This blog will never be a cooking blog.
It’s because — although I always, always, always make homemade spaghetti sauce from scratch and would NEVER consider Ragu as an option — I consider fish sticks to be a decent meal. I also consider any meal that requires more than five ingredients (and sometimes I include the spatula and the pan as INGREDIENTS!) to be Labor Intensive. If I’m forced to dice too many vegetables, I feel a case of severe, adult-onset ADD kick in and I am suddenly distracted by all the shiny things surrounding me.
This will also never be a home decorating blog.
Although I love to stalk other blogs that actually ARE of the home-decorating nature and ooh and ahh over outstanding kitchens and living room walls painted in a very trendy gray color, I lack the piece of my brain that has a workable knowledge on how to arrange furniture and add decorative embellishments to a room.
And that, combined with the fact that curtain rods are not even made as long as Hubs and I needed one for our embankment of windows, is why we’ve lived in this house for two and a half years with stark raving naked windows in our dining room.
Until this past weekend, that is! When Hubs hung short rods against his will and rendered our drapes as Decorative Items instead of Fully Functional Curtains That Are Capable of Being Drawn Together So the Neighbors Don’t See You Squirting the Cat With the Water Bottle Again. And after the drapes were successfully in place, I made Hubs measure our walls and hang things in the dead-center position, because measuring walls gives me the vapors.
I ESPECIALLY get the vapors if I’m measuring walls while Hubs is standing over my shoulder, because he always gasps and says, “It’s wrong! You went an eighth of an inch TOO FAR!” And then I gasp, and my gasp is always immediately followed by my hands being thrown into the air as I shout out, “I give up! YOU do it!” I like to call it my Coping Defense. It’s no different than a chameleon changing colors to blend in and avoid the hawk. I can play dead with the best of them, when it comes to avoiding the issue of measuring walls for nail placement.
Yesterday, while I was scrubbing and sweating and cleaning and scouring our house, I threw caution to the wind. I found Hubs’ stash of Little Nails, which Hubs doesn’t really LIKE, because Hubs is of the mindset that a man should just Go Huge or Go Home, and that involves nails. Big nails meant for building skyscrapers are great; baby-sized nails meant for hanging little doo-dads are a waste of perfectly good metal that could have been used to make poisonous darts.
And then, after finding the Little Nails yesterday, I found the Little Hammer.
The Little Hammer is MY hammer. My dad gave it to me when I left for college, because he knew that it could be used for smacking Little Nails into an apartment wall, and it could also be used to dish out a solid smack to a burglar. It’s not pink, but it’s size indicates that it COULD HAVE BEEN pink. Hubs doesn’t like my Little Hammer, because he says he feels like a sissy when he holds it.
Not that I’ve ever, you know, actually joked about him having the Sissy Hammer while he was using it in a pinch. Telling Hubs that he’s using the Sissy Hammer is equal to Ending the Chores You Wanted Hubs to Do For You That Day.
And…with my Little Hammer and Hubs’ Little Nails that he keeps on hand for my Little Projects, I finally hung a picture frame that my darling friend, Nina, gave to me for my birthday back in January.
I hung it all by myself. And then, I smacked some more nails into the wall, and I hung a clock! And a little sign! And a cute mirror!
And when Hubs came home, he announced that he needed to sit down for a second, because the shock of ME taking the initiative to beat nails into the Sheetrock and cut him out as the Middle Man was causing his heart to thump entirely too hard with pure joy.
Hubs keeps saying, “It looks great! Leave it! It’s terrific!”
Hubs thinks he’s saying this because it’s TRUE, but Hubs is really saying this because he knows that if I decide that I DON’T like the way I have everything hung up there on the wall, he’ll be asked to measure the wall and start over from scratch. I can see through Hubs’ little compliments.
No matter. For the past day and a half, THAT is what our bathroom wall looks like.
And the picture frame is filled with three snapshots of the boy, which were all taken when he was just two years old.
(This is where I pause in my writing, so that I can use an entire box of Kleenex to soak up my tears, because I MISS my two-year-old. Oh, I love having a TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY, but I want to have another day with him as a two-year-old boy, so that I can rock him and snuggle him and buckle his seatbelt for him and hold him up to the bathroom sink so that he can wash his pudgy little hands.)
The boy went through a phase during his second year of life when he wore a pair of blue swimming goggles EVERYWHERE. He wore them all the time. He wore them at home; he wore them at Wal-Mart. He wore them in the car, at the park, and whenever we went to playdates with friends. Needless to say, we have loads of pictures of him during that time in his blue goggles.
(“If I could save time in a bottle…”)
Eventually, the boy outgrew the era of the blue swimming goggles, and that was that. He turned three, and he realized that blue goggles were just for swimming.
Hubs would always shake his head whenever the boy wandered out of his bedroom wearing the goggles, and he would ask me, “Why does he love those goggles so much? Where did he learn to do that?”
I had to dig today for some old pictures of the non-digital variety. The kind that were taken with (gasp!) FILM. But, I think that I can honestly answer Hubs’ question from 2002 now.
The boy got his goofy blue-goggle-wearing habit from YOUR side of the family. May I present to you some photographic evidence, in regards to your family tree and swimming goggles?
This is the boy’s cousin W. W is an adorable eleven-year-old now, but I know for a fact that W once wore some goggles when he was nowhere NEAR a swimming pool.
And then there’s the boy’s cousin, B. B is a cute ten-year-old now, just like the boy is. Several years ago, B also wore goggles in his backyard. His backyard that doesn’t have a pool in it!
(“If I could save time in a bottle…”)
So yes. Because W and B belong to Brother, and because Brother is HUBS’ brother and not MY brother, we can safely say that the goggle trend came from Hubs’ side of the family. That, people, is called deductive logic.
However, I have photographic evidence that all three of these boys grew up and left their goggles behind. Or rather, they only use them when…you know…they’re SWIMMING these days.
See? They’re all perfectly normal now!
This post on blue swimming goggles (and inherited traits that cause a boy to wear them) all started out with me talking about hanging pictures.