lesson learned

For the past few days, we've been living with the frustrations of having no electricity, no hot water, and no heat. These things tend to make me cranky. [I know, right? Me? Cranky?] The ice storms has reduced me to a whiny toddler who fixates on things like the fact I haven't showered for three days, and generally drives everyone around me absolutely bananas.

Luckily, Brother Robby's house has still been warm, full of light, and able to power laptops. I am seriously only in possession of my sanity today because he let us camp out on his couch. Because of his generosity, we only endure the cold when we return to our sad, dark house at night and go directly to bed, laying there for hours listening to a cacophony of rain, sirens, and breaking tree limbs.

Two nights ago, we awoke in the middle of the night because the sound of a cracking tree limb was so close to our window that we were convinced it was either gunfire or someone bursting through our front door. Well, what I actually awoke to was Husband throwing his body on top of mine and brandishing his flashlight like a lightsaber, piercing the darkness in search of our foolish would-be assailant.

May I never again claim that chivalry is dead.

I have no title for this entry because every title I've thought up would get me in trouble

it's spreading

I once imagined that Husband's Piling problem was restricted to our apartment.  That was until we arrived at his parents' house for Thanksgiving last night and he immediately unpacked as if he intended to move back in.  Clothes on the floor, clothes in the closet, watch/ring/wallet/iPhone on the dresser.... 

The Piles are officially an epidemic.  

He even took out a towel and draped it over the shower.  He plugged in his laptop and phone charger.  He draped his jeans over the end of the bed.  All of which makes me realize: The Piles are a territorial gesture used to demarcate ownership.  And I think Husband was a little unsettled that he had to leave room in his old room for little ole me.  With all the piling going on, I thought I might have to sleep on the couch.

at dinner last night

"Remember when we came here with your parents about two weeks after we got married?"

"Not really."

"Remember? They asked us how we liked being married, and you said that I never put the toilet paper roll on the thing correctly."

"Oh yeah! I remember that."

"I think about it all the time because I always have to stop and think about how I put the roll on there so I will do it right."

"Ummm.... you still do it wrong."

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah, I have to change it every time."

"WHAT? For the past year and a half, I have wasted valuable seconds of my life making sure I put the roll on correctly for you so you would know I love you enough to do it right. ITS ALL IN THE DETAILS."

"Well, I always change it."

"When we go home, we are going straight into the bathroom and settling this once and for all. And now I will always associate this place with toilet paper."

a house divided

"Wait, who are we rooting for?"

"The Patriots."

"Why? Why not Peyton? I refuse to root for Tom Brady. I don't support Dead Beat Dads who leave their Baby Momma for Brazilian Super Models."

"Well, I HATE Peyton Manning."

"Why? How can you hate Peyton Manning?"

"All he does is sit in the back and pass the ball."

"Ummm.... isn't he the quarterback?"

"Yes."

"And isn't the quarterback, by definition, 'he who passes the ball'?"

"He's supposed to manage the offense. I don't like his style of play."

"So, you don't like the way he plays?"

"No."

"But you don't have a reason?"

"Well, he played at Tennessee."

"What?"

"I hate Tennessee."

"You hate Peyton because he played at Tennessee? Why do you hate Tennessee?"

"Because Peyton Manning played there."

shame

Something I can't believe I actually said in real life, which proves that he should be the inspiration for a sitcom or at least star in his own reality show:

"Were you LOOKING AT THE TV while you were kissing me?!"

I won't even try to explain that one.



[I mean, its one thing to make sure you get the seat at the restaurant that faces the tv when the game is on. I mean, I didn't want to enjoy your conversation anyway. But WHILE KISSING? That deserves to be posted on the Internet.]

a bit Freudian

I had the strangest dream last night that Little Scotty was 3 years old again and I was taking him grocery shopping. He was the cutest baby version of Little Scotty, screaming with glee when I offered him some Jello and chasing me down the supermarket aisle with a stalk of celery. [He went through a sword phase, which I somehow reinterpreted in my dream as a stalk of celery.]

What do I get from this dream? My ridiculous baby phase is definitely not over.