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.

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.

_________________________________________________

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.

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.

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.

The reappearance of Fun Jeff

One of the great things about our anniversary trip was that “fun Jeff” showed up, as opposed to “less fun, but still tolerable Jeff”  or “Jesus Christ, could his mood get any worse? Jeff”.    I see more of that guy than I care to, but it’s usually because of something I did. Or didn’t do.  Or broke.  Or drove into the side of the house (but that only happened once).

Jeff’s mood is directly related to the amount of sleep he gets and he was working nights the week before we left for vacation, which meant he’d had crappy daytime sleep for a solid week.   I was naturally concerned that the Jeff I’d find on vacation might not be the Jeff with whom I really wanted to spend 24 hours a day for several days in a row.   Thankfully, he was in great spirits for the entire trip.

As part of his good spirits, Jeff took me to a jeweler in Savannah that had a bunch of funky jewelry in the storefront window and told me to pick something out.   He never does this.  Never.  We usually agree beforehand how much we’ll spend on gifts for each other and we don’t deviate from the agreed-upon cost.  Plus, there’s a moratorium on jewelry purchases in our house.  There’s also a moratorium on sourdough bread, but that’s a story for another day.

But last week he walked me into the jeweler and over to a display case that had gold, silver and semi-precious-stone items in it (all very reasonably priced) and told me to pick out anything I wanted and it could be my anniversary / early birthday present.  I thought for a minute and asked “Anything”? 

It was at this point that Jeff made a tactical error.  He doesn’t make them often.  May be he was a little tipsy, I’m not sure.  But without thinking, he replied “Sure”.   In 2 seconds flat I took one giant step away from the reasonably-priced items and stepped up to the diamonds.  Hello, my pretties!!!  I didn’t really expect to get away with it, but a girl’s gotta try!  Turns out, “fun Jeff” is also “easily amused Jeff” and he coughed up for a nice gift for me (not too nice – I went easy on him).    Guess I’ll keep him another 10 years.

It's 3 a.m. Do you know where your husband is?

I’m still sorting through my vacation stories trying to determine what’s “funny funny” (i.e. Jeff’s encounter with the Lady Chablis in the hotel lobby) and what’s “you really had to be there funny” (i.e. busting a sales clerk asleep on the floor under the display cabinets of a mall kiosk), although it’s all hilarious to me.

First let me explain why we chose Savannah as our destination.  Since Thursday is our 10th wedding anniversary, we originally wanted to go somewhere really cool (as in out of the country), but the economy and my job in real estate have us spooked so we decided to lower our standards (which is fitting, since that’s what Jeff did when he finally agreed to marry me).   

Savannah was the obvious choice for one very good reason.  When you enter a bar in Savannah and order a drink, the bartender replies with the following magical words: “For here or to go”?  Oh, hells yeah people!  Those five little words put a song in my heart (and a stumble in my step).  In Savannah you’re not only allowed to gad about in public with an adult beverage in your hand, it’s practically required.   You can take your drink everywhere you go as long as it’s in a plastic cup.  It’s tragic that I’m not already a permanent Savannah resident.

The first night of our stay, it finally hit me what it means to be married to Jeff for 10 years.  Jeff was coming off a week of working the p.m. shift, so we knew he probably wouldn’t sleep well the first couple of nights.   I wasn’t at all surprised to hear him get up around 3 a.m.   We booked a suite for this very reason, and he went into the living area while I slept.  About 30 minutes later I was awakened by the strangest sound coming from the living area.  It was like a long, low screech and then a kind of a ripping noise.  It almost sounded like huge pieces of packing tape being ripped off the roll.  And it happened again and again and again.

Any woman in her right mind would be concerned by this noise.  But not me.  When you’re married to Jeff, you learn to expect the unexpected.   We’re 10 years in people.  Nothing surprises me.  If he was out there wrapping up a dead body in a spare blanket for disposal, I was sure he had a good reason.  So I did the obvious thing and went back to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I asked Jeff if he was making a strange screeching, ripping sound overnight.  His response?  “Yep.  I decided to shave but the cold air was blasting out of the ceiling vent in the bathroom.  I didn’t want to turn off the A/C, so I taped over the vent with packing tape.”

See?  Perfectly reasonable explanation.  Don’t all husbands take a giant roll of packing tape on vacation and get out of bed at 3 a.m. to tape over a ceiling vent and shave?  No?  Well, mine does.