink and go on incredibly lavish dates that involve adventure and fine dining?" So now I'm thinking I need to go to the audition as the Goofy Aunt character (like Lisa Kudrow's character's character in The Comeback) or as some sort of snide I-know-I'm-not-hot-but-honey-those-looks-won't-last-forever-is-THAT-what-you're-wearing-perhaps-you-should-consider-a-real-career bitchy old "bachelorette" who isn't trying to win but sabotages every one else because isn't that why we all watch in the first place and I could really use a vacation.

Not a fan of the bathroom fan

My BFF's husband is a handyman. No, he is more than that, he can do anything. (She can too, I should point out). When we moved into this house he was here for over a week overseeing the removal of paneling, the installation of wood floors and tile, and doing a lot of other work (rewiring, putting in a brace above the kitchen when it turned out that the guest room on the 2nd floor was being supported by the pantry we had removed, putting in a new kitchen ceiling, etc). He is the guy I call when anything breaks or stops working.

Which brings me to the fan in my master bathroom.

Years ago, BFF and I were talking of home improvement (her house is constantly being improved) and she was in the midst of a bathroom re-do. One of the things she was putting in was an exhaust fan/heat lamp. I immediately went into Jealousy Mode. I, too, wanted to get out of the shower and stand beneath a warm red light like I was staying in the poshest hotel on the Vegas strip. But Husband, with his firm if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it mentality stood firm. Unnecessary. (And don't think I haven't thought about sabotaging that fan. If I were certain of being able to do it without electrocuting myself it would be done by now.)

The fan has always sounded like it is working somewhat reluctantly but now when you turn it on it sounds like The Blue Angels are flying over my house. I give it a month before it dies completely.

All hail the Air King!

Husband socks

Can someone PLEASE help me understand this?

Just inside that open door is the laundry chute, which will give those socks an exciting little ride down two stories to the basement where they will land - PLOP! - in a soft pile of their friends and relatives.

So, how did they not make it into the chute which is pretty much right at hand level for my husband, especially since the door is ALREADY OPEN! There is absolutely NO work involved here.

OR - if my husband didn't drop his socks on the floor right in front of an open laundry chute (because that would be insane, right?) it looks like the socks tried to make it out of my bedroom, down the hall, and into the laundry chute on their own and, after struggling valiantly all night to FINALLY get the door open, collapsed from sheer exhaustion a mere three feet from their destination. It looks like the closer one died first and that the far one is still screaming in agony at the injustice of it all.