Booze Battle

I celebrated my 44^th birthday today with a visit to a dermatologist.  Because I know how to live.  They were playing Guns N Roses in the lobby, so it wasn’t all that bad.  I’ve been seeing the same doctor for several years and she knows me pretty well.  I told her about a few concerns I had and she said “I find that when dealing with you, it’s best not to worry about how something happened but just to make a plan of attack and deal with it.”  I gave her Jeff’s phone number so she could provide this wisdom to him for future use.

In other Jeff news, what the hell happens to men after too many years of marriage that makes them totally helpless in the kitchen?  I know for a fact that Jeff can cook.  When we were dating, he could make a Blackened Chicken Alfredo that was so good you’d want to slap your Grandma. Mine slapped back. Fifteen years later, and he’s paralyzed by that tricky step between the kitchen sink and the dishwasher. I keep telling him there's no wrong way.  This is a guy who can pretty much repair anything that has moving parts.  Can rebuild a truck by hand from the frame up.  Can confidently converse in three languages.  Can spend 15 years in a row with me and not require medication or professional counseling.  But he can’t find the flipping salt shaker?  I blame myself.  Obviously I’ve over-spoiled him.

He doesn’t even attempt anything in the kitchen anymore without using me as a Sous Chef.  “LAB, where’s this….LAB where’s that…”  Seriously.  It’s all in the kitchen, pal.  That's where we keep it. Just look around. 

I’ve been trying to train him to have more kitchen independence.  Or retrain him.  Whatever.

He was making martinis last week and I decided it was the perfect time to make my point:

Jeff:  LAB, where are the martini glasses?

LAB: *sigh* In the liquor cabinet.  Where we keep glasses.

Jeff:   Where’s the Sweet & Sour?

LAB:  The fridge. Where we keep items that require refrigeration.

Jeff:   Do we have any more flavored vodka?

LAB:  Did you really just ask me that?

Jeff:   But I’m looking for the Absolut Kurant.

LAB:  I’m looking for a man who isn’t blind.

Jeff:   What?

LAB:  What?

Jeff:   I’m just asking where it is.

LAB: Would you just make the freaking drinks and leave me alone?

Jeff:  Sounds like somebody isn’t thirsty.

Obviously he won this round.  Withholding my martini is a knockout punch in this battle. My Kung Fu is not strong where liquor is concerned.  I should have known better.  I'll redouble my efforts next time he's making a bowl of cereal.  Baby steps, people.

Language Barrier

I called a couple of credit card companies yesterday to add a travel note to my accounts since I’ll be on the road in June.  The first call went without a hitch.  The rep was in Delaware, and we were able to efficiently work our way through my Southern English and her Northern version.  The second card company I called, however, appears to have outsourced their customer service to India or Sri Lanka or some other third-world country where the labor is cheap and the English is shitty.

The first representative spoke English so poorly (and rapidly) that I hung up and called again.  At least I had the courtesy to pretend like we had a bad connection before I hung up on her.  I’m classy like that.  The second rep was slightly better, even though I’m pretty sure his name wasn’t really “Tim”.  Whatever.

As part of verifying my identity, he asked me confirm that my most recent purchase was made to the Bunny Ranch on May 21 in the amount of $600.  Ummm…  I know I drink a lot, but I feel sure I haven’t been to the Bunny Ranch this month.  And I damn sure know I don’t pay to see naked women, since I can see a naked woman any time I want (no matter how appalling it may be).  Naked men, on the other hand?  Never mind.

I hung up with the credit card company and immediately called Jeff.

LAB:  Have you been going to strip clubs or getting hookers while I’m at work?

Jeff:  While you’re at work?  No.

LAB:  They why are there charges to the Bunny Ranch on our Visa?

Jeff:  Not a damn clue.  But if I made the charges I can assure you I didn’t get my money’s worth.

LAB:  Visa said there’s a $600 charge to the Bunny Ranch on May 21.

Jeff:  May 21?  600?

LAB:  Yep.

Jeff.  Hahahahahahaha!  That was an order from Box Wrench for carburetor parts.

I’m cancelling that damn card.

The Prank That Wasn't

I worked a day-long office event over the weekend, and since Jeff was out of town I asked my brother to let the dogs out at some point in the afternoon.  It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but any time one of us is in the other one’s house without supervision a prank is required.  Mandatory, even.  My favorite prank is to place some type of hideous decorative item in a prominent place in his house.  For years, we traded a God-awful giant multi-colored Christmas reindeer head that my mom made in the 1970’s.  I’d put it on his mantle regardless of the time of year and later he’d hang it on my mailbox or door also regardless of the time of year.  As I recall, there was also a heinous tree-topper angel that was in play for a while, until we sold it at a yard sale and split the $2 proceeds.

My best prank idea was to swap our cat for his cat when he was out of town so when he came home he would find the wrong cat, but I chickened out at the last minute because I thought his wife would probably lose her shit.  Clearly she loved her cat more than I loved ours.

Anyway, I was expecting to come home to some type of surprise and not necessarily the pleasant kind.  I looked all through the house, but I couldn’t find the prank.  I was getting worried.  I started thinking maybe he fed Boomer something that would give him gas more than usual or that something was going to pop out at night and surprise me as I slept.  The suspense was killing me.  I was looking everywhere for that damned prank.

Then I looked in the back yard.  There it was!  A big nasty grayish black fake snake.   GAH!!! Snakes are my kryptonite and my brother well knows it.  After a few deep breaths, I steeled my nerves to pick up the stupid fake snake to use for future retaliation.  I headed to the back door when I noticed that the fake snake was now on a different side of the back yard.  I know you’re going to think I’m a moron, but my first thought was that my brother was hiding in the woods and moving the fake snake around to scare me.  We really do take our pranks seriously.

Slowly it dawned on me that said snake was neither fake no a prank.  Strangely, I also realized that I was much less concerned about the actual snake than I was about finding a snake skin in the back yard recently.  At least I knew where this bastard was.  I decided I’d just keep an eye on it so I’d know when it left and could be correspondingly relieved.  After a flurry of texts to Jeff in North Carolina, dammit, I called my brother to let him know that if a *real* snake was his prank, the gloves were officially off.  He denied it but admitted he’s not above it.  Eventually, I decided the best course of action was just to go about my business in the house and never step foot in the back yard again.

About an hour later I decided to do snake surveillance, just to see what my archenemy was up to.  I scanned the yard, but no snakes in sight.  Woo Hoo!  The bastard was gone.  I bent down to hug Boomer to celebrate…and came face to face with that rat-bastard snake pressed up against the back glass of the door.  I screamed like a little bitch and ran around the corner into the kitchen.  I’m not proud of it, but a slithery snake surprise is more than I can handle.  I peered around the kitchen corner and noticed that the fucker had a big distended belly.  I’m pretty sure he’s been using my wildlife feeder to feed on the wildlife.  Jerk.

Boomer, meanwhile, was going crazy trying to get to the snake.  He was standing on his back legs and slamming his front paws on the sliding glass door.  I had visions of his 135-pound ass taking down the entire door, thereby allowing the snake access to the house.  Crap.  I kind of wondered what this little spectacle looked like from the other side of the glass.  Freaked out lady hiding around the corner screaming “Boomer, Boomer, Boomer!!!”, insane Great Dane repeatedly slamming his paws on the door and a Dalmatian looking back & forth between us like we’ve lost our damn minds.  Thank God we don’t have neighbors back there.

Fortunately, Boomer’s antics were enough to convince the snake to high-tail it out of there.  Boomer then spent the next two hours standing at attention and staring at the spot where the snake had been.  He has an amazing attention span.

You might think at this point that everything is fine.  But it’s not.  My bro elected not to play a prank on me at all, which caused me to believe that the snake was the prank, which escalated the entire ordeal.  I blame him entirely.  Payback will be a bitch.

No means no

Here's the problem with being "pathologically friendly" (a moniker Jeff gave me many moons ago):  People tend to remember you.  And that can get you into trouble.

Last weekend Jeff noticed a small tear in the convertible top of my beloved 12-year-old car.  It's a tiny tear in the very top layer of the canvas, but Jeff wanted to get it checked out ASAP to stop it from spreading.  He took it to the auto upholstery guy who installed the top for us five years ago and the technician took one look at it and said "I told her not to take it through the car wash."  Yep - not only did he remember me from when I had the top installed in 2007, but he remembered our exact conversation.  And he freaking told on me!!!  Dirty rat.  Nobody likes a snitch!

The good news is that they serviced the top for free (but we'll still have to replace it in the next year or so).  The bad news is that Jeff came home and read me the riot act for not telling him that I had been warned not to go to the car wash (which I visit quite frequently) and for "ruining" the top.

In my defense, when the top was new I asked the installer if I could take it through the car wash and he said "I wouldn't do it if it were my car".  That is *not* the same as telling me that the car wash would damage the top.  The correct answer to my question would have been "no".  What he gave me was a vague warning that it might not be a good idea.  Do you know how many vague warnings I get every day?  Tons.  Most of the things I do are "not a good idea".  Doesn't mean they're going to cost me $1,500 (which is how much a new convertible top costs).

Clearly this is not my fault.

The best part of the story is that the loaner car they gave Jeff to drive while they worked on my car was a Mini Cooper.  I would have paid cold, hard cash to see his 6'2" self driving around in a Mini, but he was too pissed at me to drive it to my office so I could mock him.  Guess he doesn't share my affinity for the ridiculous.

Release the Kraken!

Last night featured grilled cheese sandwiches and Peach Martinis in our little corner of Buford, GA.  Because nothing says "get your drink on" like the first weekday after daylight savings time begins.  After dinner we were both getting ready for work and I noticed "Clash of the Titans" was on TV (yet again).  Every time the movie comes on, it raises the same questions:

LAB:  Why do so many movies feature a Kraken?
Jeff:    *sighs* Here we go.
LAB:  I mean, what's a Kraken anyway?
Jeff:   A mythical giant sea creature, which in reality is probably just a giant squid.
LAB:  So when they say "Release the Kraken", they're implying that they have one somehow contained.
Jeff:   Oh, God.  Where's this heading?
LAB:  I'm just wondering what kind of containment system one would use to house a Kraken?
Jeff:  Since they're not real, I assume it's an imaginary containment system.  Which in your world is probably made of Twizzlers. 
LAB:  You just said that a giant squid is a real-life Kraken equivalent.
Jeff:   Which I now regret saying.
LAB:  I'd hate to think they'd just keep them in a Kraken cage.  That would suck.  No wonder the Kraken is so pissed off.

Photo credit: Clash of the Titans movie poster

 Somebody needs a hug!

LAB:  Wouldn't it be awesome if there was some kind of kick-ass Kraken Habitrail?  That way the Kraken could be comfortably contained with plenty of room to exercise.  Then it would be less angry. If I had a Kraken it would be free-range.  Definitely.
Jeff:  I'll make a note that all future Kraken acquisitions will be maintained humanely.  Glad we got that settled.
_________________________________________________________

In other news, Jeff is interviewing for a different position within his company that would put him on a "regular" Mon - Fri daytime work schedule.  Should he be offered said position, he and I will occupy the same space at the same time much more frequently than we currently do.  Obviously, I couldn't be happier about this.  Jeff, on the other hand, has some reservations (I can't imagine why).  I'm practically giddy about all the videos I can show him of Great Danes drinking from water fountains (and sledding!  I can never get enough videos of dogs sledding!).  And we can go to the firing range any night we want - I've got my pink gun case at the ready (although I still haven't had time to get it monogrammed).  And we can spend the whoooooole weekend together.  Every. Single. Weekend.  If you're the praying type, you might want to send up a little prayer for my man.  He's going to need it.