The fallibility of statistics when applied to housework and husbands

January 24, 2011

I came home to find that I had won our latest Mexican Standoff. The dishes were done (sweet joy!), but there was a small debris pile on the counter by the stove.

“Dude!” I called to hubby from the kitchen (after thanking the man for backing down first – of course). “You can’t have broken two cups doing the dishes once. That’s a statistical impossibility!”

“Not when you drop one cup on the other one. Oh, and we need new dish gloves too – one of the fingers ripped open.”

Sound logic, sure, but the man had no explanation for his forth casualty; discovered the next day, when I was only three inches away from slicing my lip open on its splintered glass rim.

Well, I suppose I now know why it’s always the bull in the china shop, and never the steer – statistically speaking…


A 21st century pirate’s perfect pet

November 5, 2010

I went searching for the remote control last night and found it perched on my husband’s shoulder, the rubber buttons gripping the fabric of his T-shirt like tiny clawed toes.

“Awww cute,” I teased. “It’s like a pirate’s little parrot.”

However, the cuteness quickly faded when I discovered my pirate had shipwrecked us on Sportsnet.

Note: My apologies for the frightening composite. The cuteness of the idea faded quicker than Randy Moss’s 2010 contract with the Vikings…

Why he didn’t get that diamond encrusted Rolex for Valentines Day…

February 16, 2010

Scene: 6:50am, Calgary, in an apartment still reeking of hubby’s late night snack…

“Ok, so new rule.” I laid down the law. “Whoever cooks spicy Italian sausages on the George Forman [Grill] has to clean it right away.”

A snarky voice answered from the bedroom. “You’re not allowed to just go around arbitrarily making up rules.”

Then I, in one of those blithe philosophical musings visited upon those who find themselves half-in-and-half-out of winter jackets well before dawn, replied, “How does one make any rule, if not arbitrarily!”

“No, no,” my dear husband corrected me, coming round the corner, socks in hand and wearing a mischievous grin. “Only I’m allowed to make up rules arbitrarily.”


Marriage Perk #64

December 2, 2009

I drifted off last night into an exceptionally obnoxious nightmare – a rabid stray cat was going all Hannibal Lector on my toes. Not exactly apocalyptic, but far from a walk in the park! Which, as an avowed dog person, I imagine would have gone a whole lot better. I beat at the crazed feline furball and screamed for “HELP! HELP! GEORGE!! HELP!!!”

Within seconds, I jerked awake with an awful tingle in my toes that took a full ten minutes to dissipate. My husband reassured me that “No”, there weren’t any small animals with row upon row of tiny razor sharp teeth in bed with us. I had to take his word for it.

“Did you hear me yelling for you?” I asked.

“No,” said George, “but I saw your breathing speed up and I figured you might be having a nightmare. So I woke you up.”

I went straight into Disney mode, couldn’t help it. I was a girl-child of the Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast era; who could blame me? I swooned.

“You rescued me!”

I fawned over my Prince Charming in the pale moon glow of our bedside alarm clock. His cartoonish lambchops (a furry, sadly temporary, joke) exaggerated his cheekbones, transforming him into the archetypal animated crush. My friends from kindergarten would be so jealous! While I, with my sleep creased face and post-traumatic-dream-flailings, was anything but Sleeping Beauty. Yet, my hero had still fought for me, and, in his own sweet way, had cut through the vine choked labyrinth of my subconscious to save me. Though thankfully for the happily ever after of his nose, he was smart enough not to have tried waking me with a kiss!

Remember Marriage Perk #63?

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

November 12, 2009

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

November 3, 2009

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.


It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room – where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: “Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

A tender moment… (with a hot pepper kick!)

August 5, 2009

I was settled snugly in the living room couch, with all I needed for a cozy TV supper ready on my lap. All that was missing was a dash of the spicy sauce my hubby had just discovered in the fridge door.

“Can I try some?” I called from the couch.

“It might be too spicy for you,” he warned.

“I’ll just take a bit then!”

He came around the corner on a mission, bottle in hand. Now, about my husband. This is a man who comes alive in the mountains,  a man at home in the wilderness, whose early glory days were spent living happily in a frigid backyard shed at Whistler. This is a man whose Viking legs and beard could send a whole legion of  Le Cirque waiters crying to their mammys.

This very same man bent carefully over my plate, with brows furrowed in quiet concentration, to deposit just the right amount of spicy sauce next to his wife’s mashed potatoes. I watched him with a secret smile as he rocked the bottle gently and kept his eye on the glass mouth, so he could pull back quickly when he had to. This is a man who can drive a golf ball well over 300 yards. And this is a man who can love so plainly… so plainly my nose started tingling well before the hot pepper kick ever touched my tongue.