Posted in Long-Time Married Theatre

Long-Time Married Theatre presents: It’s like he doesn’t understand me at all

‘Tis the day after Christmas, and Scott and I are sitting in our recliners, watching the esteemed Foster Farms Bowl game; he, because Nebraska is playing and it’s a high holy day for him, and I, because my back decided to start being an jerkturd about an hour ago, and sitting here with this pillow behind me seems to be about all I feel like doing. I don’t care about football in the least, but Scott’s here, and the dogs are here, and I can see the Christmas tree I’ll have take take down in a few days, and in the name of familial togetherness and a deep disinterest in moving, here I stay.  

Scott tries to get me to care, particularly about the generally egregious officiating, and the seemingly universal and unfounded disdain by the officials for Nebraska athletes (in all sports, mind you,) going back to the days when Scott was a wee Husker. He rewinds multiple times to show me the latest referee travesty, and I try very hard to be at least sort of interested, because he’s clearly upset, and I hate my honey to be upset. At a minimum, I contribute several ideas as to how, through collective action, the players could look out for themselves and their physical safety, because that’s the kind of thoughtful communist I am. Because while I don’t care about football, I have a passing interest in young men not crippling their bodies and minds for the entertainment of couch potatoes and enrichment of billionaires.

“You ready for cake?” I ask, referring to the leftovers of the Jello poke cake my mom contributed to Christmas dinner yesterday.

“Absolutely!” he says.

So I go to the kitchen, serve up the cake, and we sit back down with our cake and football. I’m not 3 bites into mine when I have an allergy attack wherein I threaten to cough my cake off the plate and right into my lap. I get up, put the cake on the counter (because we have dogs, and they cannot be trusted. Not even a little bit.) And I toddle on back to the bathroom cabinet for my 4th dose of Benadryl today, my back complaining all the way there and all the way back, and I sit back down in my chair with a weary groan as if I’d just walked here from Alaska without stopping.

A moment later, I realize that my cake is still on the counter, and if I want it, I’m going to have to haul my keister out of my chair again. I am not pleased.

“I wish I was telekinetic. Then when I forget my cake until after I sit down, I could just levitate it over to me.”

“Well if you’re going to wish, why don’t you wish to not forget things you want to remember?”

“Uh, because then I wouldn’t have telekinesis!  Duh!”

telekinesis

Posted in Commentary, Growing up/old, Long-Time Married Theatre, Memory Lane

Beware of geeks hiding gifts

My husband is a very thoughtful gift-giver, and he has given me many perfect and wonderful gifts over the 24 years we’ve been together.  He is not, however, a good gift hider.  Nope.  Not at all.  And what’s more, whenever he fails to adequately hide a gift, or the easily obtained (and we’re talking zero effort required here) knowledge thereof, he is not particularly gracious about it when he’s busted.

Which is why, on our first anniversary of dating, when he’d bought surprise tickets to see Tim Allen (because on our very first date the year before we went to comedian Steven Wright–remember him?) and he’d concealed them (very stealthily, I suppose he imagined) in the inner pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket, and then proceeded to open up his jacket and flashed the aforementioned pocket with tickets sticking out of it where I could easily see them from my spot in the passenger seat and, like any curious soul, asked “What are the tickets for?” somehow, it was MY fault that the surprise was ruined, and he sank into a mighty pout.  And we had words about both the pouting and the misplaced blame, along the lines of, “If you DIDN’T want me to see the tickets, perhaps flashing them directly in the vicinity of my eyeballs was not your best-laid plan.”  Seeing as I am a bright and observant individual and all.

As we share most things in life, we also share a PayPal account, and the emails and receipts go to an account that used to be ours jointly, but has been used by me alone for at least 10 years now.  So I am often made aware of his “surprise” purchases within seconds of them being made.  I may or may not tell him I’m aware, depending on the item, because I know how much it disappoints him to have the surprise ruined.  Though I guess I’ve blown that strategy now.

And a number of times he decided to hide things on the side of his office closet, which is the only side I ever go into, and only then to hang up his clean laundry.  There’s a whole other side of the closet I have no reason to go into, ever, that would make a perfect hiding spot for loot, and he uses it…now.  But there was some drama about several items that I inadvertently discovered when I hung up a t-shirt and came face to face with them, because they were “hidden” right there on the shelf, with the closet door wide open, like he went to the Mourning Dove Nest-Building School of Gift Hiding.  (If you’re not familiar with mourning dove nest-building, that last line won’t be funny at all; but in case you’re curious, the world’s stupidest birds regularly put 2 sticks together in a porch light and call it done, which is why it cracks me up.  Some of these are just for me.)  I honestly can’t say how often this has happened, but I can say without equivocation that it happened often enough that around gift-giving times I now will explicitly ask, “Is it okay for me to go into your closet to hang these up?”

So as you may be aware, Valentine’s Day is this weekend, and I was duly warned to not open any boxes that arrived, because they might contain Valentine gifts for me.  Now, I generally don’t open any mail not addressed to me, but on occasion I have accidentally opened his order, so I don’t mind the heads-up.  Back when we were both working, if we were expecting secret gift packages, we’d just make sure to get to the door first when we got home, and then quickly squirrel them away.  Now that I’m home all day, and am friendly with the UPS guy and the FedEx guy and the Amazon courier who comes down from Phoenix, not to mention our mail carrier, Maureen, I receive all of the packages.  (And it’s hard enough surprising each other, because we both keep Amazon wishlists, and often just order stuff off of them for gift-giving occasions.  Sure, it offers less in the way of surprises, but more in the way of gift satisfaction, so it works for us.)

But I play along, and I don’t shake the boxes with his name on them that I bring into the house, because I enjoy happy surprises, particularly surprises wherein I receive loot.  So when the UPS truck rolled up to the house this afternoon, and the guy came to the door and handed me a very large box, I didn’t shake it, or note the heft of it.  I just brought it in and set it on the dining room table.  Stared at it awhile and thought, “Nope. He’s not going to be happy about this.”

And then I sent this text, with the photo below, to Scott:  “I swear I didn’t open the box. But your surprise may be blown.”

What's more, that same picture appeared on all 6 sides of the box.
What’s more, that same picture appeared on all 6 sides of the box.