Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Shopping Boy is at it again.
Only this time it's over a commercial. He's a sucker for new products he sees on the television or Heaven help our family, The Infomercial. The Infomercial has a "gotta go out right now and purchase it" power over him, over the girls, too.
I think the girls are infomercial suckers because of my pregnancy habits. When pregnant, I was always a human barf machine those first four months. I felt like I was constantly on a boat in the middle of The Perfect Storm and I was being pitched and tossed about and at any unforeseen moment I would lose my cookies.
And I did. Lose those cookies. A lot.
I remember one time when I was gestating the peanut who would become the Odawg, I did everything by the book because that's how you do it with your first, you follow the instructions step by step. And I tried to eat all those stupid foods listed in the "What to Expect When You're Expecting" book. Those foods made me sick when I was non-pregnant, but by God, I was going to eat them to ensure my baby would not have three heads and other sorts of not-eating-right malformations.
So, there I was at work, bound and determined to finish every last bit of that fat tuna fish sandwich I purchased from the health food store. Every bite was a fight and my stomach was a rockin' and a rollin' and as I opened my mouth to finish that last bit of smelly fish, the cookies came up to say hello. I barely made it to the bathroom.
I told my sympathetic sisters this tale and unfortunately I finished it with, "I don't know when I'll be able to eat that t-thing again. I can't even say the word. The thought of that word uttered aloud makes me want to hurl."
Those sweet sisters left me a chant almost every night on my answering machine for the next four months, "Tuna! Tuna! Tuna!" It was always most powerful on the weekend when during happy hour they could get all their inebriated friends on intercom to join in on the chant.
Such caring and thoughtful sisters have I.
I had a long commute when I was pregnant and it was incredibly tough getting up every morning around fiveish, but I had to do it because, I, Internet, was the BREADWINNER.
That's right. You heard me, the BREADWINNER of our family.
I like to remind my husband as much as possible, that for a short period in our married life when he was trying to sell his way into qualifying for the funster AIG conventions and not having much luck at it, I was the one bringing home the bacon.
He, in turn, likes to remind me that, that period in our lives was one very short dot.
He reminds me of this by leaving my annual social security statement up for all to see and showing it to everyone who walks in the house. "Look what my wife has socked away for our retirement. Whoo-hoo, that twelve dollars a month sure is gonna keep us in motorized scooters and wrap around sunglasses."
He gets an even bigger kick over my employee stock dividends which are now down to what amounts to around twelve cents. He's collecting them, he says to frame them in a montage of the financial windfall I have contributed to our life.
I tell him my contribution to our life is worth much more than all the gold in the world. I have the stretch marks to prove it. There's nothing he can say that tops that one.
But, when I was the BREADWINNER, I had to get up very early in the morning and when I was pregnant this was most painful. Something about the morning made even the act of clearing my throat completely impossible without losing my cookies. So, I would sit in front of the TV with my cup of herbal tea and package of saltine crackers and wait for my stomach to stop wobbling.
I found the only thing that kept my mind off my nausea was the infomercials. I don't know why, but watching that man hawk spray-on hair and focusing on Tony Robbins' enormous teeth, gave me great comfort. I spent hours watching infomercials in the constant quest to do whatever it took to keep those cookies down.
My girls now froth at the mouth when we come across an "As Seen On TV" store. Their infomercial weakness can be tracked back to the womb.
But, The Hubby? He just likes to buy crap, plain and simple.
A few weeks ago, he came home with this:
He'd seen the commercial and he was enthralled with the fact that an air freshener can squirt fresh scents into the air when it detects motion.
Good Golly! What WILL we think up next? Before you know it, we'll be sending a man to the moon!
He made a big deal about putting this in our bathroom on top of the toilet. And, Dear Internet, I'm sorry to stoop to such a base level, but I was very grateful for this, because well...I have this man and need I say more, ladies?
So, I had no problem with the motion detector air freshener. My only comment was, I hoped it had a nuclear spray, smell detecter for the moments he comes out of the bathroom with that stupid grin on his face which means everyone should run as fast as they can, away from the toxic storm.
But, then I had to tinkle and that's when the problem started.
I'd forgotten about this thing on the back of the toilet until I, being a girl, sat down to use the potty and the very second I copped a squat, this giant burst of liquid hit me in the back of the head. It got me in my hair, on the back of my neck and down my shoulder.
It's got one powerful blast, let me tell you.
It scared the piss out of me, literally. And I was like, "What the Hell?"
I turned around to see that thing aimed right at me. As if, in my sleep, he measured the upper part of my torso and positioned this squirter to hit me square in the center of my head.
I immediately turned it away from me and spent the rest of my day smelling like Clean Linen.
Now, Clean Linen might be great for the air in a bathroom, but it's certainly not want I want to smell like all day.
I hate laundry as we all know.
I want to smell like the French perfume my Hubby buys me every year and every year has to remind me how he almost had a coronary over the ridiculousness of the price. And I always say in return, "What, Satchel Boy?"
The next day I went to tinkle and the same thing-shot in the back of the head.
He had turned it back and suspiciously, the aim was perfect.
I spent more than a few days smelling like Clean Linen. In fact, one day, my Victoria, who likes to steal borrow everything I have, asked me what perfume I was wearing. I told her I was perfume-less. She just kept at it insisting I was wearing something very familiar.
I finally broke down and said, "It's Clean Linen, all right!"
And she said, "Clean Linen? Who makes that?"
And I was all, "Glade, Glade makes that. It's air freshener. You gotta problem with that?"
Now . . . she knows I'm not your average mother. She knows to not expect motherly clothes or motherly responses or motherly taste in music or motherly food from me. She knows I tend to march to my own mother drummer, but I think she was a little stunned by this one.
She said, "You're wearing air freshener? Yeah, I'm not going to be borrowing that anytime soon."
Since my days are very busy not being the BREADWINNER for this family, I kept forgetting to yell at my hubby for the air freshener assassination attempts, until the one day when he was in the bathroom and I was in the toilet area getting ready to potty with the door closed because as I tell my Hubby every single damn time I close the door on him as he's getting ready to do his business with the door wide open, "Married people should not have to share everything," and as I sat down, the Fresh Linen squirted me for the millionth time in the back of the head, and I let out a scream. From the other side of the door, I heard his snicker. I swung open the door and told him exactly what I thought of his furtive air freshener bombings.
He acted like he had no idea what I was talking about and perhaps it was something I was doing, since he'd never been squirted.
Well, duh. Standing obviously gives you a superior advantage.
He continued to profess ignorance as I turned the air freshener away from my head and told him it better not move from its position.
The next day, Clean Linen freshener blasted me in the head, again.
I'm thinking some Billy Mays' Mighty Putty in his underoos, strategically placed, might just be the perfect revenge.
Today's Definite Download: John Cougar Mellencamp's, "I Need A Lover." Man, I can listen to the long, long piano and guitar intro to this song all day. This is the John Cougar Mellencamp I love, not the kind of pop tune hit maker he evolved into. Just a great song.
"I need a lover that won't drive me crazy."
Any volunteers? Cause I'm about to kick Air Freshener Assassin out on his Fresh Linen behind.
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1 comment:
Who would have thought anything could make that bass that danced & sang when you peed in your old guest bath seem more appealing? Hilarious!
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