We interrupt our usual blogging schedule to provide you with the details of yet another episode in the life of “The Most Annoying (Formerly Hated) Husband on the Internet” aka my husband, Mike aka The SlaveMaster.

My husband is under the impression that EVERYTHING can be baked in the oven at 350 degrees.

No need to read instructions, if it requires an oven bake it at 350 degrees.

We have had this argument for YEARS. YEARS, I tell you. He has baked things at 350 and left them there until they turn into things that look like that turkey on A Christmas Vacation.

Now, to be perfectly honest, the man can cook. He’s brilliant with turkey, roasts, lamb, fish, prime rib. Basically, if it involves meat it will be the BEST meat you have EVER tasted. To say nothing of his specialty, “Mike’s Mondo Burgers” which, in a word, ROCK.

Unfortunately, he applies what he has learned about meat to EVERYTHING that goes in the oven. He firmly believes he can toss anything into the oven at 350 and it will be fine. We had taquitos and some sort of Mexican Fiesta Platter. He opened up the box through everything on to a pan and tossed them in at, you guessed it, 350.

They were supposed to be in the oven at 400 for 20 minutes.

They baked at 350 - for 45.

They weren’t taquitos, mini tacos, and flautas anymore. They were ROCKS with stuff in the middle. Jawbreakers.

Yet, he insists that anything can be thrown into the oven at 350. Anything.

**Update - Shameless Blog Whoring Polite Announcement

I’m in a contest and strangely enough, am competing against my own blog. :roll: Feel free to click on over and vote!

Isn’t it funny how we (ok, maybe not everyone, but I know of a few of us who do) beat ourselves up and sometimes don’t even realize we are doing it?

Take yesterday for instance, you can’t imagine how much I appreciate everyone who commented and wrote me. It was humbling and very, very wonderful. Yet, I made an excuse for having a less than happy blog post. As if, somehow, I didn’t have the right to my discontent or less-than-happy moment.

Then I have a very dear friend that I absolutely adore as a sister (and seeing as I no longer really have a sister, it’s wonderful to feel that way about someone else, I’ve missed it) who I’ve watched beat herself up for the last week over something she has every right to feel and no right at all to abuse or punish herself over.

It’s wonderful to say that you choose to be happy. It’s wonderful when you can actually do it as well. But, we’d be abusing ourselves to say that we always need to be happy, perfect, and content.

Content is a word that has been volleyed around quite a bit lately. I don’t see happy and content as being synonomous. I think you can be content but not happy, I think you can be happy and not content. And, I don’t think there is anything wrong with either. Unless you are one or the other and not pleased either way. Then, I suggest you do something about it.

I think that there is humor to be found in every situation. No matter how futile, depressing, or horrible it is. In fact, dark humor is one of my favorite types of humor.

Funny, in fact, is sitting on your bed, fresh out of the shower, expecting the cassanova version of your husband to come sauntering through your bedroom door any moment to have his way with you… funny is still sitting there 30 minutes later, watching the Oscars and hearing the intro to “Rock and Roll” by Led Zeppelin floating through the floor from the garage below, realizing that husband is having more fun man-handling his bass guitar.

It has a certain element of humor to it.

Even more funny is 11pm when husband finally crawls into bed looking for love in all the wrong places. *insert evil vicious laugh*

That’s when you realize that a meat tenderizer wasn’t even necessary (that is my way of letting Joe know it is safe to come out of hiding) nor was an entire cake, but several sugar-free chocolates were called for.

We have a right to our feelings whether they are Disney-feelings, Playboy-feelings, or FridayThe13th-feelings, it’s the actions that follow those feelings that we are held accountable for. More importantly, it’s cool to vent those feelings every once in a while without feeling like a soul-sucking pig about it.

So, thanks for letting me have my less-than-happy moment.

It’s that feeling that you are out of control. You know things are getting to you far more than they should, or normally do for that matter. It’s that hot, stinging sensation behind your eyes right before the floods tear loose.

There’s nothing like the feeling of being further down on the priority list than you’d like to be. That irrational moment where you say, I obviously care MORE for you than you do for me. Even if you know it’s irrational and possibly unfair. The feeling is still there and the more you try to swallow it the more it wants to keep rearing its’ ugly head.

Somewhere behind the new patio, the crappy western, and impromptu jam session in the garage is where I’m falling at the moment. I can’t swear that the roast in the oven isn’t ahead of me, because it probably is.

And, yes, I’m PMS’ing like nothing you’ve ever seen (if you aren’t married or significantly attached, that is) and I know that some of what is going on is hormones and mood swings… and yet, I’m thinking of lovely things I’d enjoy doing with a meat tenderizer about now. Slow, painful things…

But, then again, it isn’t just that one thing, it’s more than that. It’s the conversation where the other person drifts off to talk to someone else when you were mid-answering them. It’s that emotional feeling of being slapped in the face, snubbed, and ignored. Somehow, ignored seems to be the worst of the three.

So, this is me on my pity pot. It’s not pretty, I know. But, this is my blog and if I want to throw myself a pity party (hastily checking archives) I don’t think it’s something I’ve done with any sort of regularity, so perhaps I’m entitled.

Meh.

Me: Know what sounds good?

Ethan: What?

Me: Orange Chicken.

Ethan: Ugh.

Me: Since when does that not sound good to you?

Ethan: I had too much the last time.

Me: Oh, that’s right you got a triple combo thing, didn’t you?

Ethan: and I most of Kate’s.

Me: OMG. Your gut must have been aching!

Ethan: Yeah… (drawn out like he is remembering a fond memory) but it was so good up until that point.

———–

The other day Mike had a another appraiser over to review some files and Maggie came running around the corner with nothing on but a shirt. Apparently, she had stripped off to go in and use the potty. So there is Mike trying to be a semi-professional and in runs Maggie and her naked little fanny, she hopped up into his lap and said, “Hey Mike, I done going potty!”

———–

Things actually said in my house over the last week (or so):

“I swear if you guys (Ethan and Mike) wake the baby up (Maggie) I will kill you right here in this hall and then make you clean up your own entrails.”

Maggie: (attempting to sing that “Shake your Bootie” song) Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake your BOOBIES… Shake your BOOOOOOOOOOBIES!!!!

———-

My new philosophy (not so new to some):

“I don’t care if people think I’m crazy… as long as they fear me.”

:twisted:

I love it when I piss someone off to the point that they can only be reduced to pathetic, childish pranks. I do… I completely get off on it because I know I’m living rent-free in their heads and I couldn’t care less what they are doing.

Although, in this particular case, when I hear of the horrible things they have going on I have to laugh because karma is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I’m being cryptic, I know. But, perhaps some of you will remember this FOAD episode from last summer. It’s private now, so if you want to read it you’ll have to register and be sure to update your profile with some information so that I know who you are.

Ok, so a few months ago we were startled in the middle of the night by these repetitive noises. This smacking, pounding sound on the back of the house. Mike jumped up and looked and didn’t see anything. The next morning we found dirt clods stuck all over the back of the house. Currently behind our house are nothing but bare lots (construction is still ongoing in our neighborhood) so someone was out there pitching dirt clods at our house in the middle of the night.

Granted, stupid and possibly random. Except, if it were random, stupid kids/teenagers more houses would have been hit and we were the ONLY house smacked with dirt clods.

This morning Mike took the kids to school when he returned home I was on the phone with my mom and barely heard him acting disgusted and ranting in the background. It turns out that when he returned home he found a (possibly used) condom stretched over our doorknob.

NOT so random, I’m guessing. Strange.

Personally, I think someone waited and watched him leave with the kids knowing HE’D be the ONLY one to find it.

And, my thoughts are that it has something to do with last summer because in the midst of all of this his ex-employer (along with current employees) has been seen driving through our business partner’s neighborhood. Mysteriously, a few months ago our business partner’s water valve outside was shut off. Then there is another friend of ours who recently left employment (at the same place Mike used to work, and under similar circumstances as well) the ex-employer was seen driving through his neighborhood as well.

Last week someone drove up in front of our house slowly attempting to peer through our front window until they saw me standing there and ripped off in a hurry.

Now, believe me, I know, all this sounds explainable.

Teenagers / Kids screwing around
Someone looking for an address

I can’t explain people driving through neighborhoods they have no business being in though. And, yes, we are in the real estate appraisal business, were they doing an appraisal? Probably not. Is it possible? Isn’t everything?

And, yet… I have to freaking laugh because if this is what they are reduced to… how sad and pathetic. What next? Shaving cream on my lawn (I doubt it, I don’t think any of them can spell)? Toilet paper my house? Key my car?

Pffft. Amateurs.

————–

BTW - if you have a moment, I recommend you read the comments to this post. There are some really funny people out here. (Yes, Mom, I’m including you in that too, that was pretty damn funny.)

At the risk of being accused of supporting homophobia (again)… I’m going to tell a funny story anyway. Like the saying goes, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

Kate’s friend, J, had a crush on a boy, we’ll call him ASS. As things go in 6th grade the weather can change rather quickly, if ya know what I mean. Apparently there was some sort of difference of opinion, a clash of personalities perhaps… and ASS called J a “slut.”

Now, for the record, J is not a slut. But, ASS is an ASS. M’kay?

J came home logged into his MySpace and it is now a lovely mint-green and pink with a color coordinated tiled heart background. It furthermore goes on to state that he is “gay and proud” and is hoping to marry Michael Jackson when he grows up. It also states several of his friends names as his crushes.

The cherry on top of the revenge sundae? She also changed his MySpace password. He apparently stayed up until 2am trying to figure out the password. Typical male… go to all that work when a well-written apology would have gotten you off the hook in much less time.

The moral of the story is that you do not call the person you gave your MySpace login info to (so she could design your MySpace template) a slut. It’s the whole, “Hell hath no fury thing…”

It made me so proud a little tear actually ran down my cheek.

All is not well in the Doran household these days. There is a war going on. It’s quiet, the battles are waged well after dark, both sides are determined to conquer and just like “The Highlander” there can be only one at the end of it.

You see, the Mr. and I are going on 3 YEARS of interrupted sleep. That’s right, after three years Maggie still doesn’t make it through the night. We have always jokingly referred to her as our party baby, she likes the nightlife, the little monster.

For the last three nights I have been up until at least 2am. Mike gives up and snores through it, but I am determined to win, determined to show Maggie who is boss, CEO, El Presidente, Queen of the Castle… and it isn’t her. Although, she’s fairly convinced that what she says goes regardless of the size or weight of her opposition.

But, I have one thing on my side… I have 31 years of being stubborn and determined. She’s only got three, she might have youth and an almost supernatural energy level, but I have skill and treachery. I’m willing to fight dirty… beyond having ice cream or chocolate smeared all over her face, she doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

We’re having a lovely, little power struggle. I put her in bed… she tries to sneak back into ours. I return her to her bed, she waits it out… 15 maybe 20 minutes and once again sneaks back in. She’s used a couple of tactics and I have to give her credit, she’s good. This child can be the most quiet thing on two feet, this grasshopper would NOT rip the rice paper.

OR she can be completely dramatic, last night we went through:

“My KNEES, I HURT MY KNEES!!!!”

“BUT, I HAVE BACK PROBLEMS!!!!”

“MY EYES… MY EYES HURT!!!!”

Apparently after midnight the child turns into a 40 year old man. I wish she’d just turn into a damn pumpkin because at least they are quiet. I’m starting to wonder if this is why some parents finally break down and lock their children in closets.

I’m not advocating that. Just saying… I might have a different understanding now.

I want my bed back. I want my husband back, all night without a kicking, squirming, sleep shrieking kid between us. Sex at night… that wouldn’t be bad either. In fact, after three years that would almost be like a new thing… talk about spicing up our love life.

And, Avi, I swear if you leave some comment about how wonderful it is to be childless and have sex at night… I will fly to fucking Florida and beat you to death with my Scrabble board.

Joe… well, you are free to say whatever you want considering you’ve been experiencing sub-zero temps or some shit like that. I feel bad for you… plus, I will make no threats because I cannot guarantee that my blog won’t spontaneously combust.

Britt… God knows that there is no way to keep your mouth shut, at the very least it would take an act of Congress and even then I think they might back down. So, all I can say is that I found a place that sells lab rats at a rock-bottom, discount price… and they’ll ship anywhere. ANYWHERE.

At the very least, I know I can count on Bug and Crazy Lady for sympathy. I’d say I could count on Marti as well, but I’m pretty sure she’s still spinning from vertigo and trying to pretend this it is that flashback from the 60’s or 70’s that she was promised.

Did you catch Supernatural last Thursday?

Pretty funny for the most part. We always manage to drop whatever we are doing to flop out in the family room and watch Supernatural.

At the start of the show a Professor on a college campus takes what he believes to be a student up to his office. The student puts the moves on and while kissing the Professor turns into this corpse looking thing.

The Professor freaks out and the next scene is him landing on the stone steps on his head outside the building.

Mike started teasing Ethan that he (Ethan) would have made out with the chick (in corpse form) anyway.

Ethan: Given the choice between kissing an ugly chick or being dropped out the window on my head? Yeah, I guess so. That’s a no-brainer.

At least he has his priorities straight.

The honey-do list seems to get a little longer every day. Although, I suppose it is just a “To-Do” list in general because I really couldn’t give a shit who manages to get anything on the list done as long as it gets… done.

It’s finally Friday and the weekend is here. The only bad thing about the weekend’s arrival is the weekend chores it brings with it. Housecleaning, laundry, etc. Not that I only do these things once a week, but let’s face it, I don’t have much time during the week to get things like that done.

I’d really like to blow the whole “be responsible” thing off and sleep all weekend. I’m tired and I think I’m on the verge of burnout. Mike has been fighting off this cold/flu thing that everyone else has had for the last week or so. What sounds wonderful is staying in our pajamas all weekend flipping between A&E, The Discovery Channel, HGTV, and The History Channel.

The chances of any of that happening are extremely remote.

By late Saturday morning we’ll decide that something should be accomplished. Mike will check his email and find he has something business-related to reply to, I’ll throw in a load of laundry and suggest some project that will require the entire family to tear something apart, reorganize it, and the put it all back together. By Saturday night I’ll be too tired to go out to dinner and way to tired to cook or assist in cooking, by Sunday night I’ll be just as tired as I was Friday night and I’ll have wished I just stayed in bed all weekend.

Monday the cycle starts all over again and by Thursday I’ll be right back here trying to come up with a blog post that will be worth your attention.

I apologize now for wasting your time. Please move on to something more interesting.

Me: (insert purring, sweet tone) Baby, you know what I am going to get you for your next birthday?

*Maggie running around, yelling*

Mike: What?

Me: A vasectomy.

Mike: *pause* That’s not a bad idea.

Me: It’s kind of like the gift that keeps on giving, isn’t it?

Mike: Absolutely… and those are the best kind. *wincing as Maggie nearly jams her foot into his crotch*