Chuckle #400 | March 31st, 2010
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I have a dream. A recurring nightmare really. A giant, unfolded pile of laundry sits in the middle of my bed. I want to go to sleep, but I can’t because, did I say this already? There is a giant pile of laundry sitting in the middle of my bed.
I see a hand sticking up out of the pile, waving at me. The scene is realistically surreal for someone who barely studied art in college. When I start to dig, I uncover my daughter, who calmly climbs out of the pile, says “thanks mom”, and walks away. I yell after her, “Why do you have only one eyeball?"
Then Picasso comes out of my closet, wanders over and says “really?” in what I perceive to be a sarcastic tone, but that might just be Picasso. He sets up an easel and begins to paint. I ignore him. I prefer Dali, even in my dreams.
I try to fold, but the pile keeps growing - an unstoppable exponential incoming tide of shirts and underwear. Clothes begin to fall off the sides of the bed and spread across the floor. The pile slowly forces me out of the room and down the stairs.
I find myself standing outside the house while ash covered panties shoot Vesuvius-like from the chimney. If I’m lucky, in 400 years my body will be found preserved beneath a layer of cheap synthetic undergarments. My remains will be famous.
As I contemplate my own ironic demise (I am NOT wearing my best underwear), my mother-in-law surfs out the front door on a wave of unmatched socks. She hops off her board and exclaims, “Gee that was fun! Can I come back next week and do it again?”
I reply, “It’s not always like this, really.” But she knows I’m fibbing because I own 14 laundry baskets. “By the way,” I continue, “we’re having chicken for dinner.” Then her body separates into parts that float around the yard like bubbles. I cup my hands to my mouth (which is luckily still attached to my face) and yell up at the house, “Knock it off Picasso, you’re freaking me out!”
Then from somewhere deep inside the house, the dog barks. And I wake up.
At this point, you and I are probably wondering the same thing. Where exactly was my husband in this dream? I’d like to think that he was fixing dinner for his mother, or was at the very least, putting her back together.
As for me, I’ve got to stop folding clothes right before I go to bed. AND get rid of all those pretentious “coffee table” art books. Especially that Andy Warhol one, or the next dream could get really weird.
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
Thus Spoke Zarathustra (to my 4 Year Old)
Chuckle #399 | March 24th, 2010
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There will come a time when your child will ask you about GOD. You’ll be prepared for the God question because you’ve been repeatedly warned by parenting experts that it’s coming. So when my youngest daughter said she wanted to talk God, I was not only ready, I was informed.
As it turns out, my daughter did not want to talk about God. She had already briefly entertained and rejected monotheism without bothering to seek my vast, newly acquired wisdom. I was hurt. Until she said she wanted to discuss the finer points of atheism and agnosticism instead. Yikes.
What ever happened to “Where do babies come from?” or “What is my belly button for?” The simple, physical questions are so easy to answer. While I hold out hope that my daughter will someday believe in SOMETHING - even the undeniable existence of intelligent dust in space - I’m not holding my breath.
Where did my husband and I go wrong?
We purposefully raised our children to have a firm sense of their own cultural and religious identity. They were dutifully subjected to the rigors of religious education and all the other yada yada. This kind of “identity building” is good for kids, or so I'm told. More importantly, a strong sense of “self” acts as a talisman of sorts against the insidious recruiting efforts of CULTS. At the very least, at the moment of truth, my kids might refuse to “drink the cool-aid” along with the guru’s 300 other wives. That was “THE PLAN” anyway.
This approach worked fine on my older kids. Unfortunately my 12 year old daughter won’t put her rational super-ego in the back seat so that she can enjoy the religion “ride” without over thinking it. She insists on debating the existence of God and other tenets of pure faith.
Not only that, but at age 4 she declared Santa Claus a parental hoax and impossible by virtue of simple physics. Angry (hoax perpetuating) parents blacklisted her from play dates at Christmastime. The child is simply a “non-believer” and I’m not sure that any amount of religious indoctrination can change her into something she is not. (The effect of the hypnosis and the Mysterious Chinese Herb treatment are not conclusive.)
I can’t say I blame her. She probably got “it” from me. You see, I have this thing about women’s equality that makes it hard for me to accept certain aspects of organized religion. (And pretty much anything else run by “the man”.) In the 80’s I would have been called a feminist. So I blame myself that my child is a soulless skeptic (and budding activist) who will undoubtedly suffer greatly in the afterlife. If only she cared.
She and I do like to talk – scientifically of course - about different religions. I’ve just recently made the argument that the religion of “CHOCOLATE CAKE” is technically idolatry, as in the Golden Calf, and not a religion at all. (Especially the way she practices it.) The worst case scenario would be that she discovers philosophy, is charmed by nihilism, and never leaves home. So in the hopes of averting a permanent freeloader situation, I keep the lines of communication open.
One of our favorite religions is Zoroastrianism, the central theme of which is personal moral choice. E.g. we bear responsibility for the situations we are in, and the way we act towards each other. Zoroastrianism can be summed up as, "good thoughts, good words, good deeds". And they venerate dogs. We especially like the dog thing.
So if and when we come back (though our chosen religion doesn’t believe in reincarnation), we’ve decided to come back Zarathustrian, and generally be good to people and our pets.
Please don’t cast any “holier than thou” stones at me. I realize that this is an unorthodox way to approach the God question, but at least she is still contemplates a God. And trust me, that’s progress.
The one thing I’m sure of is that she is safe from cults. No cult could possibly want this obstinate, opinionated child as a member.
So I guess THE PLAN worked after all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
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There will come a time when your child will ask you about GOD. You’ll be prepared for the God question because you’ve been repeatedly warned by parenting experts that it’s coming. So when my youngest daughter said she wanted to talk God, I was not only ready, I was informed.
As it turns out, my daughter did not want to talk about God. She had already briefly entertained and rejected monotheism without bothering to seek my vast, newly acquired wisdom. I was hurt. Until she said she wanted to discuss the finer points of atheism and agnosticism instead. Yikes.
What ever happened to “Where do babies come from?” or “What is my belly button for?” The simple, physical questions are so easy to answer. While I hold out hope that my daughter will someday believe in SOMETHING - even the undeniable existence of intelligent dust in space - I’m not holding my breath.
Where did my husband and I go wrong?
We purposefully raised our children to have a firm sense of their own cultural and religious identity. They were dutifully subjected to the rigors of religious education and all the other yada yada. This kind of “identity building” is good for kids, or so I'm told. More importantly, a strong sense of “self” acts as a talisman of sorts against the insidious recruiting efforts of CULTS. At the very least, at the moment of truth, my kids might refuse to “drink the cool-aid” along with the guru’s 300 other wives. That was “THE PLAN” anyway.
This approach worked fine on my older kids. Unfortunately my 12 year old daughter won’t put her rational super-ego in the back seat so that she can enjoy the religion “ride” without over thinking it. She insists on debating the existence of God and other tenets of pure faith.
Not only that, but at age 4 she declared Santa Claus a parental hoax and impossible by virtue of simple physics. Angry (hoax perpetuating) parents blacklisted her from play dates at Christmastime. The child is simply a “non-believer” and I’m not sure that any amount of religious indoctrination can change her into something she is not. (The effect of the hypnosis and the Mysterious Chinese Herb treatment are not conclusive.)
I can’t say I blame her. She probably got “it” from me. You see, I have this thing about women’s equality that makes it hard for me to accept certain aspects of organized religion. (And pretty much anything else run by “the man”.) In the 80’s I would have been called a feminist. So I blame myself that my child is a soulless skeptic (and budding activist) who will undoubtedly suffer greatly in the afterlife. If only she cared.
She and I do like to talk – scientifically of course - about different religions. I’ve just recently made the argument that the religion of “CHOCOLATE CAKE” is technically idolatry, as in the Golden Calf, and not a religion at all. (Especially the way she practices it.) The worst case scenario would be that she discovers philosophy, is charmed by nihilism, and never leaves home. So in the hopes of averting a permanent freeloader situation, I keep the lines of communication open.
One of our favorite religions is Zoroastrianism, the central theme of which is personal moral choice. E.g. we bear responsibility for the situations we are in, and the way we act towards each other. Zoroastrianism can be summed up as, "good thoughts, good words, good deeds". And they venerate dogs. We especially like the dog thing.
So if and when we come back (though our chosen religion doesn’t believe in reincarnation), we’ve decided to come back Zarathustrian, and generally be good to people and our pets.
Please don’t cast any “holier than thou” stones at me. I realize that this is an unorthodox way to approach the God question, but at least she is still contemplates a God. And trust me, that’s progress.
The one thing I’m sure of is that she is safe from cults. No cult could possibly want this obstinate, opinionated child as a member.
So I guess THE PLAN worked after all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, all rights reserved, LOLmom.com
The REAL Cost of Driver's Education
Chuckle #398 | March 17th, 2010
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My son is about to turn 16. This happens to be the magical age at which a child may obtain a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Or so proclaims the state of CT. Stripped of our parental decision-making rights by our own “constitution” state, my husband and I have only two choices. We can alienate and embarrass our eldest child, or accept our fate and begin the ordeal of “practice driving.”
We all know what’s going to happen.
Does it make sense to let your kid get their permit? Every cost/benefit analysis shows that it does NOT. There is no scenario (even doomsday) under which it makes economic or practical sense to teach your kid to drive at age 16. And once you factor in loss of sanity and the risk to other humans (and pets) – it actually begins to sound kind of CRAZY.
But driving is an American right of passage, and it’s hard to keep a teenager from it. (It’s also hard to pay the astronomical premium on your insurance when you add a teenager to your policy.) But CAR = FREEDOM. It always has. And no matter how hard I try to sell my son on the concept of a new, awesome BIKE instead, he’s not buying.
Unfortunately for us parents, the more our kids drive, the better they get at it. And that means putting our selves inside a weapon of mass destruction with our child at the wheel. (The child we KNOW as immature, easily distracted, and inclined to swerve to avoid bunnies.) But we owe it to society to deliver a good driver. (Besides, every hour of official Driving School behind the wheel “training” costs about $100 bucks.) I’ll endure almost anything to save $100 bucks. Or so I thought.
In preparation for “permit day” we’ve been conscientiously doing some practice driving to get our son comfortable behind the wheel, mostly in local parking lots and cemeteries. (The cemetery is a bit too prescient for my taste, but it’s a good exercise in avoiding stationary objects like tombstones.) And as my friend said, everyone there is already dead, so the harm my son can inflict is quite limited.
Practicing in a cemetery also subtly reinforces an important message. “Invincible or not, drive badly and you could end up here.”
One of our first practice driving sessions was at the local elementary school and it was a failure from the start. There were too many kids learning how to ride their bikes. A wobbly 5 year old doesn’t stand a chance against a jumpy teenager learning how to drive. The dads eyed us nervously. I eyed them longingly. What I would give to be back in training wheels with my son instead of behind the wheel.
We tried again at the high school parking lot. I made the mistake of bringing the dog for moral support (and comfort.) My son’s first effort at braking sent the dog slamming into the dashboard and down onto the floor with a whimper. He’s ok now. Note to self. Do NOT bring dog to driving lessons. (If possible, do not bring SELF to driving lessons.)
Our third outing was after the recent Big Windstorm of 2010. In hindsight it seems obvious. Streets filled with downed trees and live electrical wires, while challenging, are a relatively poor training environment for a new driver. Did I mention I hadn't done this before?
Final note to self. It’s time for DAD to take over. Mom’s neck and fragile mental condition cannot handle 20 more hours of practice driving. And the poor dog refuses to get in the car. For any reason. I love my son, but I’m starting to feel the same way as the dog.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
scroll to bottom to leave a comment
My son is about to turn 16. This happens to be the magical age at which a child may obtain a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Or so proclaims the state of CT. Stripped of our parental decision-making rights by our own “constitution” state, my husband and I have only two choices. We can alienate and embarrass our eldest child, or accept our fate and begin the ordeal of “practice driving.”
We all know what’s going to happen.
Does it make sense to let your kid get their permit? Every cost/benefit analysis shows that it does NOT. There is no scenario (even doomsday) under which it makes economic or practical sense to teach your kid to drive at age 16. And once you factor in loss of sanity and the risk to other humans (and pets) – it actually begins to sound kind of CRAZY.
But driving is an American right of passage, and it’s hard to keep a teenager from it. (It’s also hard to pay the astronomical premium on your insurance when you add a teenager to your policy.) But CAR = FREEDOM. It always has. And no matter how hard I try to sell my son on the concept of a new, awesome BIKE instead, he’s not buying.
Unfortunately for us parents, the more our kids drive, the better they get at it. And that means putting our selves inside a weapon of mass destruction with our child at the wheel. (The child we KNOW as immature, easily distracted, and inclined to swerve to avoid bunnies.) But we owe it to society to deliver a good driver. (Besides, every hour of official Driving School behind the wheel “training” costs about $100 bucks.) I’ll endure almost anything to save $100 bucks. Or so I thought.
In preparation for “permit day” we’ve been conscientiously doing some practice driving to get our son comfortable behind the wheel, mostly in local parking lots and cemeteries. (The cemetery is a bit too prescient for my taste, but it’s a good exercise in avoiding stationary objects like tombstones.) And as my friend said, everyone there is already dead, so the harm my son can inflict is quite limited.
Practicing in a cemetery also subtly reinforces an important message. “Invincible or not, drive badly and you could end up here.”
One of our first practice driving sessions was at the local elementary school and it was a failure from the start. There were too many kids learning how to ride their bikes. A wobbly 5 year old doesn’t stand a chance against a jumpy teenager learning how to drive. The dads eyed us nervously. I eyed them longingly. What I would give to be back in training wheels with my son instead of behind the wheel.
We tried again at the high school parking lot. I made the mistake of bringing the dog for moral support (and comfort.) My son’s first effort at braking sent the dog slamming into the dashboard and down onto the floor with a whimper. He’s ok now. Note to self. Do NOT bring dog to driving lessons. (If possible, do not bring SELF to driving lessons.)
Our third outing was after the recent Big Windstorm of 2010. In hindsight it seems obvious. Streets filled with downed trees and live electrical wires, while challenging, are a relatively poor training environment for a new driver. Did I mention I hadn't done this before?
Final note to self. It’s time for DAD to take over. Mom’s neck and fragile mental condition cannot handle 20 more hours of practice driving. And the poor dog refuses to get in the car. For any reason. I love my son, but I’m starting to feel the same way as the dog.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com
When the School Nurse Calls, ACT INNOCENT!
Chuckle #397 | March 10th 2010
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“Hello Mrs. Blood?”
“Yeees?”
“This is The School Nurse.”
(Noooooo, not The Nurse! Don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice…Please, a broken leg, disfiguring planter’s warts, missing medical forms, menstruation… ANYTHING but lice.)
“We have a little situation here,” adds The Nurse.
“What kind of situation?” I ask, playing along.
“How exactly was your daughter feeling this morning?” asks The Nurse, clearly probing for incriminating evidence.
"She was great, perfectly fine. Healthy as a hog at the trough,” I reply, somewhat defensively.
(Despite what our school nurse thinks, we parents are not ALWAYS criminally negligent when it comes to our kids’ healthcare. Just sometimes. When we have longstanding lunch plans. Or a big presentation at work. Or an appointment with the cable guy.)
“Well, she’s in my office now…” (Long accusatory pause for effect.)
(Can’t she just spit it out for goodness sakes? Read me my Miranda’s and get on with it! Why do school nurses always give us the third degree? There must be a required class on parental interrogation. Or do they just instinctively know how to make us squirm?)
“It seems that we’ve had a little visitor,” says The Nurse enigmatically.
(Oh oh, that could be lice, but it could also be menstruation. Or a rash, a big embarrassing pimple; chiggers, bedbugs, fleas - please, any insect but LICE! And nurses should NOT use euphemisms. They are healthcare professionals for the Love of Pete! Who was Pete anyway? Are we talking biblical Peter or another Peter, or was it Mike? I can’t remember. Oh wait, the nurse is talking again…)
“…given the situation, I think its best if you come and pick her up. She’ll be waiting in the office.”
(Yikes, I missed what she said was wrong! Darn those maddeningly irresistible etymological puzzles. If I have to ask The Nurse to repeat what she said, she’ll know I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be put on the bad parent “social services” watch list (if I’m not already on it.) And every little stomachache, every bruise, every time my klutzy daughter “falls” down the stairs, I’ll get the offcial shock & awe call.)
“Mrs. Blood?”
(Let it be warts. Or a DEEP paper cut. Please.)
“Yes, yes. I’m here. I’m on my way. Thanks for, uh, being there, in uh, situations like this. Knowing that you are on the job is very reassuring. You are a special person.”
(There, I didn’t give anything away. And since I’ve been given the right to remain silent, no one can make me define “special”.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
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“Hello Mrs. Blood?”
“Yeees?”
“This is The School Nurse.”
(Noooooo, not The Nurse! Don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice…Please, a broken leg, disfiguring planter’s warts, missing medical forms, menstruation… ANYTHING but lice.)
“We have a little situation here,” adds The Nurse.
“What kind of situation?” I ask, playing along.
“How exactly was your daughter feeling this morning?” asks The Nurse, clearly probing for incriminating evidence.
"She was great, perfectly fine. Healthy as a hog at the trough,” I reply, somewhat defensively.
(Despite what our school nurse thinks, we parents are not ALWAYS criminally negligent when it comes to our kids’ healthcare. Just sometimes. When we have longstanding lunch plans. Or a big presentation at work. Or an appointment with the cable guy.)
“Well, she’s in my office now…” (Long accusatory pause for effect.)
(Can’t she just spit it out for goodness sakes? Read me my Miranda’s and get on with it! Why do school nurses always give us the third degree? There must be a required class on parental interrogation. Or do they just instinctively know how to make us squirm?)
“It seems that we’ve had a little visitor,” says The Nurse enigmatically.
(Oh oh, that could be lice, but it could also be menstruation. Or a rash, a big embarrassing pimple; chiggers, bedbugs, fleas - please, any insect but LICE! And nurses should NOT use euphemisms. They are healthcare professionals for the Love of Pete! Who was Pete anyway? Are we talking biblical Peter or another Peter, or was it Mike? I can’t remember. Oh wait, the nurse is talking again…)
“…given the situation, I think its best if you come and pick her up. She’ll be waiting in the office.”
(Yikes, I missed what she said was wrong! Darn those maddeningly irresistible etymological puzzles. If I have to ask The Nurse to repeat what she said, she’ll know I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be put on the bad parent “social services” watch list (if I’m not already on it.) And every little stomachache, every bruise, every time my klutzy daughter “falls” down the stairs, I’ll get the offcial shock & awe call.)
“Mrs. Blood?”
(Let it be warts. Or a DEEP paper cut. Please.)
“Yes, yes. I’m here. I’m on my way. Thanks for, uh, being there, in uh, situations like this. Knowing that you are on the job is very reassuring. You are a special person.”
(There, I didn’t give anything away. And since I’ve been given the right to remain silent, no one can make me define “special”.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright LOLmom.com 2008-2010
Change is Good, the Future is Now, Love Evolves, (& My Husband's a Psycho?!)
Chuckle #396 | March 3rd, 2010
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I don't see myself as someone who is resistant to change. In fact, I pride myself on trying new things. I like to think that I am a role model in this regard for my kids. I firmly believed this about myself - until last week - when I learned just how much of an automaton I have become.
Of course it's all my husbands fault. He decided to play a simple practical joke on the family by switching around the utensils in the silverware drawer. He put the forks where the spoons used to be, the knives in place of the forks, and so on. You'd think the man would have better things to do with his time. Dare I suggest something from the "daddy do" list I have taped prominently to the fridge?
No, the man I love chose to turn my world upside down - instead of installing a dimmer switch. What does that say about our relationship?
When I first reached into the silverware drawer (for what my subconscious believed to be a spoon), I ended up stabbing myself in the face with a fork. It hurt. It hurt even more to realize that I was incapable of adapting to this one tiny household "change." I was disoriented. I was aslo peeved.
If I was trying to tenderize a steak it would be ok, but as the French like to say, "Mon visage n'est pas un bifteck". Ah, the French...also slow to adapt to, and accept, the new world order (but still on top when it comes to food.)
You have no idea how much this small change, this microscopic alteration of my universe, FREAKED me out. I suppose I really am what they call a Creature of Habit. This saddens me because I always thought I was such a wild woman. If you think I'm exaggerating, you try the "silverware" experiment. (I promise the facial wounds will eventually heal.)
My kids were equally stymied by the silverware shuffle. Despite their youth, they were like "Whoa, this is weird, like we totally can't handle this." (Or something "like" that.) This made me feel much better. At least I knew I wasn't freaked out just because I'm old and set in my ways.
So what does it mean for the future of my family if we can't handle a minor habitat change? Dare I say extinction? If Jane Goodall was sitting on a stool in my kitchen, what would she be scribbling in her judgmental little notebook? That the subjects are experiencing debilitating confusion? Are incapable of overcoming muscle memory? That primates could, and would, do better?
This is heavy stuff. If my family's unique gene pool is to survive, we clearly need to get more comfortable with change. So in this case, though I don't like to admit it, Dad may not actually be a sadist, and is doing us a favor. And I thought he was just trying to drive us nuts!
Dad (hereafter known as "Dr. Evil") is having a lot of fun experimenting on us. As soon as one of us returns the silverware to its rightful place, he sneaks into the kitchen and switches it back. We are the hapless mice in his private behavioral science lab. He's a complete psycho. All I can say is I'd better not get a treadmill for my birthday.
I have to give my husband credit for creativity though. He's both saving the family and "keeping the relationship fresh" as recommended by Cosmo. I'm told that it's the little things husbands do, that show how much they love their wives. Like keeping us off the endangered species list.
So I'm off to re-arrange the stuff in his tool room. And install a webcam so I can watch my darling squirm when he reaches for a hammer and comes up with pliers instead.
What can I say? The love runs deep.
----------------------------------------------------------------
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scroll to bottom to leave a comment
I don't see myself as someone who is resistant to change. In fact, I pride myself on trying new things. I like to think that I am a role model in this regard for my kids. I firmly believed this about myself - until last week - when I learned just how much of an automaton I have become.
Of course it's all my husbands fault. He decided to play a simple practical joke on the family by switching around the utensils in the silverware drawer. He put the forks where the spoons used to be, the knives in place of the forks, and so on. You'd think the man would have better things to do with his time. Dare I suggest something from the "daddy do" list I have taped prominently to the fridge?
No, the man I love chose to turn my world upside down - instead of installing a dimmer switch. What does that say about our relationship?
When I first reached into the silverware drawer (for what my subconscious believed to be a spoon), I ended up stabbing myself in the face with a fork. It hurt. It hurt even more to realize that I was incapable of adapting to this one tiny household "change." I was disoriented. I was aslo peeved.
If I was trying to tenderize a steak it would be ok, but as the French like to say, "Mon visage n'est pas un bifteck". Ah, the French...also slow to adapt to, and accept, the new world order (but still on top when it comes to food.)
You have no idea how much this small change, this microscopic alteration of my universe, FREAKED me out. I suppose I really am what they call a Creature of Habit. This saddens me because I always thought I was such a wild woman. If you think I'm exaggerating, you try the "silverware" experiment. (I promise the facial wounds will eventually heal.)
My kids were equally stymied by the silverware shuffle. Despite their youth, they were like "Whoa, this is weird, like we totally can't handle this." (Or something "like" that.) This made me feel much better. At least I knew I wasn't freaked out just because I'm old and set in my ways.
So what does it mean for the future of my family if we can't handle a minor habitat change? Dare I say extinction? If Jane Goodall was sitting on a stool in my kitchen, what would she be scribbling in her judgmental little notebook? That the subjects are experiencing debilitating confusion? Are incapable of overcoming muscle memory? That primates could, and would, do better?
This is heavy stuff. If my family's unique gene pool is to survive, we clearly need to get more comfortable with change. So in this case, though I don't like to admit it, Dad may not actually be a sadist, and is doing us a favor. And I thought he was just trying to drive us nuts!
Dad (hereafter known as "Dr. Evil") is having a lot of fun experimenting on us. As soon as one of us returns the silverware to its rightful place, he sneaks into the kitchen and switches it back. We are the hapless mice in his private behavioral science lab. He's a complete psycho. All I can say is I'd better not get a treadmill for my birthday.
I have to give my husband credit for creativity though. He's both saving the family and "keeping the relationship fresh" as recommended by Cosmo. I'm told that it's the little things husbands do, that show how much they love their wives. Like keeping us off the endangered species list.
So I'm off to re-arrange the stuff in his tool room. And install a webcam so I can watch my darling squirm when he reaches for a hammer and comes up with pliers instead.
What can I say? The love runs deep.
----------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com
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