Tag Archives: Wedded Miss

WTF Friday: Do you hear yourself?

Posted on by
2

Ken just returned on Wednesday from a 10 day trip to UCLA for some mad scientist shit, and I’m pretty sure the petri dish flavor of the week destroyed his “Are the words coming out of my mouth a good idea?” filter. I mean, it’s never been top notch*, but now I think it’s completely b0rked. Observe the progression into madness:

*My filter hasn’t worked in years, but that’s not what we’re talking about. Today, anyway.

April 21, 2011:
Gesturing at my breasts: “There’s too many babies here. Put those things away!”

At lunch
Poking his finger into my cleavage: “Oh, yeah…”

At Target
Me: “Last time I showed cleavage, you told me to cover it up because there were too many infants around. This is Target, home of soccer moms with twins in wide by side shopping carts.”
Ken “Hey, it’s dark there’s a lot of fog, and there’s a good chance there could be some ships lost at sea right now. Maybe if you let those puppies shine, we’ll have a better chance of bringing those boys home.”

Watching TV
Me, responding to a comment about the Zoot Suit Riots: “That’s actually a pretty hilarious song.”
Ken: “What’s that hell song about the afterlife or whatever?”
Me: …
Ken: “You know – “Iiiiin the afterlife!”
Me: “You mean Hell? By the Squirrel Nut Zippers?”
Ken: “That’s who does Zoot Suit Riot, right?”
Me: “No. That’s Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.
Ken: “So what does Brian Setzer do?”
Me: “Jump, Jive, and Wail. ‘Tard.”
Ken: “Whatever! I don’t listen to this swing shit!”

Which is exactly why he knows the lyrics to all three, and the genre to which they belong. No, Yeah, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

These are a few lines from the archives*:

*I cannot honestly remember what some of this was regarding, but it’s somehow funnier now that I can’t remember the context.

March 26, 2007:
“Sounds like they might be trying to dress up a lot of beef chuck as prime rib.”
“I think you just called me beef chuck, and by extension a cow.”
“Well, you’re definitely filet mignon. You don’t need any dressing up. You’re as sexy as steak comes.”

March 17, 2009:
Ken, Regarding Cookie Monster/Sesame Street Kids Clubs at Beaches Resorts: “Yeah, that’s exactly what I need when I’m on vacation – some big, blue, furry retard with a cookie fetish bugging me while I’m trying to relax.”

I took the crime scene photos when cookie monster killed himself at the Temecula Sears store a week later.

May 24, 2008:
A random conversation about episiotomies:
Me: If they don’t make the snip and the woman tears during childbirth, then they have to do some restructuring and you won’t be having sex for a while. So you get the joys of new parenthood and a prolonged case of blue balls.
Ken: Why? You have a mouth. (At this point, Ken realizes what he’s just said and gets a horror stricken, panicked look on his face.) I’m sorry! That didn’t come out right! It wasn’t me that said that! It was Evil Ken! IT WASN’T ME!

I honestly don’t know which was funnier – the fact that he said it, or watching him drown in his own back pedaling wake.

There you go – more than you ever needed or wanted to know about the inner workings of my husband’s mind that should leave you saying, “WTF?!?”

Now go hug your perfectly normal husbands/boyfriends/sons.

Maison d’Ertel: the Next Great Think Tank

Posted on by
1

The worst case scenario came true yesterday and my records retention project was put on hold as my boss had a near panic attack at the thought of files being *gasp* put into logical order. So. I will be dutifully avoiding that office suite until his next hunting half-day, at which point it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Meanwhile, I have fuckall to do until my 11:00 showing (followed by me punching the gas and driving for home as fast as our little hamster wagon can putt-putt along), so I’ll attempt to regale you with the brilliant, intelligent discourse which has taken place in our house lately.

Yup. Just like this.

*Ken, making fun of a jewelry commercial*Yeah, I’m looking for a ring that says…. I’m sorry you have herpes.

Me: The lead guitarist looked like Sean Bean.
Ken: I like Sean Bean as an actor. He was great in Lord of the Rings.
Me: Yeah? Where he dies early? Or how about Equilibrium, where he dies early? Ooh! And how about Game of Thrones where he DIES EARLY? Poor Sean Bean. Hollywood’s favorite actor to kill inside of 30 minutes…Or relegate to bit parts, like in the flaming turd pile that was Troy. Or being forced to act alongside Nicholas Cage in National Treasure.

*listening to a woman describe how pregnancy has increased her bra size 2 full cups, looking at my own D cups*
M: God, Ken… 2 cup sizes! Do you know what that would do?
K: Yeah. Make my penis bigger.

Me, on the phone with Tina: Just to give you a heads up, we’re probably going to be a few minutes late. There’s a minor kitchen thing going on here that, if it goes tits up, will result in the untimely death of one or more people. And if not, I’ll need a couple minutes to regroup.

Roger from American Dad: I think you and I can both agree that a woman like that should never go a day of her life without a crisp pickle.
Me: I could have justified the entirety of my Slut-fest 2005 if I’d just used that line.

That’s it for me this year, peeps! I’ll see you in 2012 when I bring a fresh, new perspective pertaining to everything that makes me stabby. Happy New Year to you and yours!

 

You’d better stick the landing, or they’ll assume he beats you.

Posted on by
4

This week is two days old and it’s already two days too long. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t bode well for your week as a whole when you end up in Urgent Care halfway through Monday.

See, I started the day kicking ass. I caught up on a ton of paperwork, I showed a house and got a signed lease out of the deal so I headed to my next appointment riding high on the fumes that are an inevitable byproduct of being hot shit. I was in the process of talking another group into signing a lease, even.

And then I fell down the stairs.

A piece of trash on the stairs from yet another frat party weekend found its way under my foot. I took a tumble and I did NOT stick the landing. In reality I only fell 2 steps and but it was enough. My foot planted and my knee went in one direction while my foot stayed firmly planted in place. The loud POP from my ankle just echoed in the stairwell and for a few seconds I couldn’t feel my foot. I stood and tested it gingerly. It was tender, but I was still mobile. I smiled and made a joke to my tour group and sent them ahead to the office.

I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to bend that way.

I got in the car and called my husband who didn’t answer the damn phone, and then proceded to bawl my eyes out to the Dean On-Call Nurse. Ken called back around the same time I was hobbing into my office and treated me to the following conversation:

Me, still blubbering: “I need you to come get me and take me to St. Mary’s.”
Ken, not really registering what St. Mary’s is: “Yeah? What’s going on?”
Me, more than a little indignant/impatient: “I fell at one of our buildings and I did something to my ankle.”
Ken, still completely oblivious to my increasing pain: “Think you rolled it?”
Me, officially pissed off: “This more than a roll. Can you stop asking questions and just take me to the damn hospital?” *crying a little more*
Ken, finally with some urgency: “Fine, I’m coming right now.”

Of course, he’s on the other side of campus and will be walking the 1.5 miles to me unless he catches a well timed bus or a ride with a coworker. So I grabbed an icepack from the freezer, propped my foot up at my desk, and started doing the lease paperwork for my tour group that just walked in the door. I managed to explain 3/4 of the conditions to them by the time Ken showed up and made him wait while I finished the last 1/4, because I’m nothing if not dedicated. Then I waved a hasty goodbye to the coworker and hobbled into the car before blubbering into my now cold latte the whole way to the emergency room.

It only took about 20 minutes to get admitted before they wheeled me and my fat girl cankle to a room down the hall. Everything was more or less standard up to the point where they asked Ken to come back out to check me in and then the nurse turned to me and asked in hushed, but urgent tones, “Now that we’re alone, I have to ask: are you safe at home? No one hurts or threatens you?”

I just blinked at her for a second, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything. Then it dawned on me: I fell down the stairs + My husband brought me to the ER = They think he beats me. And then I laughed long and hard before shaking my head and telling her ‘no’ in a tone that could only be described as “You’re a ‘tard.”  She huffed her way out of the room and Ken rejoined me a minute later.

Are you serious? Have you seen my husband?

Of course, Ken knew nothing of this little exchange until an hour or so later when he cracked a joke about me knowing my role. Then I told him about the nurse’s concern and he was absolutely incredulous (probably because I abuse him on the daily, not the other way around). So of course he then decides to exacerbate the issue by making more tasteless jokes which I obviously laughed at because the whole thing was so ludicrous that it couldn’t be anything but funny.

The ankle is not broken, but it’s pretty badly sprained and there are some gross purplish bruises around fat spots that didn’t exist before. I’m in an aircast for a week or so and on crutches through at least the end of the week.

The moral of the story here? If you’re going to fall down the stairs, you’d better stick the landing, lest your loving spouse be mistaken for an abusive schmuck.

Madness in a Pretty Package: Conversations with Ken

Posted on by
1

We’ll call this part one of an ongoing series, because until one of us is rendered mute, we will never be at a loss for things with which to torture each other.

Since we happened to be in the neighborhood, I checked in at the local yarn emporium to see if the girl scout cookies I pre-ordered were in yet. Alas, they won’t be coming in until Wednesday. Of course, when I got into the car empty handed, the first thing out of Ken’s mouth was, “Whar mah cookies, bitch?”
“They’re not in until Wednesday, so we won’t be getting them until this weekend, probably.”
“That’s ricockulous.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” *blatant sarcasm*
“No, it’s not your fault…” *completely serious*
“No, I mean I’m sorry as in, “I’m sorry you feel entitled to my cookies.”
*nefarious chuckle* “Oh, honey – I’m your husband. I’m always entitled to your cookies.”Moments later, walking through the parking lot of Culver’s, someone’s recent trophy buck is poking out of the bed of a pickup, tongue lolling. My husband the city boy takes one look and says, “You think it’s okay?”
“What, the deer? Are you retarded?”

And not 5 minutes later as we were waiting to pay for lunch, a father was at the soda fountain with his small children, filling a cup. One of the kids insisted that she wanted her own cup because she didn’t want to share with her little brother, and daddy said, “No honey, we’re all going to share one.” At which point she gets pouty and pill-ish. This, if you know us well, is the part of the story where Ken pointedly presented his cup with a flourish, filled it, and began drinking enthusiastically in front of her.
*after they go find a table* “Man, I should have rubbed her face in it.”
“You’re 31 years old. You are way beyond antagonizing a six year old girl, Ken.”

At home, following some “priceless” marketing advice from Ken:
“You can repay me in beer.”
“Why don’t you just make your own beer?”
“This coming from the chick who’s like, ‘ew! It stinks like wort in here!’”
“It does stink! It took weeks for the smell to go away last time you made beer.”
“Yeah? Well your bath bombs stink!”
“My bath bombs smell amazing.”
“They offend my male sensibilities.”
“This coming from the guy who stole one off the counter like a fat kid pilfering a cupcake to run to the bathtub and test them out.”
“What was that fat kid joke, Miss ‘I want gummy bears?”
“What was that, Mister “Bitch, whar mah cookies?”
“Yeah! Where are my cookies?”
“They are not your cookies! And right now, they’re strictly theoretical!”
“Those are my cookies! I’m entitled to half! It was in the vows!”

 

*Ken steals a handful of my gummy bears at the end of my soul sucking work day*
Me: “B-b-but, but – those are my gummy bears!”
Ken: “But you like to share.”
Me: “Hi, I’m your wife. Have we met?”

And this was only about cookies and gummy bears. Don’t miss our next episode when we examine the Mister’s rather juvenile take on pillow talk.