Fighting Fire with Fire: Fire is Expensive

Last year, the hubby bought a new vehicle. He picked it out all by himself.

We agreed beforehand I’d have nothing to do with the purchase. No input. No opinion. No comment.

See, we have very different “consumer” styles. These styles result in him thinking I’m cheap and me thinking he’s stupid. Consequently, making a large joint purchase can create tension in the marriage.

For example, when selecting a car, the hubby looks for horsepower, torque, 4-wheel drive capability, overall number of dashboard gadgets and general shininess. He considers things like “Could we pull heavy machinery, haul stuff or navigate through floodwaters?” More importantly, “If an arctic blizzard strikes, could we drive to Wal-Mart and buy snowshoes?”

I, on the other hand, am a “girlie” buyer (so he says). I check out consumer reviews. I talk to people who actually own whatever car we’re considering. And I need to know the overall cost in terms of insurance, maintenance and fuel. As for those other things, uh, we live in Tennessee – in suburbs. We don’t own heavy machinery. The local Wal-Mart doesn’t stock snowshoes… and why would a guy who considers the golf course rugged terrain need a vehicle that can climb rocks in the Mojave?

He doesn’t even know where the Mojave is located. In Africa somewhere, he thinks.

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When I Arose from My Sick Bed

Earlier today, I awoke from my fevered stupor to the sound of doors being slammed and the house being torn apart.

Someone called someone else a “Fat-head Idiot, Giganto Butt” at which time Mr. Hubby threaten to spank both kids and send them to their rooms until they were 30. The yelling continued for quite some time, and it became obvious to me that Mr. Hubby was losing it.

So, I arose from my sick bed to sort out the situation. I exited my room, stepped on a plastic clothes hanger, slid down the hallway, landed in a pile of cut-up paper and crayons coated with some sticky substance, which might have been glue but smelled strangely like maple syrup.

I stood and surveyed the condition of my house – then, I immediately returned to my sickbed and waited for the blessed delirium to overtake me – so that I might dream of house cleaning faeries, who could poof away my laundry, make Barak Obama disappear and turn my family into toads.

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The New World Order will be Trendy and Color Coordinated?

This bit at Slashdot confirms what I have suspected for quite some time:

Shaitan Apistos writes “British scientists have discovered a way to turn female bone marrow into sperm, allowing women to reproduce without the need of male companionship. All children born of this method would be female, due the lack Y chromosomes, and there is high chance of birth defects.  Eggs also can be created from male bone marrow, but men looking to reproduce would still need to find a surrogate mother to handle the gestation period. I’d like to take a moment to welcome our new amazonian overlords and remind them that men are still very good at mowing lawns and fixing cars.”

So women can regenerate independently whereas the male species depends upon a woman for survival.  And ultimately, man’s inability to gestate could be his undoing.  A wry twist, don’t you think?

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Men's Brains and Women's Brains

(h/t Ms. Carolynn)

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No Love and Cherish, but how`bout Obey

I’ve heard the news stories about Eunice Lopez, the 26-year old Florida woman accused of marrying ten men over a four year period of time as part of an immigration scam.

According federal authorities, Lopez, who is a legal U.S. resident, is accused of marrying the men for an undisclosed amount of money for immigration status.

Now, before I decide how outraged I am, I’m going to need a bit more information about the case.

Although Lopez allegedly squeezed the men for money, I assume she did not reside with any of the ten spouses. If she did not share a household with them, I will also assume she was not expected to do pick up their socks, do their laundry or cook for them.

I wonder if she ever coerced these spouses into agreeing to change the oil in her car, mow the grass, repair the appliances or perform other manly-type tasks, which some wives must do themselves if they want it done – particularly if the wife has been married (hypothetically) for ten years, has two kids and often fantasizes about her husband’s big, hot life insurance policy.

If these men did perform such chores, how would she have gone about finding them – an ad in the paper? Word of mouth? Also, what is the punishment for bigamy? What if it’s over five but less than ten? Seriously, I need to know before I can decide how bad this is.

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Because Rolling Pins are So Passé

The Times-News reports that a Hawkins County woman was arrested Friday for allegedly wrapping a dog leash around her boyfriend’s neck Friday and then flogging him with it during an argument.

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Smoke-Free Tenn, Toilet Seat and Super Hero Talk

“What do you mean they can’t smoke?” Mr. M bellowed after I reminded him the smoke-free Tennessee law goes into effect October 1st and would apply to his employees/workplace.

“What if I say they can smoke?” He asked.

“Well, you’d be in violation of the law and subject to a fine… or imprisonment if they allow me to testify against you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously on the laws or seriously `would I testify against you?’ Yes and yes, if they offered me a reward or free soda.”

“I thought the law just applied to restaurants – and you’re still upset about that whole toilet seat thing, aren’t you? I told you I was sorry about that.”

“The smoke-free laws apply to all public places including the workplace with three or more employees. There are a a few exceptions – none that apply to you. And it’s not just the toilet seat thing. If you’re locked-up, it would be easier for me to date.” I explained.

“Dream on. I’ve already trained the kids to scare other men away.  You know, our guys aren’t going to like this no-smoking stuff,” Mr. M predicted.

(Insert 30 minute foaming at the mouth anti-government shtick: “I disagree with this. This is my property! I own it. I pay for it. I run it. It should be my decision whether people are allowed to smoke!”)

I sigh, “But you hate smoking.”

“That’s not the point,” He yells and continues the tirade, “It’s the principle of the matter.”

He finally says: “So, can you gather up the ashtrays and post the signs. I’ll let you break the news.”

Then adds. “You know, normally, you’re on top of this political stuff. I cannot believe you let this one slide.”

Geez, all of my other gigs weren’t enough? Mr. M now expects me to assume the duties of protecting all Tennesseans from pointless laws, general dumbassedness and extreme-leaning evil-doers in the state legislature?  I don’t know if I’m interested in the job. How much does it pay? Would this be a salaried super hero position or would I get a flat-rate fee per evil plot thwarted?  Can I do billable hours? Can I pick my own name? What about the costume – there’s no thongs involved right? Will I need a special bra for this?  Ooh, can I have a sidekick too? Could it be Kleinheider? Wonder how much I’d have to pay him to actually say “Holy Convicted Republicans, Tennessee Girl, Stacey Campfield is blogging without a spell-check!” Would my expense account cover that?

Nah, not interested.

“Yes dear, you’re right. I let it slide. I failed to heroically protect your “God-Given rights as an American Citizen” from the evil state of Tennessee. If only I hadn’t been so preoccupied with dislodging my butt from the toilet because some jerk left the seat up… you wouldn’t be oppressed right now.”

So anyway… is there a reward for reporting violations of the Smoke-Free Tennessee law and would it be possible for violators to get jail time?

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Naked Husband

You know you’ve been married too long when your fantasy is to have your husband naked 24 hours a day/7 days a week… only because this would reduce the amount of laundry he generates.

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Secret to Successful Marriage – Don’t Diet

Mia’s Grammy, Ruth, celebrated her 68th birthday with a hen party last Sunday. But this was not your typical ol’ lady party where guests come bearing gifts of slipper socks and crossword puzzle books (giant print editions) then sit and talk in hushed tones.

Something like that would never do for Ruth: she is not your typical ol’ lady. She is sharp, sarcastic and slightly eccentric. She whizzed through the first ten years of her senior citizenship on roller skates. A knee injury sustained from her smash-up with a trash can now has her shopping for a souped-up scooter.

No, Ruth’s party suited her with no cakes, no crosswords or men allowed. She didn’t want them “mucking up the ambiance.” There were piles and platters of catered Italian food, plenty of beverages, loud conversation, music and laughter. (I could have done without the LL Cool J party tunes, but Ruth loves him. She says he has lips so “scrumptious” it makes her “wanna smack somebody.” And it was her birthday. So, I kept my distance and didn’t complain.)

At the party, we discussed the usual topics of interest to women: you know children, nanobubbles, trade agreements, politics and select people we all together do not like. Finally, we worked our way around to discussing the fluff-headed thing you men seem to think we talk about exclusively – you.

And you mightn’t have come up at all if a few of the ladies hadn’t still been seething from pre-party skirmishes with spouses about babysitting, curfews and complaints that a trip to Ruth’s always results in drinking too much.

This sparked a conversation about a woman’s role in the family, how to tolerate the dimwitted-nature of the male species and whether or not a genuine fondness for your partner can be maintained throughout marriage.

I nearly choked on my fermented muscadine juice when Ruth announced with her ancient voice of wisdom: love and passion most certainly can last… but only if your husband dies of natural causes before you are beset by the urge to poison him.

According to Ruth, who was married for 45 years, passion is never the glue that holds a marriage together and only “single people and nitwits who read Avon books think otherwise.” In her opinion, marriage is a partnership of shared obligations and those unions, which survive inevitable conflicts, do so because the wife was likely too tired to pack up and bounce when the notion struck her.

“Men can’t be Prince Charming forever,” she explained, “This is why women have affairs with the milkman.”

Of course, I asked her if she’d ever been creeping with her milkman.

To which she answered, “No, we had cows.”

Then, after a brief pause, she said, “But there was this good-looking shoe salesman in town. Goooodness chile, he was something to look at, and after the baby was born, I made plans to put it on him as soon as my ass got skinny again.”

“And did you?” we asked.

Ruth took a deep breath and seemed to float back in time, as if collecting up the thoughts and memories necessary to tell of the torrid affair from her past.

Once the rest of us wiggled and settled in prepared to hear details, Ruth sighed and said, “Now honey, does it look like my ass ever got skinny again.”

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The Ignorance of Manconomics

Seventeen or so years ago, while vacationing at some long-since forgotten beach, I bought a pair of rope sandals. I can’t recall the purchase price. It couldn’t have been much because I would have been a few bucks shy of flat broke at the time. Whatever the cost, they were worth it.

The sandals were adjustable, comfortable, durable and after they were doused with beer by a Hootie and the Blowfish band member, I discovered they were machine washable. (Sandals, which can be machine-washed without damage, is a truly beautiful and miraculous thing.  Sandals such as these make God smile because She’s happy.)

Anyway, the sandals traveled many miles and across many borders on my feet. They outlasted most of my personal relationships and were far more reliable than any of the men I’ve known. I just cannot adequately express how much I loved these shoes.  Then, the neighbor’s dog used them as her chew toy.    To prevent me from sinking into a deep, dark shoe-related depression, where I’d spend vast amounts of time writing mournful poetry about my dearly departed footwear, Mia located a vendor, who sells exact replicas for me.  Even though she thinks they’re “ugly as a bucket of smushed butt.”  That’s a true friend for ya.

My husband, however, questioned my need for these shoes. After all, I have so many other pairs in my closet. Did I really need another pair?  This seemed, to him, unnecessary and irresponsible.  I mean, as a woman, did I not understand sensible spending?  The difference between wants/needs?  Basic economic principles?

Pfft.  Whatever. I bought the shoes anyway – because the truth is his griping is not about the shoes.

It’s about his spending and buyer’s remorse.  Yep, the husband has dropped quite a bit of money on a few things lately – one of those things being a new lawnmower.  We already have two perfectly good John Deere Lawn Tractors in the shed.  According to my testosterone-laden spouse though, this lawn mower has o-turn capabilities with more horsepower and nifty cup holders.  And blah, blah, blah…  He said some other mechanicky type stuff.  I dozed off during the explanation.  Slobbered on myself a little and still thought his purchase seemed  more unnecessarier and irresponsiblier than mine.

Still, this is what he does: he will go buy big ticket items on a moments notice, regret the buy and then torment us all by attempting to fill the gaping hole in his pocket with penny-pinching.

So, the family is in for a few weeks of him parading around, blathering about the goodness of generic products, the benefits of coupons, and the evils of eating out. Oh, then there will be the stupid questions, such as “Can we just cancel the newspaper subscription? It’s not like you have time to read the whole thing. Let’s cancel the cable! The kids watch too much television anyway!” And a sudden interest in conservation: “Why do you all leave every light in the house on? And stop wasting gas! You don’t need to leave the air conditioning on in the car while waiting for the T-ball game to start. Just fan yourselves with the junk mail…”

Of course,  I suggested that he sell the old mowers to offset the cost of the new one. This notion seemed to baffle him because those are his mowers. They belong to him and are each special in their own way.  (Weird huh? And I’ll bet he knits them all gear-shift cozies in his spare time too.)

So, there you have it, Internet.

ME: who replaced a pair of 17 year-old sandals for under $30 bucks. Assuming the new sandals hold up the same length of time as the former sandals, my cost would be less than $2 annually.

Then, HE: who spent $3000 on a piece of duplicate equipment. I am also assuming should any of the lawn mower manufacturers design a sub-0-turn lawn mower with special all-terrain tires or an on-board mini DVD player, he will make a similar purchase within the next 16-24 months. This averages out to… well, $1500-$4000 annually.

 

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