Bitch Burglary

My God, people.  Just when I was finally starting to feel safe & secure in my little town of Buford, GA, the following article appeared in yesterday's local paper:

Holy Shit!  Someone stole a pink rubber bracelet from Spencer's at the mall!  Things will never be the same around here. It's hard-hitting journalistic masterpieces such as this that make me regret leaving the newspaper biz to get into real estate.  I've been following this compelling story very closely.  Here's the additional information I've been able to gather:

In an emergency press briefing, County Police officials released the following statement: “In our continuing investigations, we have uncovered evidence that this may not be an isolated incident.  We believe this heinous crime is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise and encourage retailers and citizens to safeguard all rubber jewelry featuring expletives until further notice.  Citizens are encouraged to remain calm and to consider public safety before reacting.  Spencer’s has informed us that although the ‘bitch’ bracelet remains missing, there are plenty of bracelets inscribed with the word ‘whore’ available as well as a limited supply of  ‘slut’ bracelets.  We have fast-tracked this investigation and will focus all available manpower to identifying a suspect.  Although we are leaving all investigative avenues open, we believe the thief is likely a female high school student, perhaps with Daddy issues, who may possibly be an actual bitch.  Obviously this type of suspect is very dangerous and should not be approached by individual citizens.  If you identify a suspect, please dial 911.”

I'll keep you posted as additional details become available.

Dog Days (and Nights)

Fair Warning:  This is yet another post about my dogs.  Read no further if you’re sick and/or tired of being regaled with tales (and tails) of life with Boomer & Marley.  You know who you are.

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Boomer (all 135 pounds of him) has taken to laying directly at my feet every night while I watch TV.  And by directly at my feet, I mean right where I put my feet on the floor when I'm sitting in my favorite chair, which leaves no room for my actual feet.  "Under foot" is an understatement.

Boomer doesn't really have a "spot" in our house.  He hangs out on the guest bed while we're at work and he usually just lays on the floor next to us when we're home.  I decided it was time to try to find him an area to call his own. Hopefully nowhere near my feet.  First step: Buy a Mack-Daddy dog bed that he won't be able to resist.  I found the perfect bed on the L.L. Bean website, and three days and $300 later it was delivered. 

Assembly was a bit of a bitch, as evidenced below.  And don't give me any shit about my giant glass of wine on the side table.  Iced White Zinfandel: signature drink of the white trash female.

Once I had the bed (badly) assembled, I put it in the corner and waited for the magic to happen.  Based on previous experience, I knew that Boomer needed to "discover" the new bed by himself, and then "claim" it as his own (he won't touch a new dog toy unless you put it down and leave the room - Great Danes are ridiculously passive).  I also knew that if I made a big deal about the bed, he'd assume it was mine and he'd never get within 10 feet of it.  So once the bed was in place I left the room to let nature take it's course.  I checked back every few minutes to see how he responded.

8:30 p.m.: Oh, shit.  Wrong dog.  "Marley!  Move!  MOVE!!  That's not your bed!"  I finally got her to move to her own bed in the opposite corner.

8:45 p.m.: Oh, for the love of God.  "Marley!  GET OUT!  That's not your bed."  She eventually moved to her own bed again.

9:00 p.m.:  "Marley.  Dammit!  NOT. YOUR. BED."  This time I relocated her to her own bed myself.

9:15 p.m. : "Hey, ASSHOLE!  Move."  I finally had to lock her in the guest room.  Obedience isn't really one of her strengths.

I was worried that all the commotion might have scared Boomer away from the overpriced bed forever, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him.

9:20 p.m.: He's giving it a try, but he looks decidedly nervous about it.

9:25 p.m.: Still not sure about it.  But after 5 solid minutes of me repeating "goodboygoodboygoodboygoodboy" I think he was afraid to move.

9:30p.m.: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!

Sweet Jesus. The things we do for our dogs!

One Year Later...rehab edition

Remember last year when I posted this picture of the bar at my house and the feedback I received trended toward "Are you & Jeff saving your money or are you hoping to get a group discount at rehab?"

 Behold:  One. Year. Later.

After I removed the lamp to make more room we still had several bottles that didn't fit, so I shoved all my favorite vodkas in the spare freezer for safekeeping (chilled coconut vodka = heaven!).

I was also going to also post a picture of our wine rack and inside of our beer fridge, but I was afraid we'd have too many uninvited guests this weekend.  You know I don't like to share!

Cheers!

Princess Power (or lack thereof)

I spent yesterday watching a tragic afternoon of Auburn football at the home of my pal and fellow blogger FRT.

I'd like to say that I visit them to enjoy catching up with him and his lovely wife (both of whom I've known since high school and are two of my favorite people), but I think we all know that I head to his house because I adore his kids - Things 1-3.  It's nice to be around kids with whom I can enjoy intelligent, compelling conversation, such as the talk I had with my cohort in middle child-dom, kindergarten-aged Thing 2 after we heard another child claim to be a princess:

Thing 2: I don't like princesses.  Don't. Like. Them.
LAB: Me either!
T2:   Really?
LAB:  Yep - princess is a crummy job, if you ask me.
T2:   Why?
LAB:  Because everyone knows that in a constitutional monarchy, parliament has all the power.  To aspire to be anything less than Prime Minister is to choose to be a figurehead.  Plus, I'm pretty sure princesses have to wear pantyhose.
T2:   Ummm.. What?
LAB:  Princess bad.  Prime Mister good.
T2:   Right.  Want some Skittles?  I saved you some red ones.

God, I love that kid.

If you've ever wondered why I shouldn't have kids...there's the answer.

Cattle Battle

Jeff went to the junkyard yesterday because now that I've forbidden more cars at the house I'm pretty sure he's trying to sneak them in piece by piece and he sent me this awesome picture:

Obviously a picture such as this raises several questions, so we had the following exchange when I got home from work:

LAB:   Are all cattle girls?
Jeff:  Oh my God.  No.  Cows are female.  Male cattle are steer.
LAB:  Oh.
Jeff:  If they were all girls, how would you get more?
LAB:   I don' know.  Animal husbandry isn't my specialty.
Jeff: The fact that the words "animal husbandry" exist in your vocabulary terrifies me.
LAB:   I went to college in Alabama.
Jeff:  Clearly.
LAB:  But all bulls are male, right?
Jeff:  Yes.
LAB:  Then how do you get more bulls?
Jeff:  I'm really glad we had this talk.

Geriatric Stripper Shoes

Over the weekend, I received some feedback from my pal Hoss that posting any ridiculous bullshit on my blog was better than posting nothing at all.  And so, without further delay, I give you any ridiculous bullshit.

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Between our work and travel schedules, Jeff and I have seen very little of each other for the past 8 weeks.  Substantial stretches of time apart, by the way, is the secret to our successful marriage.  Last weekend we finally had a couple of days together, and I used all 48 hours of it to generally bug the shit out of him.  Because I can’t stop myself, no matter how hard I try. This morning he was practically giddy to see me almost ready to leave for work.  Until we had this exchange:

LAB:   Is this outfit too matchy?

Jeff:   What the hell does “too matchy” mean?

LAB:   Does it look like I’m trying too hard?

Jeff:   What the hell does “trying too hard” mean?

LAB:   You know.  Does it look like it’s overly coordinated?

Jeff:   Oh, Jesus.  It matches.  Does that answer your question?

LAB:   I know it matches.  Is it too matchy?

Jeff:   Blink. Blink.

LAB:   Well?

Jeff:   It matches.  If you were wearing Garanimals, you’d be hippo and hippo.

LAB:   Is that a swipe at my weight?

Jeff:   Oh, Jesus.

LAB:   You could have said giraffe and giraffe.  Or antelope and antelope.  But you said hippo.

Jeff:   Giraffes and antelopes don’t make noise and therefore can never be used in an analogy involving you.  Hippos, on the other hand...

LAB:   Fair enough.

Jeff:   While we’re talking about it, I think you should rethink those shoes.

LAB:   The shoes aren’t in play right now.

Jeff:   No, seriously.  Where does one buy shoes like that?  And why are they so shiny?  They look like geriatric stripper shoes.  Did you buy them at the geriatric stripper store?  I bet they love you there.  You should open a store that caters to geriatric strippers and drag queens.  You’d totally be in your element.

LAB:   I’m not worried about the shoes.

Jeff:   You shouldn't be worried about the matchiness of your outfit when you’re sporting Wonder Woman’s metallic slippers on your feet.  Trust me. Will you be taking the invisible airplane to work or should I just warm up your car?

LAB:   Never mind.

Jeff:   Exactly.

It seemed perfectly plausible to me...

Last weekend Jeff was in the garage finally digging through some of the items he brought home from my Dad’s basement, and he came into the house carrying a small plastic dish containing a couple of metal items covered in yellow liquid.

Jeff:  Holding up the dish. Check it out! I read online that if you spit twice into a dish and then pee on it, it takes the rust off metal.  I put the old bottle openers from your Dad’s house in it to see if it works.

LAB: That’s gross, but whatever.

Jeff: What do you mean whatever?  It’s a new cleaner I bought at Home Depot.  It looks like pee.  I was joking.  Do you seriously think I would spit into a dish and then pee on it?
LAB: Blink. Blink.

Jeff: Seriously?

LAB: Stares at floor.

Jeff: Does that even sound like something I would do?

LAB: Oh, Jesus.  There’s really no right answer to that question.  I don’t know what the hell you do out there.  As far as I’m concerned, peeing in a dish is best case scenario.

Jeff: Reaching into the liquid.  Hey, this one says “Schlitz Malt Liquor” on it! Cool!!!

LAB:  Can you do that outside?  I’m still seeing pee.

A Pictorial History of my Whirlwind Work Trip to Tampa

Spent 24 hours in Tampa this week for training.  Awesomeness ensued:

 

Ummm.  I asked for a compact car.  Not Big Pimpin' in a Crown Vic!  They see me rollin'...they hatin'...

 

Trunk large enough for 5 dead bodies (or one bag of Boomer's food).  

Look how sad my tote looks.

 Killer view from my hotel room.  

Does the fun ever start?

Following a Maserati to the airport.

Texting & driving may be illegal, but taking cell phone pictures through the steering wheel?  Totally kosher.

 

Flight home delayed.   

Double vodka cranberry to the rescue!  

I had to order two so the first one wouldn't get lonely in my stomach.

The only other highlight from the voyage of the damned trip was when a guy got kicked off the flight home because he "smelled".  How bad do you have to smell to get tossed from an airplane?  He wasn't even embarrassed.  Awesome!

Trash: It's not just in the driveway

You know how sometimes you're faced with two options, and to choose Option "A" would mean you're probably a reasonably classy human being...but to choose Option "B" would mean you're headed down the crushed-beer-can-strewn path directly to trailer-trashdom?  No?  May be it's just me.  Anyway, it seems I just can't keep myself from resisting the sweet Siren's song of Option B.  Because, as I've stated before: LAB = Ghetto.

I can't believe I'm admitting this.  But you're not going to be the least bit surprised by it.

At my office, we're rotating temporary staff members throughout the week this summer because my full-time coworker is on maternity leave through September.  I'm here every weekday, and since we try to have two people here at all times, in any given week I work with two or three different people.  All of whom are supposed to do my bidding, but we all know how that's been working out for me.

So I came to work on Monday dressed in an awesome new outfit that I had just put together.  Nothing makes you feel better than knowing that you look pretty good!  I even straightened my hair and wore heels.  Watch your back, Kate Middleton, I'm coming for you!

On Tuesday morning, I was in my closet feeling moderately hung over and completely underwhelmed by my wardrobe options.  I looked longingly at my Monday outfit, which was hanging nicely on the rack (it's a dry-clean-only ensemble, and since it was the first time I had worn it I was planning to wear it one more time before sending it to the cleaners).

And then I realized: my Monday coworker and my Tuesday coworker are two different people.  And my boss hadn't been to the office at all on Monday.  And none of the HOA staff had stopped by my office on Monday. And I hadn't met any potential home buyers on Monday.  And Jeff hadn't seen me in my work clothes at all on Monday.

Do you see where this is headed?...down the crushed-beer-can-strewn path directly to trailer-trashdom, perhaps?

Yep - you guessed it!  I put on my smokin' hot Monday outfit for a Tuesday revival.

I wore the exact same outfit to the office two days in a row.  Not twice in one week.  Two. Consecutive. Days.  And screw you guys, I felt great wearing it the second time. 

In case it raises your opinion of me, I did change my undergarments.  I'm not a complete animal.

I make no apologies.

Over-served and solo

Jeff’s working nights this week, which means I’m spending my evenings sitting in my favorite chair watching “Alaska State Troopers” and “Locked up Abroad” on NatGeo, not worrying about all the housework I should be doing and drinking Gallo White Zinfandel.  Because Beringer stopped honoring my $5 rebates after the 49^th one I mailed them. Guess 50 is the limit. Bastards.

It’s hardly a surprise that I often find myself slightly “over-served” on nights Jeff is working.  And screw you with your “does she really sit home by herself at night and drink alone?” judgments.  I can name at least 30 things I do on a regular basis that are more judgment-worthy than a little solo sipping in the evening.

Jeff’s no idiot.  He can tell within 30 seconds of arriving home at 8 a.m. just how liquored up I got the night before.  Like this morning, for example.  Trash?  Not taken to the curb for weekly pickup.  Laundry room?  Double doors wide-ass open to the whole world (the laundry is in the garage and has separate doors that open to the outside).  Two of his least favorite things to find when he gets home.  If I had left the garden hose blocking his parking spot, I would have had a hat trick!

This morning I was in the kitchen when he pulled in the driveway.  I saw him get out of his car, look to the left at the trash can and then look to the right at the laundry doors.  Then I saw his shoulders drop and what appeared to be a giant exhale.  He actually had the nerve to walk in the door and say “Did you do laundry this morning?”  Whatever. 

We both know I forgot to lock the laundry room last night.  What’s the big frigging deal?  No one lives behind us and it’s not like anyone is going to walk around the back of our house, see that the laundry room is open and then decide to steal his tighty whities and our industrial-sized box of OxyClean.  Billy Mays really knew his shit!

I don’t know why he thinks it’s such an issue.  I guess it’s because we keep the beer fridge in there, and if anyone discovered our stockpile we could take a substantial hit. Right in the liquor locker, if you will.  But since no one knows about the super-secret beer fridge location, our stockpile remains perfectly safe even if I forget to lock the doors.

Oh, shit.  Never mind.

Reversal of Trash Fortune (AKA: words I'll always regret saying)

I’ve been kind of overwhelmed the past couple of months.  I had a family emergency that’s taken up most of my time and I’ve basically been at the point that I just can’t handle one more single thing.

Enter one more single thing... 

While I was out dealing with said family emergency, I decided to make a quick stop at Taco Bell on the way between crisis management appointments and work to pick up a drive-through lunch.  Because nothing says home cooking like 35% beef mixed with “other ingredients”.   

So there I am, sitting at the bottom of the I-985 exit ramp waiting to make a right on red to get to Taco Bell, when WHAM!!!  A high school kid in a brand new Jeep nails my beloved old convertible right in the rear. Insert “taking it in the rear” joke here.  The police eventually arrived, only to inform me that the hitter had questionable immigration status and even more questionable car insurance.   Awesome.  Note to self: How come a 17-year-old potentially-undocumented immigrant has a nicer car than I do? 

I finally got back to the office and started wrangling with the high school hitter’s insurance company about getting the repairs covered.  Fast forward two full weeks and the insurance co. is still tap dancing around with the requisite bullshit:  New policy.  Driver not covered.   Police report not ready. Insured party won’t return calls. Insured party won’t answer certified letter.  Insured party won’t answer door.  Blah Blah Blah. 

Now I’m dealing with a family emergency and driving around in a ghetto looking car with a smacked up rear bumper and a tail light hanging on by two slim wires and a prayer, which may or may not be covered by the guilty party’s insurance company.  It was literally more than I could handle (and I don’t use those words lightly – I’m usually a Ninja Warrior in a crisis situation). 

Naturally, I whined to Jeff about how I’m just going to start walking everywhere I go because I can’t be bothered with working with the sketchy insurance company to get my car fixed while I’m dealing with family issues and an office workload that seems to double every day. Cue violins for my pitiful situation. 

Jeff, in his infinite wisdom, says “I don’t mean to make things worse, but we’ve only got a month until you birthday and we need to get the emissions done so we can renew your tag. Oh, and since your current tag is damaged we can’t renew online.  We’ll have to go to the DMV and wait in line to get a new one.”  That’s two more single things, people.  Possibly three.

My response?  “I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars.  EVER.  Can you please just handle everything?”  He got a little smile on his face, and without a second thought he said he’d take care of it.  I should have noticed that he agreed a little too easily, but I kind of thought may be he was just happy to have an opportunity to take care of me.  Sometimes I can be so stupid!

Anyway, I picked up the keys to our spare car (a trusty 1997 Nissan Pathfinder, with damn near a quarter-million miles on it), and went about my business while he handled the insurance battle and car repair (which took 6 more weeks plus repair time, by the way).

About half way through the repair process I came home one night after work and noticed subtle changes in our driveway.  First, I saw large oil stains along the drive.  Based on my years with Jeff I know this is a sure sign of a tow truck visit.   Also based on my history with Jeff, I know that tow trucks only come to our property to make deliveries.  Because I’m not lucky enough to have anything hauled away.  Next, I noticed that the Ford truck under the truck cover at the end of the drive appeared to be substantially shorter than the truck that was in the same spot when I left for work in the morning.

People, contrary to popular belief, I am not a moron.  A switcheroo had taken place behind my back.  Total.  Marriage. Foul.  The penalties would be swift.

I entered the house, walked right up to Jeff and here’s what transpired:

LAB: “What’s under the truck cover?”

Jeff: “A 1971 Ford F-100, same as always.”

LAB: “You sure that’s what you’re going with?  I know it’s a different truck because the one parked in the driveway doesn’t have an 8-foot bed.” See how observant I am!  Nothing gets past me!

Jeff:  “Well it’s not the *same* truck, but it’s a Ford F-100.”

LAB: “Uh huh.  Where did this mysteriously different Ford F-100 come from?”

Jeff: “I had it towed in.  For parts.”

LAB: “Uh huh. Where’s the other truck?”

Jeff: “I rented a parking spot for it at the storage place around the corner.  It’s just for 30 days, so I can strip it of the parts I need and bring the other one back.”

LAB: “Uh huh.”

Jeff: “What?”

LAB: “Seriously?  You bought another parts car after we just got rid of that piece of crap LTD you bought for parts?”

Jeff: “Of course.  The LTD had already been stripped. What’s the problem?”

LAB: “You brought another piece of shit car in here without telling me!  I thought we agreed: talk first, buy later.”

And here it comes people.  The zinger:

Jeff: “You told me that you didn’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars, remember?  As I recall, you also added the word EVER.” 

Touché, Jeff.  You win this one.

I know what you guys are thinking:  LAB, you make this shit up just to amuse yourself.

Nope.  Not only did he tow in a complete POS truck, but it’s full of tires & trash.  Which I hope didn’t cost extra.  Behold our new acquisition!

 Here's the proud owner, taking his own photos of his new pride & joy:

 Ain't she a beauty?

 And complete with bald, dead, smelly tires in the cab!

 Not sure where the trash ends and the truck begins:

I was smart enough not to ask Jeff how much he paid for this fine item. Although I was seriously tempted to ask him if he back charged the previous owner for trash removal.  I totally brought this one on myself.  Won't happen again.

Kid Fail

My stepson is in town this week, which is awesome because it's like having a 14-year-old male version of myself around all the time.  He totally gets all my jokes (and thinks I'm hilarious), he enjoys the same TV shows and movies as I do, and he completely agrees with me that the living room sofa renders the dining room table useless.

Last night we decided that we need to invest in more airsoft pistols so we can ambush Jeff every night when he gets home from work (because water balloons are, like, so last year).  Aaron said he'd jump on the computer and do some research before we go shopping.  I told him to check out the Bass Pro Shop website first.  He printed a few options and asked me what site to visit next.  I thought Dick's Sporting Goods might be a good choice, but I didn't know the name of the site.  I said "just Google Dicks".  So he did.

Ummm.  Yeah.   Guess I should have thought that one through first.

Well Marbled in Hell

For crap's sake, people.  I try to do the right thing.  I swear I do!  But I keep ending up in situations where I find myself in possession of various items for which I did not pay.  Want some real-LAB-life examples?  Just look here and here.

And it happened again.  Last week I was at Publix buying a handful of items on the way home from visiting my Dad, who was in the hospital recovering from surgery.  Between the hospital and Publix my beloved convertible was rear-ended by a high school kid with sketchy insurance, so I had kind of a lot on my mind while I was checking out in the express lane.  It's not like it's rocket science to ring up three 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke, a bag of potatoes and some limes, so I figured I didn't have to monitor the cashier's activities too closely. I paid for my purchases, the bagger loaded them into my cart and I rolled the cart outside and tossed the bags into the (smushed) trunk of my car.  Nothing seemed particularly amiss.

When I got home, I unloaded my groceries and took everything out of the bags.  Here's what I found:  three 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke, a bag of potatoes, some limes... along with four ribeye steaks and a package of Famous Amos vanilla sandwich cookies.  Yep, someone else's groceries found their way into the trunk of my car.  The receipt was even in the bag.  Someone bought just those few items, paid with a debit card, and I guess either left them at the register or left them in the cart in which the bagger loaded my groceries.  Those are the only two possibilities I can think of to explain how these items came into my possession.

I couldn't really figure out what to do from there.  If I took the steaks back to Publix, would they look for the person who paid for them and then return them to their proper owner?  Would Publix just put them back out and sell them again (someone had already paid for them - I had the receipt).  The steaks were clearly not mine.  I know this.  But seriously people.  I'm dealing with an ailing father, a wrecked car and a serious backlog of work at my office because my personal life has been sucking up 2-3 hours of work time a day.  (Rationalizing really is my greatest strength).

So I turned to the most moral person I know:  I called Jeff at work to ask for his opinion.  His response?

Jeff:  "What do the steaks look like?" 
LAB: "They look like $35 of meat I didn't pay for.  Should I take them back?"
Jeff:  "No, I mean are they well marbled?"
LAB: "You think I should KEEP them?"
Jeff:  "I think you're dealing with enough problems right now.  I'm sure Publix made the customer whole by replacing the items."
LAB: "But..."
Jeff:  "Remember Blockbuster?  If you want to go through that humiliation again, go right ahead."
LAB: "No way. Putting them in the fridge now."

We ate the steaks (and the cookies).  I'm going to hell.

Culinary Charade

Like many Southern women, I pride myself on my cooking.  My Creamy Fried Confetti Corn is so good you'll want to smack your Grandma.  No lie.  And my Chocolate Pecan Pie?  It's the surefire route to a marriage proposal.  Trust me.

But like most contemporary women, balancing time-consuming homemade recipes and a busy schedule is a challenge.  So I cut corners when I can.

A couple of Sundays ago, my family got together at my Dad's house to celebrate my brother's birthday.  I volunteered to cook.  I decided I'd make pot roast, hand-mashed potatoes and a big pot of fresh green beans (cooked with chopped onions, a chunk of pork fat and a bay leaf, naturally).   But the weekend got busy and before I knew it it was time to head over to my Dad's to start cooking.  I realized that there wasn't going to be time to make pot roast, or any other type of roast for that matter.  So I committed the Cardinal Sin of Southern Womanhood.  I bought a pre-cooked package of Hormel Beef Roast au Jus.  Clearly I'm going straight to hell (in just three days if Christian calculations are correct).  Lucky for me the end of days isn't scheduled to occur until 6 p.m. on the 21st, so I still have time to get my laundry done.  But I digress.

It wasn't enough of a crime to serve the pre-packaged protein.  Not for me, at least.  I had the nerve to try to pass it off as my own recipe. Hormel as Homemade, if you will. So instead of popping the package into the microwave for four minutes as directed, I put it in a baking dish and baked it in the oven so it would look like I made it myself.  Then I proudly served it along with my hand-mashed potatoes and special-recipe green beans.  I should have known better.

At the dinner table, my sister said "What cut of meat is this?  A chuck roast?"  My reply:  "Ummm.  Pot Roast" (I never claimed to be a quick thinker).   She mentioned that her husband is on a low-carb diet and said after dinner she wanted to get the recipe from me.  I smelled a confession in my future.

After dinner my sister and I were cleaning up the kitchen and she asked me several pot-roast-related questions.  I'm pretty sure she was being sincere, but I'm open to the possibility that she knew she had me nailed and she was screwing with me.  I wouldn't put it past her - she's nobody's fool!  So I finally dug deep, deep into the trash can in which I had buried the pre-packaged evidence and I confessed my crime.  I'm a food fraud.  A repast pretender.  A dinner duper.  I felt dirty.

The good news is that she was excited to find a really easy low-carb dish to tell her husband about.  The bad news is that I'll forever live under a cloud of dietary distrust no matter how labor-intensive future meals may be.  Oh, well.  At least the beans were good.

Think before you speak, Jackass!

Yesterday I posted this picture on Facebook and bitched about how tacky this "car" (and I use the term very loosely) looks in our driveway:

Jeff bought this ridiculous 1969 Ford LTD to strip out the engine and transmission and then scrap the remaining car.  The fact that it's a temporary addition to our collection and that he keeps it under a car cover and out of sight when he's not working on it doesn't make it any more palatable to me.  Our house has officially turned into Sanford & Son.

So last night I'm bitching to him about what the neighbors must think of us (as if their opinions aren't already firmly in place) and how trashy we are to have 5 cars scattered around our property.

Jeff's response?  "We have 6 cars. Don't forget the one in storage".

Thanks for the reminder, Jack Ass.  Have I mentioned how lucky he is that I love him?

The one where Jeff regains control

Today's the day that I officially admit that I've lost the "upper hand" in my marriage.  Don't get me wrong: for a few early years Jeff was basically my bitch.  It was glorious!  But no more.  Lately he's been out-God-damn-flanking me at every turn.  He's been playing me like a country fiddle at a backyard hoedown (and it's exactly as bad as it sounds).

Want an example (and I'm ashamed to admit that I walked right into this one)?  Jeff took me out to lunch last Saturday, which isn't too unusual, and we had the following exchange.

Jeff:  How's your sandwich?
LAB:  Great.
Jeff:  So, I, ummmmmm, bought an engine hoist.
LAB:  Excuse me?
Jeff:  You know, an engine hoist.  To pull engines out of cars.
LAB:  Hmmmmm.
Jeff:  It only cost XXX hundred dollars. (amount redacted to hide our spendy ways)
LAB:  XXX hundred dollars?  What a coincidence.  You spent the exact same amount on a necklace that you "spontaneously" bought me last week on vacation.
Jeff:  Huh.  I didn't think of that.
LAB:   Hmmmmm.
Jeff:  What?
LAB:  You unexpectedly spent XXX hundred dollars on a gift for me, and then you spent XXX hundred dollars on something you have wanted for years but couldn't justify buying.
Jeff:  Huh.  How about that.
LAB:  Yep.  How about that.  So now you figure that I've got nowhere to go with this, don't you?
Jeff:  If you say so.
LAB:  You win this one.  But don't get cocky.

Remember my last post, in which I gloated about how I "tricked" Jeff into buying me a nice necklace while we were on vacation?  Yeah.  Not so much.  I think I may have grossly underestimated him.