I'm pretty sure my Hubby's trying to kill me. 

I think he's been pursuing various methods of accidental murder throughout our married life, but as time marches on, he's becoming less creative in his sneaky attempts. By now, I think he just wants to get it over with.

I walked in the door this morning from my hour long trek to take the kids to school and he says to me, "Check out the coral snake in the pool."
We live amongst the lions and tigers and bears of the woods, so a coral snake is no surprise. And I'm not afraid of snakes. My feared creature of choice is the rodent. I can't even type the word without shuddering. But, snakes nah. I have three big brothers. I've had plenty a snake dangled in front of my face. 
But, I wanted to see this coral snake because even though I'm not afraid of snakes, I have a healthy respect for them. And here in the Tropics, coral snakes are as plentiful as Confederate flags. 
Every time a snake happens upon the homestead, I say to my girls, "Stay away! It's a coral snake."
I have no idea if it IS a coral snake. I couldn't tell you the difference between a big earthworm and a coral snake. I just say that to keep them away. It's called coral snake insurance.
I figured I'd go check out the one in our pool so I'd finally know of what I speak.
Problem was there was no coral snake in the pool.
I'm standing there, gazing into the pool, yelling at The Hubby, who's reading the paper in the safety of the house, "There's no coral snake in here."
And he's yelling back, "Yes there is. Look closer."
And I'm checking out every bit of that pool which isn't hard to do, since there's only so many places this coral snake could be. It's a pool. It's a big rectangle with water in it. So, I yell back, "I don't see any snake."
And he's insisting, "It's there. Look closer."
And I'm still not thinking about the fact that this could be it for me. That he's either trying to make me stumble into the pool, hit my head, get knocked unconscious while he sits there, biding his time before calling the paramedics, reading the paper at a very slow clip, as I float head down like a blonde bobber or.....
He says casually from his spot on the couch inside the house. "Huh, it must have found its way out of the pool."
And as the words come out of his mouth, I see this black rope slithering across the patio right towards me as I'm crouched down next to the pool, a hard position to scurry out of, when a poisonous snake is headed towards you, thinking you look like a mighty good appetizer. I screamed as I dashed into the house, slamming the sliding glass door shut. 
The hubby glances over the couch and says ultra (pretend) casually, "Yeah, there it is."
A coral snake bite. How convenient!
Then there was the time he called me on his way home from Lowe's and said, "Be waiting outside. I need you to help me with something."
Now, here's the thing: My hubby was never blessed with a son, a son to mow the lawn, a son to be his companion during shooting-car chasing-bombing movies, a son to play catch with, a son to have farting contests with, a son to sit with in companionable silence-neither of them having the desire to talk about their feelings, a son-the only other person in the household he could depend on not to cry on a regular basis, a son to help with all the heavy lifting. 
In many instances, when he could use the benefit of a son he, instead, conveniently forgets that I'm a girl. 
This was one of those moments. 
I waited outside, in the dark, (it's easier to cause "accidents" in the dark when no one can see you) and he pulled up in his partner's truck. I was already nervous because I realized the "helping with something" was something large enough to require an F-150 truck to haul whatever it was, home. 
He got out of the truck with a proud smile on his face. Mr. Shopping Boy had bought himself a new grill. Now, not any grill mind you, but a fancy, stainless steel grill, a massive ass grill with about a gazillion burners and as I looked at this, wondering if he wanted me to wave him into the patio while he backed it up, he said, "Now, here's how we're gonna do this. You stand right there and I'm gonna slowly slide it down to you."
Yup. Slide it down to me. 
I looked at him in disbelief and said, "You're going to slide that down to me? And how do you expect me to catch it? What is it, 1000 lbs? I'm not a boy, if you haven't noticed by now."
And he actually said, "It's 1800 lbs. You'll be fine. Use your legs. Put all the pressure on your legs."
Now, I'm a good sport about a lot of things. I move furniture when he needs a hand. I'll hold crap up as he hammers it, praying with clenched eyes that he doesn't break my hand with a miss. I helped him lay the floor in our old house. I've even let him go to a golf tournament on my birthday. But, I was not going to "use my legs" to let him slide an 1800 lb stainless steel grill onto me. I'm not all that good sporty.
I asked him who helped him get this hunk of steel on the truck and he said: "They did it with a forklift. But, I'm telling you, we could do this."
Even if I thought I could hold up almost a ton of stainless steel by using my legs, I'm a terrible wimp. I cried the one time I decided to be nice and do him a favor and use the industrial sized leaf blower backpack to blow the driveway of leaves. My back hurt like a mo' fo' for days and that was a 45 lb leaf blower not Godzilla Grill!
So, my reaction to the fact that he was going to slide this piece of machinery onto me causing almost certain paralysis was to laugh and laugh as I walked away. 
A Flat Stanley for a wife. It's so freakish, no one would even think it was anything but an accident.
It took five dudes to lift that baby out of the truck. 
I was too smart for him that time. 
Then, of course there's his "sleepwalking." He doesn't do it much, probably because he realizes I figured that one out pretty quick. But, when we were much younger and our life was much poorer simpler and we only had one newborn baby, he decided to "sleepwalk" one night.
I'd just finished with another of the middle of the night nursings and I had wearily dragged myself off to our little bathroom. I was so sleep deprived, I couldn't remember if I'd brushed my teeth yet and since I am anal, I was brushing my teeth knowing I wouldn't be able to fall asleep with the thought of bacteria festering in my mouth. 
You don't have to say it, Internet. I know I'm a freak. 
As I was spitting toothpaste into the sink, I was suddenly shrouded in blackness. A blanket had been thrown over my head and someone was holding it tightly around me. My first panicked thought was, "I'm being kidnapped!" And the thought that scurried up right behind that thought was, "Why would someone kidnap me? I have no money. My breasts are leaking. I'm constantly exhausted. I look like death. I still wear maternity undies and nursing bras. I'm irritable and I just might have to kill this kidnapper if I don't get some sleep before the next feeding."
With that thought, I screamed and writhed around, flailing at my captor until I had freed myself from the blanket and there standing behind me with the blanket in his hands with the dumbest-ass grin I've ever seen was My Hubby. I asked him what the hell he was doing and he answered, "I'm going to see Goofy at Disney World." and then turned around and shuffled off to bed, covering himself in the kidnapping blanket. 
He claimed not to remember it the next morning. Suurrre. I've got his number, all right. 
He has also convinced me to accompany him on boat rides on the lake. Now that might sound all romantic and such, but the reality of it is we get in his ultra-gross john boat with the rickety seats and the bottom with the constant two inches of muck water and icky things floating around it and putter around the lake. The only way he gets me out there is by plying me with a bottle of wine. 
We always boat around sunset time since this is "good fishing time." 




Sunsets also mean The Swarm.
When we were contemplating buying our property we were chatting with the neighbors one night. They were expounding on the peace and the beauty of the lake and the hawks and the eagles and the whistle of the train a few miles away and in the middle of their speech, they suddenly said, "Well, we gotta go." And without another word, they raced into their house, like they were fleeing a tsunami.  
We stared at each other, baffled, until we heard the buzzing. It was ungodly, like an Alfred Hitchcock movie, this buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes who then alighted on our skin and proceeded to sting the snot out of us. We raced for our lives. 
Swarm time, we figured out, is every night at sunset, the time he decides is romantic boat ride time. He always claims to  have "forgotten" the bug spray as he sits there not getting bit, while I slap away. 
I know he's hoping for West Nile Virus or encephalitis or even malaria. 
While he's out there fishing and I'm sloshing my wine out of my glass as I swat at the swarm attacking only me, he putters us out to the corner of the lake, "the best fishing spot."
It is also where the alligators hang out and as I sit there in my fog of swarming mosquitoes, you can see them, their prehistoric backs sticking out of the water as they glide past us, watching, watching and waiting. 
I see him then as Montgomery Clift while I am a mosquito bitten, sticky-with-wine Shelley Winters. 
I have warned him there in the boat that I am aware of his game. I make the children sit on the dock so there are witnesses. He pretends innocence, but I know...
There was also the time I had just had surgery to remove a blood clot. We were in the midst of building the house and my hubby found my blood clot to be a major inconvenience in the building of the house.
I was wrapped up in gauze from the top of my thigh to my ankle. I'd been released to the caring arms of my hubby who had direct orders from my doctor to fill my prescriptions right away since once the anesthesia wore off, my pain would be intense. We drove to the drug store and as we pulled up to the drive thru, I could already feel the pulsating throb from my vein where my doc had had to carve a cavernous incision to pull out the big purple clot. 
When the pharmacist told my hubby she would need 30 minutes, he didn't argue, he said, "Great. That'll give me time to install this light in the house I'm building."
In my haze, I realized we really were headed to the new house. And he really did ask me to help him install a light. (Our builder should have been the one doing this, but that is a very long story for another day.) And I can only attribute this to my anesthesia haze, but yes, I sat there in throbbing pain, hobbling on one foot with a bandaged, carved up leg and held a big ole' hanging light up to him as he climbed the ladder and did stuff with screwdrivers and such. 
I cried.
My guess is he was hoping I'd throw another clot from the exertion and this one would go immediately to my heart.
Last weekend, we celebrated my mother's birthday at the Bucca di Beppo. 
During a previous visit, my waiter brought me on a tour of the men's room, insisting I had to see the pictures all over the wall in there. After he confirmed there were no men doing their business, he escorted me in and showed me the countless black and white stills of various men, all naked, displaying their goods. 
I found it amusing and puzzling at the same time. Why would the average man want to see naked men plastered all over the place as they took a whiz? I know my hubby would find naked men staring down at him as he peed, alarmingly uncomfortable. 
So, during my Mom's celebration, my sister-in-law and I decided we had to visit the men's room because after a few glasses of wine we become12 year old boys.  My Hubby offered to make sure the coast was clear.
He came out and waved us in and as we walked in, my sister-in-law grabbed at my arm and said, "Someone's in here" as she fled out the door. I figured she'd just lost her nerve. I never lose my nerve. I was priding myself on that and that is why I didn't see the wall of mirrors reflecting the urinals. It wasn't until I turned the corner and came face to face with a man staring over his shoulder at me, doing his business with a curious stare fused with an amused smirk. I squealed, "Sorry" as I fled the room, my hubby's demonic laughter trailing after me.
I figured he was trying to bring on a heart attack. 
He keeps begging me to go shooting with him. Every time he looks down at me and asks, I see Dick Cheney's face. 


Nothin doin, Mister. 
Today's Terrific Download: The Killers, "All These Things That I've Done." How I love the Killers, I do. I do. "I got soul, but I'm not a soldier." Golly, golly, gosh, just rock and roll awesome.
For you Hubby, all these things, all these things you've done and I'm still kickin'. For shame.