Category: Humorous

We have a small dilemma at our house.  My husband needs a new pair of tennis shoes.  The average person may think that this would involve a quick trip to Nike or possibly placing an order on Amazon.  The average person would be very wrong in this assumption.

I would say that my husband is a pretty easy going guy but he can be particular about a few things.  Power tools, peanut butter and tennis shoes are probably his top three.  I’ve got the first two figured out: DeWalt and Jiff no questions asked.  After twenty-seven years of marriage, I know this to be the truth.  However, this tennis shoe thing is another story altogether.

You see, he has been buying the same tennis shoes now for about the last seven years. Same brand, same style, same color.  Seven years in a row.  It was “the” tennis shoe.  About two years ago, however, the shoe was discontinued. We searched every store we could think of but it was nowhere to be found!  Finally, in a frantic-shoe-frenzy I searched eBay and found four brand new pair of the exact shoe.  After some heated debate about how many pairs we should purchase, we settled on three pair.

Considering that these were the last four pair of his most favorite tennis shoe on the entire planet I’m not sure why I agreed to buy only three.   But that is water under the bridge now.  Fast forward to today. The final three pair of shoes have trod their final miles.   

We now face a bleak and most uncertain future knowing that we will never again find the same shoes.  Thus we must begin the tedious and arduous task of scouring the local athletic stores for “the” next shoe that will ultimately carry us into the year 2026.  The only solace I can hope to offer my husband in a world of tennis-shoe-uncertainty would possibly be a new drill or maybe a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  That is if DeWalt and Jiff haven’t gone out of business.

Few things will cause a disturbance in the home like reorganizing the kitchen.  This may sound odd but I occasionally like to move everything in my kitchen to a new location.  It’s really just a matter of tweaking some things.  I may decide that the glasses would be better in another cabinet or the odd utensils fit better in another drawer.  I am somewhat of a neat freak and I love things organized but I never thought this was unusual or should be considered odd behavior.

My family tells another side of the story, however. They complain that they cannot find anything.   They feel that I have moved everything on purpose.  This is absolutely not true.   But it is funny.  I never realized I would find such pleasure in being the only person who knows where the egg slicer is.  The only person who can quickly find the potholders.  It gives me a sense of power and authority.

To be certain, this constant moving of kitchen items is causing my husband great stress.  He likes to cook on occasion but becomes increasingly frustrated as he opens one drawer after another in search of the spatulas.  Recently, this problem has escalated as I must confess that I am starting to forget where I moved everything.  Whereas before I could quickly spout off that the popcorn maker was definitively in the lower cabinet now I just know that I put it “somewhere”.  Still, my infatuation with moving things persists.  I know that this madness must stop.  Our marriage is on shaky ground if I move the salt and pepper shakers one more time. 

I knew that it had gone too far when I came home one day and my family was gathered around the table.  They asked me to sit down.  With a somber look on their faces, they said that I must curb my desire to relocate the silverware and frying pans.  It was at that moment that I realized I had a problem.  They say that’s the first step in the recovery process.  Since the kitchen intervention I have come up with a solution and I have agreed to go cold turkey and stop moving things at home.  Things are improving and everyone seems to be much happier now.

My solution you ask? Have I mentioned that there’s a kitchen at my office?  Why, yes, there is. I believe it is in need of some reorganization.  Nothing too big.  It’s really just a matter of tweaking some things.

Dinner time has morphed over the years since we have gotten married.  In our newlywed days, I served hamburger helper on TV trays.  When we started a family I knew I would have to start cooking “real dinners”, however, when our children were still young I was often pressed for time and I would need to prepare something that was quick.

It was during those early days that I introduced my family to the almighty fish stick.  More than just a crunchy vehicle for tartar sauce I felt that it was an ingenious part of American cuisine.  A wondrous food that was inexpensive and easy to prepare.  Something that everyone would eat without complaint. A glorious golden stick of fish that was tasty and, darn-it, downright American!  Serving this iconic food while humming a few bars of “America the Beautiful” I felt that I would have made June Cleaver proud.

It was just one such Thursday evening that I had prepared a scrumptious meal of fish sticks when I noticed my eldest daughter made a face at the table.  Being the Picky-Pearl that she was, I ignored her and continued conveying the remaining dinner items to the table.  Within minutes she began gagging and appeared to be on the verge of getting sick.  No stranger to the symptoms of Picky-Pearl-itis, I calmly told her to stop and finish her dinner.  She replied that “it tasted bad – like fish scales.”  Assuming that she was exaggerating and knowing that she had never eaten fish scales and therefore couldn’t make that assessment I told her again to eat her fish sticks.

After finally getting everything on the dinner table, I sat down.  I looked over at my husband. He had a very odd look on his face.  It was quickly changing color to a sort of sickly pale green.   He looked as if he might choke, and then, he too began to gag.  “This. Fish. Is. Bad.” he managed to croak.  “Really. Bad.”  My youngest daughter sat frozen at the table not daring to take a bite.  As a witness to this fish-stick-fiasco, she was now looking apprehensively at me. “You try it mom!” she blurted out.

Now I love America and I love fish sticks but I know when to cut bait and that time was now.  I stood and quickly cleared everyone’s plates.  I dumped the offending fish down the disposal.  This particular dinner was over.  I did what any respectable mother would do.  I promptly called Dominos for delivery. 

“One large pepperoni pizza, please.  Hold the anchovies!”

In case you missed it, the circus was recently in town.  Cirque du Bauer opened just two days after the fourth of July.  The show, while not performed under a Big Top, was still quite entertaining as it involved the staining of our deck.  Most of this project was already done, however, what was left was tricky!  Meaning that everything that we couldn’t quite reach, anything that required us to either hang from a precipitous angle like circus acrobats or mandated us to move an extension ladder back and forth like circus clowns anticipating a jumper from a burning tower, was what we had left to complete.

Make no mistake, however, this was a legitimate production.  There were animals, stunt-men, high-flying acrobats, clowns and jugglers!  All of this accompanied by excitement and food!  Everything you would expect at a real circus! 

Let’s start with the not-so-wild-animals.  The dogs.   Smarter than their human counterparts, they refused to venture outside.  While the temperature soared to 104 and the humidity climbed to 100 percent, they stayed safely within the confines of the cool living room.  Periodically, we would try to coax them out of their natural habitat.   Tentatively, they would poke their heads out the back door and then look at us as if to say, “you have got to be kidding me” before ducking back in and sprawling across the closest AC vent.

My husband was part stunt man, part acrobat.  He performed daring acts on the ladder and fearlessly shimmied across the beams on the underside of the deck.  Arms out-stretched, paintbrush gripped tightly between his teeth, he made his way across as I closed my eyes and prayed! The only thing missing was the popcorn!

Next, he and my daughter juggled a 12 foot extension ladder from one side of the deck to the other.  Working slowly and methodically they painted from end to end.  The only trouble they encountered was when I came to “help” them.  Send in the clowns.  Diligently they explained, what seemed to me, a very complicated ladder-moving-process.  I listened intently, then, I grabbed my end of the ladder.   When they went left, I went right.  When they moved up, I moved back.  Apparently, I must be ladder-challenged.  Exasperated and tired of dealing with me they gave me a new job. 

I was promoted to Head of Music Production and Catering.  Basically, my new job was to turn on the radio and get lunch for everyone.  After fiddling with the radio for several minutes, I settled on a classic rock station.  I found the genre fitting as Eddie Money shouted: “Gimme Some Water”.  Dripping sweat in the sweltering heat, I had to agree with Eddie.  I went to get some cold drinks for everyone and was finally able to coax the dogs outside.

Once back on the job, I was allowed to paint the bottom edges of the deck.  I actually managed to paint more of myself and the dogs than the deck.  We now have black labs instead of yellow.  I knew it was time to call it quits when the radio blared Molly Hatchet’s “Flirtin with Disaster”. I decided this was my cue. I turned off the radio and we called it a day. The circus has moved on for now. Until the next project that is.

Saturday we spent five hours at the emergency vet clinic with Bo.  Bo is fine, thanks, more on him in a moment. Suffice to say, it was five hours of Golden Girls reruns with no sound (probably preferable that way), vending machine snacks and watching people come and go.  It was an interesting afternoon.

There was a lady with a Golden Retriever.  Her dog had eaten most of a hard plastic kiddie pool.  They performed a Pool-ectomy on him, which meant they made him throw it up, he was fine.  He was just happy to be there.  You know how Goldens are.

Next up, a lady who rushed in and pronounced that she had found an injured Blue Jay in her yard and had managed to wrangle it into the Keds size 9 shoe box that she was carrying.  “I think he has a head injury,” she explained to the lady at the front desk.  “I had a heck of time catching him and getting him into that box!” 

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to rush wild animals from my yard to the ER. Don’t get me wrong, I am certainly in favor of helping an injured animal, I just think this might be a little over the top.  I did, however, offer a sympathetic smile when she looked my way.  Mostly, I just tried to keep her from noticing my husband’s exaggerated eye rolls as she elaborated on the bird in the box.    

And of course, there we were, waiting for Bo.  He had been throwing up and he was dehydrated.  The vet was concerned about his x-rays that showed large amounts of gas in his small intestines.  If things didn’t get better overnight with IV fluids, they intended to operate on him the next day.

Here’s how the next day’s conversation went with the vet:

Vet:     “Hello.  Bo is doing very well this morning. He seems to be hydrated and the x-rays show the gas is moving through his system.  He should be fine to go home.”

Me:     “That is great news! So, you don’t suspect that he swallowed anything?”

Vet:     “No.  Actually, umm, after the x-rays he released a large amount of gas.  It was pretty bad. That may be all that he needed to do to clear this up.”

Me:     “So, just the gas then?”

Vet:     “Looks like that could be it.  Keep an eye on him though.  Everything, including the exam, blood work, x-rays and IV’s, will be $1,500.00”

Needless to say, we picked him up on Sunday.  I’m calling him the Fifteen-Hundred-Dollar-Fart.  He was happy to see us though, and that’s worth something, right?  So happy that when I put him in the truck, he peed all over my seat!  Guess I don’t need to worry about him being dehydrated either.

I am still trying to wrap my mind around the events of this morning.  My husband was headed downstairs when he called up to me rather frantically, “We have a real big problem down here!  I need your help!”  Trying to guess what the current crisis might be, I headed downstairs.  Nothing could have prepared me for the shock that awaited me.

My husband was standing in the kitchen with a poop-filled robot vacuum cleaner.  I had no words.  All I could do was open and close my mouth like some large fish that had just been hoisted out the water, trying to suck in air and expel words that just would not come.

Recently we purchased an automatic robot vacuum to help pick up the dog fur.  Apparently, one of our dogs had an accident last night and our robot vacuum tried to “clean it up”.  By that I mean that it systematically smeared poop across my living room floor in every conceivable direction.

If you have one of these vacuums, you know that they work in a random pattern, zigging and zagging, this way and that. Bouncing off walls and furniture, pivoting to and fro.  You can just imagine the mess that ensued.  Standing back and looking across the hardwood floor of my living room, it appeared as if some alien being from another planet was trying to communicate an indescribable message to us, in poop. 

Were it a festival, we could have called it:  Poop–mania, Poopnik, Poop-stock or, maybe, Poop-a-polooza! But believe me, this was no festival that you would ever want to attend. 

I grabbed a roll of paper towels and realized the futility of it before I could even make it back into the room.  There. Was. No. Way. One. Roll. Would. Suffice!  I suppose I was in denial at this point, however, I pressed onward.

Meanwhile, my husband was trying to clean the poop-filled vacuum.  Rollers full of poop.  Wheels full of poop.  This was a full-on, all-hands-on-deck, bar-the-doors, poop-disaster!  You know how they have a siren when there’s a tornado?  Well, I think they need a siren for this kind of catastrophe.  I pondered if there might be some kind of government assistance for this kind of clean up.  A feces-special-forces unit of sorts that might show up in Hazmat suits.

I realized quickly that no additional help would be coming.  Slowly, deliberately we worked our way through the mess.  We found ourselves saying odd things to each other, like, “Did you get all the poop out of the registers?”  Gosh, I hope so.  I can only imagine the air blasting through the vents, producing a scent that one does not find at Bath & Body Works.

After what seemed like an eternity, we managed to stumble, bleary-eyed, out of our house this morning.  Feeling like battle worn soldiers, I wondered if there might be some kind of medal for heroism or at least going above and beyond the call of “doodie”.  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that one.)

So, friends, I implore you to heed this cautionary tale.  If you have pets, I cannot stress enough the importance of monitoring one of these vacuums.

I am going to lie down now.    

I am literally pooped out. 

There is a morning routine at our house.  Make the coffee. Let the dogs out. Empty Alfred, the robot vacuum cleaner. Let the dogs in. Pack a lunch. Tell the dogs, “No, you just went out.” and then let them out again anyway!  All this before 5:00 a.m.  And, by the way, all done by my husband. Not me.

Yesterday I was feeling a little guilty about my lack of participation in the morning routine so, last minute, I rushed downstairs and threw some protein bars in a “to go” bag for my hubby to take to work.  I know, stand back Martha Stewart, you got nothing on me.  But this small act did make me feel better about myself and, I too headed off to work.

A little later that morning, I got a call from my husband.  Here’s the conversation that ensued;

Him: “Hey, you put some Cliff bars in a bag for me.”

This was an obvious statement so I thought that somehow he had misplaced them or something on his way to his office.

Me: “Yes, I did.” 

Him: “Did you look in the bag before you put them in there?”

I paused and thought for a moment. Maybe he had found some money in the bag? Some leftover change from the grocery perhaps?  A stray twenty dollar bill that he wanted to return to me?

Me: “No, just threw them in the bag.” 

Him:  “Well, um, it’s got two big handfuls of fur in it with my Cliff bars!”

I quickly deduced that a money scenario would not be taking place.

Me: “Excuse me?”

Him:  “Yeah.  Dog fur.  A whole big bunch of it.”

Me:  Silence.

Then laughter when I realized what had happened.

Apparently, I grabbed the “dog fur” bag that my daughter keeps in the garage when she brushes the dogs.  I asked her to throw it away but you know how these young adults are today,  raised to be conscious of the environment, don’t waste anything, etc., etc., etc.  She has this notion that she should wait until the bag is full of fur before she throws it out.  She’s probably right.

That is, unless you grab that bag of fur unknowingly and throw your husband’s protein bars in it. To be clear, the protein bars were individually wrapped so no real harm, right?  He did say that it took a while to separate the bars from the fur though.  And, fur was everywhere in the process.  I’m not sure where the de-furring took place.  I was too ashamed to ask him as I assumed this occurred at his office. 

Definitely feeling like my wife-card might be revoked, I made a nice dinner last night.  I grilled chicken.  I cut up vegetables.  I set the table with napkins and everything.  Maybe there is a little Martha in me after all.  I think it turned out pretty well.  Just don’t ask me for a “to go” bag!

Our dog, Buttons, is a thief.  A food thief.  He cannot be trusted, trained or rehabilitated.  There is no hope for him in this regard.  I know this because criminals who typically show remorse don’t commit the same crime again. Buttons pleads the fifth every time and shows no remorse. 

His short list of stolen food is as follows: one large pizza, half a bag of cookies, one raw potato, one 16 oz. block of aged cheddar that he tried to swallow whole, one large chicken breast, one pumpkin pie, one ham bone, one bag of potato chips, one bag of caramel corn, two filled Easter baskets and multiple sandwiches and bagels. 

The other night, he added one more morsel to his growing list of offenses when he stole the last crucial ingredient for my pimento cheese dip.  A very large, very plump jalapeno pepper!  He snatched it off the counter and swallowed it whole!  I yelled at him but he just looked at me an licked his lips.

This crafty counter surfer may have outsmarted himself this time.  I am guessing he will be one “hot dog”!    

Now that we have a fancy new doorbell that comes with a camera connected to Google, we can see who’s on our front porch via our cellphone.  This weekend, a visitor arrived when we weren’t home.  It was Trapper, our 95 lb. yellow lab.  He is very good at scaling the back yard fence and getting out.  The funny thing is, he doesn’t run away, he just comes to the front door. 

Here he is on Sunday afternoon. 

Barking. 

Incessantly.  

My daughter tried talking to him through the speaker on the doorbell.  Apparently, this caused him great stress!  More barking ensued and he pawed at the windows as he stared eagerly inside. Eventually, with the help of our neighbor, we got him inside.

Google is a very helpful tool. 

It will be an even better tool when it can actually retrieve my dog off the front porch when I’m not home!