Unhand Thee! Or, The Unhandy Husband

Boobs is even less handy than I am. Ok, he can hang light fixtures and pictures and he’s got measurements down with his mad math skillz.

But…yesterday he goes into the basement bathroom while I’m in the other room watching TV. I hear a flush, then some sort of splattering sound, then “BECK!”

So I rush in to see what’s going on in there and he’s just standing there, the back of the toilet lid is off and water is jetting upwards and onto the wall. WTF??

I practically shove him out of the way and reach behind the toilet to turn the water off. Why didn’t he do that? What the hell!



Raisin Hell

I’m suddenly addicted to raisin toast. I’ve always liked it, just haven’t eaten any for a while. Boobs, Mrs. Loo & Mrs. Muffin & I usually go out for breakfast on the weekend and for whatever reason I changed from my usual rye toast to raisin. It’s buttery, crispy, cinammony and sweet…(I had 3 pieces for lunch yesterday, limited myself to 2 today).

I have no idea why but raisin bread is the only way I’ll tolerate them in baked goods. They have no business being in cookies, butter tarts, covered in chocolate, nor will I eat them out of a little red box.

This picture illustrates exactly how I feel:


You can actually hear him hiss the word: “Raisins”.

I do anyway.

I’ve had this happen to me before. It is SUCH a major letdown. I bought 2 cookies at a fancy bake shop (all their other stuff I love) and was pissed that I’d mistaken those dark bits behind the display case for chocolate. You’re all excited about eating a chocolate chip cookie but then you’re immediately angry and feel duped.

I’m going to go hug my loaf of raisin bread and tell it that I love it.

It’s Training Men

Boobs has eclectic taste in music. While we both love Depeche Mode and a bunch of other 80s bands, the line of similarity gets a bit blurry after that. Take his latest iTunes purchases, for example…

I Feel For You, by Chaka Kahn.

Dirty Dancing, by New Kids on the Block

Nite and Day, by Al B. Sure!

I can picture it now: Boobs belting out his best internal monologue version a la Chaka Kahn while doing bicep curls at the gym.

He may not have It’s Raining Men on any of his playlists, but he’s not that far off.

UPDATE: after I told him that I blabbed on my blog, he reminded me about his recent download of Rock Lobster.

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog. It’s both visually appealing and stunningly informative.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,600 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 4 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Boobs: the man, the nickname

One of my husband’s nicknames is Boobs, a.k.a on this blog. I’m sorry to say that it’s really not a very funny story how he got it. It didn’t come from a night of barhopping or a Vegas vacation – maybe more so for a particular predilection to his own chest (?), which is why he works out. The name came from a conversation he had with a buddy at the gym (insert your own *yawn* here).

He and I were doing our cardio on the elliptical, I think. A friend came up to him to chat (a British guy). He (husband) made some kind of remark about chesticles (it could very well have been about his own) and his friend replied, “Boobs, Dave?” (You have to say it with a real good British accent though: Baoobzz Dayveh). So, mostly I just call him Boobs, sometimes the full “Boobs Dave” if I’m mad at him.

It stuck. At least with me.

Fit to Be Flattered?


What’s more flattering (if at all)? One: to receive a compliment from a total stranger (like a creepy older car salesman), or two: to have someone yell something at you while you’re running?

My friend and I were talking about this the other night. I got uncomfortably-complimented while looking at cars one day. The guys said something contained the word “stunning” and maybe my eyes were involved in that statement somewhere (but I’ve almost finished blocking it all out so I can’t really recall).

Boobs had gone out to the car to get his wallet when things got awkward. Thankfully creepy-complimenter-dude didn’t have to go on the test drive with me. I had to go alone because Boobs had to stay back with our daughter. In the end, we ended up getting our car at a similar dealership, but elsewhere. Normally Boobs isn’t the jealous type. I don’t know if that actually made him jealous or if it just creeped him out too.

My friend thinks option one is better. I’d say two is better because they keep on driving by, and you keep running in the opposite direction. Encounter complete! What if someone shouted out something about your knockers whilst jogging, or “I want to see you naked!!!!”? You don’t have to respond. I guess you could, with any of the following gestures: a thumbs-up? An OK? The finger, or if you felt like it, the “Call me!”…