Hmm.

Unlike my one sister whose nickname is Judgy McBitchity, I pride myself on my lack of judgitude.  (That should be a word.)  So if you tell me that you’re the neighborhood prostitute who rides around with a blow-up mattress in the back of your Honda Odyssey servicing the local construction workers and deliverymen, I say knock yourself out. Actually, I’m judging the crap out of you behind your back.  I mean, really?  You’re a prostitute. You’re asking to be judged.

I also judge you if you wear bright purple eye shadow.  And I judge you if you like the Pioneer Woman.  And I judge you if you are a Kardashian, watch the Kardashians or like the Kardashians.

Okay, so maybe I’m a little Judgy McBitchity.  Shut up.

The point of all that is this:  Some thoughts popped into my mind while reading one of The Beast’s books to him, and none of them are meant to be judgmental.  So if you read my thoughts and feel like you or your loved ones are being judged, then refer back to the first two paragraphs that list the people I judge.  If you’re one of those, then, yes, I’m judging you.  If you’re not, then we’re good.


This appears to be a girl’s bedroom, yet the bold text suggest that it’s a boy’s bedroom.  Some questions occur to me:

Do you think that this is an effort by the editors to break down gender stereotypes?

Do you think that this book that is written for 3-year-olds is trying to suggest to toddlers that it’s okay to be a boy and want a pink bedroom, wear dresses and have pictures of butterflies on the wall?  And I’m not saying that’s not okay.  I’m just asking if that’s what the book is suggesting.

Do you think this page is specifically intended to cause us to question how we’d feel if our son wanted a pink room? (Just as a note, The Beast will always pick a pink bowl and spoon when given a choice.)

Or is it that the editors are just morons who didn’t catch an error?

Lastly, why is there so much trash in the wastebasket?  Is that a picture of a prairie dog in the frame on the shelf?  And why does the book say that all the clothes are neatly hung in the closet when there is clearly a dress hanging on the doorknob?

[Waves hands in gesture invocative (Is that a word?  Am I using it correctly?  Seems like it should be a word but my spell checker doesn’t like it.) of “Coffee Talk with Linda Richman.”]

Discuss.

P.S.  If you do not know who Linda Richman is, you are too young and we can no longer be friends.

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OMG! It’s Lara Croft!

Do you go to church?

No?  Well, you have fun rotting in hell.

No, I’m kidding.  I don’t think you’re going to rot in hell.

From what I understand it’s more of an instant incineration.  There really isn’t time to rot.

In an effort to avoid the toasty warmth of hell, we try to go to church.  Our attendance for a while now has been sketchy at best.  I can give you all kinds of reasons/excuses like illness, itchy eyes, bunions and an inappropriate wardrobe built entirely out of torn jeans and t-shirts that I’ve purchased from The Good One’s school, but it really just boils down to the fact that once my ass hits the couch with the Sunday newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, I’m pretty much not moving for two hours.  Also, I say “ass” a lot.  I’m pretty sure they ask you if you swear when you walk through the doors of the church.

However, in light of my general horribleness and my penchant for saying the lesser of the swear words, Virginia Slims Man figured we’d better start attending more frequently so I’d at least have a fighting chance of avoiding becoming a human kabob.

Actually, a large part of the reason we’ve felt the need to attend more regularly is so that The Good One would grow up in a healthy church and hopefully avoid some of the religious issues we went through growing up. The Beast is rather apocalyptic-y, so we’re relying entirely on a miracle for his salvation.

(Kidding, Dad.)

I briefly mentioned my cult-ish upbringing.  And not to cause any upset to my parents, but I’m really not kidding.  No offense to you if you happen to be in a cult.  Of course, most of the time you don’t realize you’re in a cult until you get out of it, so you probably don’t even realize I’m talking about you.

Some things to look for if you’re unsure of whether or not your church is a cult:

  1. Your church tells you how to dress.
  2. Your church tells you how to wear your hair.
  3. Everyone in your church wears the same tennis shoes.
  4. Your church socials involve a coordinated drinking of Kool-Aid.

Look at me being all religiousy and helpful.  I bet saving someone from a cult would get me out of eternal damnation.  God might even let me continue calling my husband a “dumbass.”  We’ll see.

Really, there is a point to all of this. Let me see if I can get there.

Lately The Good One has been expressing his dislike for church.  VSM and I have tried to pin down if this is just an issue of his general disdain for anything that causes him to leave the house or if there is something about our specific church that he doesn’t like.  Based upon what he’s told us, The Good One does not enjoy singing and dancing, and the vast majority of the kids’ church service is spent singing lots of songs, dancing and playing air guitars. The Good One would much rather be in a small group with kids his age just learning.

So VSM and I have been giving The Good One lots of very parent-y lectures about seeing the positive and focusing on the things he enjoys to see if maybe he’ll start to enjoy the singing part a bit more.

Then we went to church this Sunday and I was smacked in the face with my hypocrisy.  You see, I really don’t like the singing part of church either.  Now, my least favorite part of church is when they say, “Stand up and say hello to someone next to you.”  You know what people insist on doing when they say hello?  They insist on shaking hands.  And all I see when someone approaches me with arm outstretched is a giant Ebola stick.  So after I shake hands with all of these people, I have to get my hand sanitizer out of my purse and destroy all of their diseases without them noticing. Just once I wish the minister would say, “Stand up and, without touching them, greet someone next to you.”

But my second least favorite part of church is the singing.  Now, there are some songs I love to sing, but I don’t really like to sing in public.  My singing voice is horrible.  Sometimes, if I’ve put liquor in my coffee, I sing at breakfast time, and even The Beast knows something doesn’t sound right and tells me to stop.  So when we’re at church, I don’t like to sing.

Now, I know some of you are thinking, God doesn’t care what you sound like.  Well, one, you’re assuming that.  He may very well be putting His fingers in His ears every time I open my mouth.  And, two, even if God doesn’t care what I sound like, the people sitting around me do care.  You know how I know they care?  Because when someone sitting around me sounds like a cat being declawed, I care.

So the whole time the church spends singing, I spend thinking all kinds of deep thoughts.  These are the thoughts that ran through my head this Sunday:  What would I do if a gunman came barreling through the church doors right now?  Why does my fantasy life always include a gunman barreling through a door?  Why is that man up there wringing his hands like he’s a serial killer?  Is this man next to me trying to sit on my lap?  God, I hate this song.  I bet that person up there who is raising their hands is just doing it for attention.  I’d like to learn how to play the drums.  Why does that woman’s hair look like a ramp for a teeny-tiny bike?

Have you ever read The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis?  Well, every Sunday morning that I’m at church, I’m the Patient.

I’m not proud of these thoughts, but they are the actual thoughts I had this Sunday because I wrote them down on a church bulletin so I wouldn’t forget them.

See, here I was harping on The Good One for expressing his dislike for a portion of the church service, when in reality I don’t like the exact same thing.  The only difference is that he was honest enough to say he didn’t like it.  I just pretend to like it and then spend the entire singing portion of church daydreaming about whether or not I’d be Lara Croft in a hostage situation.

The point of my story is that I’m a big giant hypocrite.

So I’m no longer trying to force The Good One to enjoy singing.

I have taught him how he can make time fly by imagining what he’d do if Darth Vader busted into the church with a light saber.

And that, my friends, is why I’m going to end up a human charcoal briquette.

Edited to add:  Speaking of Lara Croft, Angie really needs to eat a few sandwiches.  Or maybe even just a tub of lard.  She looks like she could actually stab someone with her knee.  Yes, I realize I’m just jealous because I have disproportionately fatty knees.  Shut up.  It’s a thing.

Random Wisdom and Observations

I might make these RW&O posts a regular Friday thing.  By Friday my brain is pretty well crapped out, I’m as witty as a Kardashian and coming up with a real post is next to impossible.  (I think my utter contempt for the Kardashians may keep me out of heaven.  We’ll see.)

1.  The Good One had a nightly 2-hour soccer camp at a local community college all week long.  It was being taught by the college soccer team.  Because it started at 4:30 and Virginia Slims Man couldn’t get there that early, I had to take The Good One to the practice and had to take The Beast with me.  Virginia Slims Man would meet us there each night at about 5:45 and then I’d head home with The Beast.  And each night as I’d carry The Beast, screaming, to the car to go home, dozens of 20-year-old male college students would stop and stare at me.  I could pretend that it’s because I’m a crazy hot MILF, but in reality it’s because I’m a live public service announcement for the need to practice safe sex.

(That is not meant to suggest that I don’t love my child.  I love him dearly.  But unless you are willing to be stared at, judged, thrown up on and pooped on, you had darn well better practice safe sex.)

(Note to Dad:  Do not look up the meaning of “MILF.”  You really don’t want to know.)

2.  I had my neighbor over for coffee this morning.   She is 84 years old and her 86-year-old husband died about 2 weeks ago.  I thought I’d make a little treat for us, so last night when I got home from soccer practice, I decided to whip up a batch of chocolate muffins.  I’m trying to not be such a lard butt, so I found a recipe online for a low-fat, lower calorie muffin.  In an effort to make them even lower calorie, I replaced the oil with applesauce, and I replaced the white flour with white whole wheat flour.  (You can probably tell where this story is going.)  Last night, just out of the oven, they tasted okay.  The Beast ate most of one, but The Good One, who has a more delicate palate, took one bite and made a face like he had just eaten a heaping spoonful of The Beast’s diaper.  The Good One tends to be very picky and once told me that the chocolate cake I made tasted like garlic, so I chose to ignore his face of disgust.

Well, you want to know what fat-free, whole wheat chocolate muffins turn into after they cool?  They turn into dark brown rocks.  If I threw one at you, you’d be knocked into a coma.  If we lived in Bible times, I could have sold one to David to stick in his slingshot to kill Goliath.  If you were parked on a hill and your emergency break didn’t work, you could stick one in front of your tire and you car wouldn’t go anywhere.

Yet, amazingly, as hard as the outer surface of the muffin was, the inside of the muffin was as moist as sand.

So, because I insist on jacking with recipes in an effort to make them healthier, and since I didn’t want to serve my neighbor weaponized baked goods, I spent my morning making a whole new batch of muffins that contained enough oil to coat a baby seal.

For your viewing pleasure, a muffin photo essay.

Doesn’t look too bad, right? This is proof that photos are naturally deceptive. I bet Angelina Jolie is actually a real bow-wow in person.

This muffin is so dry it's actually trying to suck moisture from the paper.

And that, my friends, is what the inside of a muffin without fat looks like. I call it a Mohave Muffin.

Want to know the saddest thing about this?  After I took these pictures, I actually ate the muffin.  I’m gross.

3.  Have I mentioned that I have OCD and alumicanibotulisiphobia?  Well, that reared its ugly head this morning.  In addition to the lethal muffins I made for my neighbor, I also decided to make an egg casserole.  It calls for a small can of diced green chile peppers.  I had a fresh, unexpired, undented can so I pulled it out of the pantry last night.  Well, this morning I assembled the egg dish, put it in the oven and then it occurred to me that I forgot to do my can inspection routine that I have to do immediately before I open a can.  So when I pulled the casserole out of the oven, I tossed the entire thing into the garbage.

The word you’re looking for is “certifiable.”

The phrase I’m looking for is “Shut up.  I didn’t ask for your opinion on my mental health.”

4.  I logged onto The Good One’s school web site last night.  What I read gave me even more confidence than ever that he will, in fact, become an illiterate janitor.

Look, The Good Won's skool is having a book fiar. You no, sew all the kidds ken lern how two reed. Or maybe their having a book fiar so they ken bern all the books. -- credit to Hollow Tree Ventures for her very clever comment on my previous post.

Then I read this:

Then I wept.

5.  A conversation between Virginia Slims Man and me this morning:

VSM:  What’s with the pillow with the satin pillowcase?

Me:  Christine gave me the pillowcase.  It’s supposed to help prevent wrinkles and stop your hair from breaking.

VSM:  You believe that?

Me:  Yeah, why?

VSM:  You believe that your hair won’t turn gray if you sleep on a satin pillowcase?

Me:  Yeah, the lack of friction means the hair won’t lose pigment as fast and you won’t turn gray.

VSM:  Seriously?

Me:  No, dumbass.  It’ll stop hair from BREAKING.

Pray for my husband.  He’s a good guy and he lives with a real bitch.  I’m really a terrible wife.  I grew up in a cult-like church that didn’t permit dating, so I don’t really have any ex-boyfriends, but if I did have ex-boyfriends, they would have really dodged a bullet.  VSM is kind of screwed.  And not in the good way.

Now that I think about it, referring to my husband as a “dumbass” might be the thing that keeps me out of heaven. We’ll see.

School…proofreading…janitors. (Insert your own snappy title. I’m too tired.)

I don’t know how things are where you live, but in my town there’s a huge debate over whether it’s best to homeschool your kids, send them to private school or put them in public school.

Now, homeschooling is absolutely not an option for us.  There are some homeschool moms who have told me, “Oh, you could do it.”  Well, I assure you that I most certainly could not.  If I homeschooled The Good One I’d have to figure out what to do with The Beast.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but he’s kind of a handful.  So it’s not like I could sit him in the living room with toys and be left in peace to impart all of my geniusness onto The Good One. I could let The Beast watch T.V. all day, but regardless of what Nick Jr. says, I don’t really think it’s like preschool on T.V.  Although The Beast has learned to count to 15 by watching Team Umizoomi.  And he’s learned to count to 10 in Spanish by watching Dora.  Yes, I let him watch Nick, Jr.  Shut up.  It’s like preschool on T.V.

Anyway, I’m absolutely positive that if I even attempted to homeschool The Good One, he’d end up dumber than shoes.  And not smart shoes like Christian Louboutins.  Stupid shoes, like flip-flops.  Or Crocs.

So that leaves public school or private school.  Now, I generally have two conditions for acceptable schools:  1, That my son not be at high risk of being shivved on the playground.  2, That he come home less stupid than he was when he left.  (I think the phrase you’re looking for is “high standards.”)  The Good One’s elementary school is very safe, relatively new, has lots of great teachers, is 3 minutes from my house, and best of all, it’s free.

Now, I know some of you are thinking, You can’t put a price on a child’s education.  Well, yes, you can.  And that price is $10,000.  I’m not paying anyone $10,000 to teach my kid how to multiply.  Unless he’s about to be shivved.

My two best friends send their kids to private school and my husband and I talk about how stupid they are all the time.  I’m kidding.  They read this blog.  We do not talk about how stupid they are for sending their kids to private school.

We talk about how stupid they are for totally different reasons.

Anyway, since my child is at a safe school and doesn’t seem to be coming home stupider than he was when he left the house, I’ve considered public school to be a good choice.

Then I received this in The Good One’s folder today.  He recently had a writing assessment and they sent home the Writing Rubric to let us know how the kids were assessed.  This was one of the factors they considered.


Some ideas are more through what?  Obviously not through the spell checker.  Or maybe the ideas are more “thorough” and the dimwitted ninny who wrote this didn’t do a “through” proofread.

I kept reading and saw this:

Huh?  I know what it’s supposed to say, but since this is an official assessment form from the school, shouldn’t it actually say what it’s supposed to say?

So, I’m thinking to myself, who wrote this thing? I knew that it wasn’t my son’s teacher.  I had pinned it down to a class of first graders or a janitor named Rocco who hangs out in the boiler room.  (Didn’t your janitor always hang out in the boiler room?)

Then I read this:

It wasn’t the janitors or a group of moms on the PTA who came up with this official piece of un-proofed crap.  (I’m not suggesting PTA moms are stupid or illiterate. I’m a member of the PTA and I’m practically a genius.  I am, however, suggesting that janitors are illiterate.)

It was the literacy coaches.  The people who, by their very name, are trained to coach people towards literacy wrote this.  If you were learning to read, these would be the people in the corner cheering you on, giving you a pep talk, squirting Gatorade in your mouth when you get thirsty.  Well, maybe not the last one.  That would be the Literacy Waterboys.

Aside:  Does your husband love the movie The Waterboy as much as my husband does?  I hate that movie with all of my being.  I saw it all the way through one time and wanted to beat the ever-loving crap out of Adam Sandler the whole time.  I’m pretty sure my I.Q. dropped 5 points just by watching it.  My husband watches it every chance he gets.  He probably has the I.Q. of raw meat.  And not smart raw meat like Kobe beef; stupid raw meat, like Mad Cow beef.

Now, this kind of chaps my ass for two reasons.

1.  Public school children’s days are literally jam packed with lessons every minute of every day.  The teachers, at least in Texas, are expected to cover a very specific lesson in each subject each day.  There is no room for unexpected fun activities because if a certain subject isn’t covered on a specific day, then they have to play catch-up, and there’s no time for catch-up. Teachers are expected to fill their lesson plans with as much material as possible so that they can make sure all of their students pass the standardized tests.  They teach to that test.  And this school district that judges these teachers based upon the performance of the students on that standardized test can’t be bothered to proofread a simple form.

2.   It bugs me that this same school district that can’t be bothered to proofread a form that is being sent to every parent of a third grader is judging my son based upon his attention to detail.

However, this does kind of explain why The Good One thought that the largest chain of barrier islands in the U.S. ran from Kansas to Kentucky.

Now, please excuse me.  I’ve got to go talk to my husband about private school.

P.S.  In spite of my being a self-described genius, you may come across a typo or two on my blog.  You can assume all typographical errors are intentional and you don’t need to tell me about them.  It’s my blog and I get to spell and punctuate things the way I want to.  If it bothers you, you can start a blog that corrects all of my typographical errors.  (Nobody will read your blog, but at least you’ll feel better.)

Noggins Full of Crap.

The Good One is skating on a sheet of ice that is as thin as my granny panties.  I’m probably going to start calling him The Perpetually Grounded One or The One Whose Brain Comes Up With Ideas That Are Stupid On A Grand Scale.

Two very enlightening conversations occurred in my house this week, both with The Good One.

Let me set the scene for the first one.  This conversation isn’t so much a groundable offense as it is something that makes me realize that I have royally jacked up something in this child’s raising because I have no idea where he comes up with the ideas that rattle around in that giant noggin of his.  (Unlike my big giant head which is a mansion of genius-y ideas and general smartiness, his is a bounce house of crap, which is probably true of most 9-year-old boys.)

The Good One likes to spend money.  He’s very much a lover of stuff.  I’ve tried to encourage him to see the value in activities and things that create memories, but he’d rather have a dollar store frisbee. When he goes to Chuck-E-Cheese, he’s more excited about the bouncy ball and pack of Chiclets he buys with his tickets than he is about the two hours he spent playing games with friends.

The three days following The Great Gem Tree Fiasco of 2012 were the most difficult of The Good One’s life.  There were many things he had planned to use that $120 on and apparently none of them were imaginary gems.  Once he got that money back, it was like he had won the lottery and he really couldn’t wait to go buy something.  (If The Good One ever won the actual lottery, I’m fairly certain he’d end up poor as dirt and living in a cardboard box within a year.  So, you know, I’m doing a real bang-up job of teaching him the value of money.)

He had been begging me to take him to the store for days so that he could buy two sets of Legos he found online, and I finally said yes.  Then we had this conversation:

Me:  Remember to grab your wallet so you can buy your Legos.

TGO: No, I’m just going to buy them on IOU.

Me:  Excuse me?  You’re going to what?

TGO: I’m going to buy them on IOU.  I’ll work it off in chores.

Me:  First of all, the fact that you know what an IOU is at the age of 9 means I’ve already failed as a parent.  Secondly, you’re not buying anything on IOU.  You already own enough Legos to build an actual village, so if you want more of these overpriced vacuum-jammers, you’re spending your own cash.

TGO: But I don’t want to break my $100 bill.  You’ve let me do it before.

Me:  Yes, that was because I didn’t want you to break a $100 bill on a pack of gum.  I have no idea what has led to this belief that I’m offering some sort of work/toy-purchase program, but those Legos are going to cost $30.  You will spend your own money or you’re not getting them.

TGO:  [Incredulous sigh.] Fine.

Me:  [Thunk.]  (That’s the sound my big giant head makes when I bang it on the kitchen table.)

Now, in retrospect I realize that the reason he tried to pull this stunt is because he knows that I’m terrible about keeping up with chores and he knew he’d basically be getting two new sets of Legos for the cost of emptying the dishwasher twice.

But then we had this conversation last night:

[Scene:  Kitchen after dinner.  Virginia Slims Man and I are chatting at the table.  The Beast is otherwise occupied, and The Good One gets up and starts walking toward the living room to watch T.V.]

Me:  Hey, before you go anywhere I want you to vacuum the —

TGO: No.

Me:  Wha — wha — you — did — what?  (I’m pretty sure I had a mild stroke as I could not form a coherent sentence.  And I smelled burning toast.)

[Virginia Slims Man and I look at each other in disbelief.]

Me:  What did you just say?

TGO:  [Turns to me and, while giving me the sign language sign for “no,” mouths “No.”]

Me:  Did you just tell me no?  [To VSM]  Did he just tell me no?  TGO, you did not just tell me no.  You get your butt in this kitchen right now!

TGO:  [Walks to the kitchen.]

Me:  Why did you tell me no?  Were you trying to be funny?  (I was almost hoping he would say yes.  He’s managed to pick up my sarcastic sense of humor but doesn’t always use it properly, so I thought maybe this was just a little Sheldon Cooper-y thing he was doing.)

TGO:  No, I wasn’t trying to be funny.  I just don’t want to do whatever it is you were going to ask me to do.  (Not even smart enough to lie to me.)

Me:  (Now, I felt relatively certain that I was about to break out with a severe case of Tourette’s.  My right eye started twitching and I wondered to myself if CPS would care if I threw a plate of chicken tacos at him.)  Well, son, do you think I want to pick your dirty underwear up off the floor and clean your pee-coated bathroom since you are incapable of getting your urine into the big, shiny toilet bowl? You have just made the biggest mistake of your life.  You think you don’t like doing chores now, you just wait.  First of all, you are grounded.  Secondly, you will do your chores every day without fail.  If you miss a day, you’re grounded.  You will make your bed every morning.  You will wipe your bathroom sink down every day.  You will wipe every last drop of pee off of your toilet every time you use it.  You will clear the table and wipe it down after dinner.  You will vacuum the kitchen floor every night.  You will unload the dishwasher every time it is clean, and you will not complain.  You will change your brother’s dirty diapers.  You will pooper-scoop the yard until the blessed day that damn dog spontaneously combusts, and when that day finally comes — praise the Lord — you’ll clean the dog guts out of the grass.  You will …

Okay.  At this point I had completely lost it.  My head was flammable and my temples were throbbing so hard that I’m pretty sure my husband could actually see them pulsating.  I was no longer being rational and was just rattling off anything I could think of for him to do.

TGO:  I’m sorry.

VSM: [Sympathetically] Dude, you screwed up big time.

Me:  [Walk to the bathroom to stick my head under the bathtub faucet to douse the smoke that is billowing out of my ears.]

So, is there a moral to this story?  Not really.

I guess I’m just a cautionary tale about the dangers of keeping a half-assed chore chart.  If your child realizes you aren’t organized enough to maintain a proper chore chart, he’ll try to swindle you and then he’ll talk back to you and make you want to throw tacos at him.

Okay, that’s the moral to my story:  Children are smarter than we give them credit for and they will use our weaknesses against us to the point that we will consider pelting them with Mexican food.

Try explaining that to a family court judge.

You’re welcome.

Random Observations and Wisdom

I’m supposed to be cleaning my house today because my family members are pigs, so I only have time to give you this little nugget of wisdom that occurred to me as I walked past a mom who was picking her child up from preschool today.

If you see Sofia Vergara on a CoverGirl commercial and she’s wearing bright purple eyeshadow and you think to yourself, “I like the way that looks.  I bet I can pull that off,” let me assure you that you most definitely cannot.

There are only two possible thoughts that people who see you will have:

1.  Wow, that woman really needs to stop letting her one-eyed, farsighted daughter do her eye makeup with Magic Markers.

2.  Look, it’s Lap Dance Barbie!

If you’re over the age of 15 and you’re wearing bright purple eyeshadow right now, go take it off.

You’re welcome.

[P.S.: If you happen to Google “lap dance” to see if it’s one word or two, make sure your kids aren’t around, otherwise you’ll have to explain some rather interesting images that pop up.  I’m probably going to start getting hooker spam just for Googling that.]

Look, a chunk of kidney.

The following occurred at approximately 1:30 a.m. in my bedroom last week.

(Dad, the story is not pervy, so you can read it.)

Let me set the scene.

The night is still.  I’m awakened by the sudden, intermittent chirp of the smoke detector informing us that the battery needs to be replaced.  I roll over and look at Virginia Slims Man to see if he’s also awake.  Of course, he is not.  I tap him gently.  He doesn’t move, so I punch him in the arm.

Me:  Honey, the smoke detector is chirping.

VSM: Huh?

Smoke Detector: Chirp.

Me: The smoke detector.  It’s chirping.

VSM: Oh.  (Closes his eyes and starts snoring instantly.  Not kidding.  It’s a sight to behold.)

Me: (Kick him in the shin.) Hon, it’s still chirping.

VSM: (Annoyed.) What do you want me to do about it?

Me:  I thought that was obvious.  I want you to make it stop chirping.

Smoke Detector:  Chirp.

VSM: (Sighs.  Crawls out of bed and starts to walk towards the detector.  He then turns around, walks back to the bed and attempts to climb in.  I do not know at this point if he thinks he’s miraculously fixed the detector just by approaching it or, more likely, if he’s completely forgotten why I asked him to get out of bed in the first place.)

Me: You do realize that you haven’t actually done anything and it’s going to chirp again in about 3 seconds?

VSM:  Huh?

Smoke Detector: Chirp.

Me: See?  Still chirping.

VSM: What do you want me to do?

Me:  Have we not covered this?  I want you to make it stop.

VSM: How?

Me: How does one normally make a smoke detector stop chirping?  However that is normally done, that is what I want you to do.

Smoke Detector: Chirp

VSM:  (Sighs.  Gets out of bed.  Goes into the garage and gets the ladder.  Climbs the ladder and yanks the smoke detector off the wall.  Rips the battery out of the detector.)

Smoke Detector:  Chiiiiirrrrrp.

VSM: (Takes ladder back out to the garage.  Comes back into bed.)

Me:  Thank you.  Were you seriously going to try to sleep with the smoke detector chirping all night long?

VSM: Yeah.

Me:  Men, you’re all idiots.

Now, I really don’t think my husband is an idiot.  I do, however, find it idiotic to attempt to sleep with a smoke detector chirping all night long.

My husband’s ability to sleep through noises is actually legendary.  He has slept through alarms, illnesses and physical assault by me to stop his snoring.  And he sleeps so deeply that he is often disoriented and confused if he’s woken up in the middle of the night.  If he falls asleep with the TV on, I’ll wake him up to tell him to turn it off and then I’ll watch him as he tries to accomplish this by repeatedly pointing his cell phone at the TV.  And even though he appears to be awake, he has absolutely no idea why he can’t turn the TV off.  I’ve also watched him try to answer the remote when the phone rings. (Honestly, it’s kind of entertaining.)

I’m pretty sure that an intruder could break into our house while blowing on a whistle and popping bubble wrap and kidnap me from our bedroom and my husband wouldn’t have a clue until the next morning.

In spite of all this, I was still amazed that last night when The Beast was in bed with us because he’s sick with a raging case of Bubonic Plague and was coughing so violently that I was just waiting for his gall bladder to come flying out of his mouth, my husband fell asleep.  (I’m pretty sure expelled gall bladders was one of the earlier symptoms of the plague.)

I really can’t explain how violent and constant The Beast’s cough was.  It was easily the worst cough he’s ever had in his life and he was miserable and tired and inconsolable.

So there we were, the three of us in bed together.  For hours and hours.

I lay quietly on my back, trying to move as little as possible so as not to disrupt The Beast during those few fleeting seconds of calm that came before another coughing spell would start up again.  The Beast snuggled up in the crook of my arm and hacked violently in my face with every breath.

And then there was my husband, snoring the contented sleep of the narcoleptic.  Now, when I say he’s narcoleptic, I’m really not exaggerating.  He can go from awake and talking to snoring within seconds.  He’s actually fallen asleep mid-conversation before, and that’s when he’s been the one talking.

But how the hell do you fall asleep when your child is spewing mucousy Typhoid phlegm and spleen chunks all over your bed?

Every time The Beast’s cough would calm a bit and I’d say a prayer that he’d fall asleep, my husband would choose that moment to snore louder and disturb The Beast all over again.  (I believe snoring is a choice and that he does it just to irritate me.)

I kept kicking my husband, thinking he’d roll over so that he wouldn’t be snoring in The Beast’s face, but he would just sit up a little bit and look at me like I was nuts for kicking him.  Yes, in spite of the darkness in the room, I could see the look on his face because my eyes were perfectly adjusted to the dark room because I had NEVER BEEN ASLEEP!  He, however, had been sleeping quite happily for over an hour and could not see that I was actually trying to kill him with my evil eye.  If ever there were a time to have a red glow to coincide with your evil eye it’s when you’re trying to destroy your husband in the darkness of night.

How does my husband tune out the sound of his son’s tuberculosis sputum storm and fall asleep?  Is he actually tuning it out, assuming that I’ll worry enough for the both of us, or is he just not able to fight his narcolepsy?  I’ll probably never know.

Then this morning we had this conversation:

Me: Last night was terrible.

VSM:  I know.  You kept kicking me.

Me:  Do you remember why I kept kicking you?

VSM:  No.

Me:  You were snoring right in The Beast’s face.  Every time he’d calm down enough to go to sleep, you’d wake him up all over again, so I was trying to get you to roll over and face the other way.

VSM:  Yeah, I think I rolled over a couple times and then I’d just roll back.

Me:  No, you didn’t roll over.  You were asleep.  Want to know how I know?  I WAS AWAKE!!

VSM: Huh.

Me:  Men, you’re all idiots.