Tag Archives: hubby

ANOTHER SEGMENT—OR TWO. Will it ever end?

Today is Good Friday, supposedly a day of relaxation and to remember “whatever.” For me, it’s remembering my mother who died on Good Friday in 2016. Of course, she didn’t die two years ago today since the date of Good Friday changes every year. I thank Facebook for reminding me of her death on March 24 cause I’m horrid with dates. I’ll never forget Mom died on Good Friday, but I won’t always remember the 24th.

We have family coming for dinner on Sunday. EEK! Thirteen people, now that I count; that’s unlucky and I don’t need more bad luck, so I’ll set a place setting for Matt and put his photograph on the chair. This will be our second Easter without him.

For the past few weeks, I’d been searching for my high stool that magically disappeared. The only place it could have been was in our large, walk-in linen closet that was stogged so full you couldn’t see the floor or the shelving. I asked Hubby to help me organize it. He’s always eager to throw stuff out, so perhaps he had the wrong impression re my request as he was most accommodating.  We got a few things moved out, and low and behold: my stool! Sadly, I’d accused Hubby of taking it and forgetting where he’d put it; I had even gone as far as saying “someone must have stolen it.” (Who, I didn’t know.)

And then I saw them: turds. Oh My Gosh–to put it mildly. In my linen closet?! Never, ever have they been in the closet. I needed to remove everything. Long story and job that was, so I won’t even start that tirade.

Needless to say, it was more than a morning’s work. And then I had to wash numerous precious items, most of them by hand. And NOT how I wanted to spend Good Friday–or any day, for that matter. I needed a drink (or two) badly, but 11 a.m. was a bit early, even for me.

So, now I have an extremely (for me) neat linen closet.


Okay, so it doesn’t look THAT neat, not in the photo. And it’s way bigger than it looks, too. It’s very deep and long. Six (or more) people can easily fit in it, not that THAT matters!

But, GAH, mice in my linen closet? What the heck! And where are they coming from?

After that, we tackled the TV cabinet. [If you’ve read my earlier post(s), you’ll understand.] Hubby removed all the electronics. GAH: more peanut shells. He was great, though, he dusted like crazy. First time I’ve seen him dust–or clean!


Once the linen closet and the TV cabinet were clean, I tackled the office (where I spend my days writing stories no one ever reads). It wasn’t in that bad a shape, but the surfaces needed organized and books replaced back on shelves. It’s also my library.

So, I opened the bottom drawer of Hubby’s desk to stog stuff into it.

Low and behold: peanut shells and turds.

Oh my! What has my life become?

I had kinda been joking in earlier posts when I said how I constantly look over my shoulders, but you know what? I need to. They’re everywhere. And who knows where!

It’s now 4:44 p.m. Time for a drink, right? (Maybe two…maybe three…)

And this is how my Good Friday went. I hope yours is/was better.

“Happy Easter,” says Oliver the Rabbit.

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Do You Have a Problem?

Hubby and I are camping in our RV in Pictou. Bored on Sunday, our last full  day, we take a drive, ending up in New Glasgow. We were going to spend time at the mall until I see signs for the flea market at the Aberdeen Centre. We have no idea where that is, and Google maps takes us to the Aberdeen Mall.

“I don’t think this is it,” I say, but just as we pull out of the parking lot, we see a whack of cars parked before a large orange-roofed building at the back of the lot, which looks promising.

Hubby parks and we approach the building. An older gentleman stands outside, belting a country tune.  We pay the two-dollar a head entry fee and begin our adventure.

“I have to go to the washroom,” I say.

Hubby says he might as well go, too, so we trek to the far end of the building. Alongside the back wall by the hall to the restrooms is a massive display of used books. “I’m heading there after,” I say.

“No, you’re not.”

I do my business, fuming that he has the nerve to tell me I can’t browse through books. Surely he was joking.

I wait in the hall for him, dying to delve into the books, and when I see him, I walk ahead and stop at the books. He keeps going. I don’t want to lose him in the crowds, so I run after him to tell him I’ll meet up with him in a few minutes.

“You don’t need more books.” He glares at me. “We’re getting rid of books not buying more.”

“I’m just going to look. Might be something I want.”

“How could you not find something you want in that mess.”

He’s pissed, but I don’t care. I’m not giving up this treasure trove.

The books are unreal. Piles and piles. Hard covers. Paperbacks. Thick books. Thin books. Large and small. Books of every genre for every person. (Well, maybe not Hubby; he has a thing against books!) Numerous tables placed every which way. It’s a maze navigating through the narrow spaces and not stepping on books or knocking stacks over. Though the books are loosely sorted as to genre, it would take days and days to look through them.

Immediately, I see Girl on the Train. My daughter loaned me her copy, which I haven’t read yet.  She has a horrible habit of buying books, and then reading and tossing. Well, if she’s going to throw away her book after I return it, I’ll keep it instead of buying another. I text her as quickly as I can, not wanting to waste precious time—and not wanting to keep Hubby waiting any longer than necessary. “You can keep it,” she texts back.

Good! I pick up Gone Girl. I’d seen that movie, as well as Girl on the Train, but I still want to read both.

I grab Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep. And then I see Frank McCourt’s two books Teacher Man and ‘Tis at the bottom of a stack of at least thirty books. I juggle them around and yank out the two, thankful the remaining ten books on top don’t topple.

Okay, four books. Eight dollars. Not too bad. I want to keep going, but I figure I best find Hubby, who might have been upset enough to return to the truck.

For ten too-long, nerve-wracking minutes I search for him. And then I spy him: looking at a display of shoes. When I reach him, I nonchalantly ask, “Are they new?”

He produces a black leather wallet. “Look what I bought.”

I breathe a sigh of relief that he doesn’t appear to be too angry. “Nice. How much?”

“Five dollars. It’s real leather.”

“Good buy,” I say.

He looks at the bag I’m holding. “How many books did you buy?”

“Just four.”

He doesn’t reply. We saunter through the room. I keep my eyes open for more books although I’ll never see anything comparable to the previous stall. The odd vendors have a half dozen or so books, and out of the corner of my eyes, I glance at them but don’t see anything interesting.

I also keep an eye open for the bone china pattern I’d inherited from my paternal grandmother. When the middle glass shelf of our buffet collapsed several years ago, it crushed numerous sentimental and valuable items, including some of the good china. I had every intention of replacing the pieces that were destroyed even though people tell me I’m silly to do so. Children today don’t want their parents’ junk, especially not a set of good china.

Thinking of my grandmother’s china saddens me, as does walking by the stalls and seeing endless tables of “stuff” that obviously no one wants. I recognize similar items I owned numerous years ago, even things I still have.

And then, I’m brought back to the present. I see a book. One lone book on a table: The Norton Anthology of Poetry. Gotta be as thick as Dark Tower. I set down my bag and pick up the book. “How much is this?”

The vendor hums and haws. “Is it worth five dollars to you?”

“No, sorry,” and I take a step away.

“Okay, how much?”

“One dollar.”

He glares at me. “One dollar! How about two?”

“Okay, two.”

I scan the room. Where did Hubby go? If he sees me buy another book, he’ll kill me.

I rummage in my purse for loose coins. I withdraw four quarters and a dime. “Here’s one dollar.”  I glance around, still not seeing him. “Can you put the book in my bag?” I hold it up. “I’ll give you the other dollar in a sec.”

He hesitates while my eyes, going back and forth like a hypnotist’s pendulum, search the room.  “My husband will kill me if he sees me buying another one.”

“I can hold it here for you,” he offers.

“Just let me stick it in my bag until I find the rest of your money.”

Hubby’s probably eyeing me right now. Hiding, watching. Ready to pounce.

“Do you think you have a problem?” the vendor asks.

What! Does he mean like alcohol or drugs? I examine his face. He’s serious. Grim, almost. “No, I don’t. But he thinks I do.”

He slips the book into my bag. I’m still looking around the room while digging in my purse. Finally, I find a toonie. “Give my quarters back, and here you go.”

“Sure you don’t want me to hold it here?”

That won’t work, I want say. How would I return to pick it up without Hubby seeing? “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

I amble away, finally spotting Hubby a few aisles over, none the wiser—I hope. My bag is twice as heavy, though, the flimsy plastic stretching with the weight. If it rips, letting the books loose, he’ll know I lied.

We saunter by more and more stalls, not buying anything else but DVDs. After almost two hours of being at the flea market, Hubby has purchased fifteen. He never has enough movies, but at a dollar each, they’re a steal.  And I don’t mind. They keep him quiet and out of my hair, almost like bribing a toddler with candy. He can watch his movies while I read my books. Win, win!

“I got a better deal than you did,” he says, when we return to the truck.

Really? I got the better deal, but I’m not about to argue. My arm is truly about to break. The bag weighs a ton. Plus I carry ten of the fifteen DVDs.

When we reach our trailer, I place the DVDs by the TV and four books on the small stand in the living room. The fifth I add to the pile on the table.

Later that afternoon, he examines the books. “Stephen King? When are you going to read that? You have a dozen of his books at home you haven’t read.” And then he sees the poetry book. “What is that?”

I hold it up. “Isn’t it neat? Poetry. Want to read?” I flip to the back. “One thousand four hundred and fifty-four pages.”

“You’ll never read that,” he says.

After dinner, he asks, “What are you going to do now?”

“Read, I guess. You gonna watch movies?”

“Are you going to read your poetry book?”

“Yes, I am.”

He laughs.

But we do just that. He watches a movie, and I read a few poems. Then I grab my tablet.

Later that night, sitting by the campfire, after too much wine and still enthralled by my purchases, I randomly flip pages and read several poems to him, the first by Dorothy Parker, “One Perfect Rose.” He’s never heard of her and doesn’t much care for the poem.

The next one is “The Dead Butterfly” by Denise Levertov.  He hasn’t heard of her, and I don’t let on that I haven’t either.

I quickly find two short ones by William Blake. “Heard of him?” I ask. He says yes, but I’m not sure he tells the truth.

“Like any of them?”

“The first one was the best,” he says.

Ah, Dorothy Parker.

And then, perhaps to get on my good side since the evening draws to a close, he says, “I like your poems much better.”

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Happy Birthday To Me!

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything other than posts for the Thursday Spot Writers. Life’s been busy.

To start off: Google’s been giving me a hard time lately. Obviously, with nearly 10,000 emails in my inbox, not to mention sent messages, drafts, spam and trash, plus Google drive where I’ve been storing numerous files, I am filled to capacity. So, for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been deleting like mad and, of course, inadvertently deleted the post I wrote late on Saturday that I was going to post on Sunday. I shudder to think what other important info I’ve deleted by mistake.

So (gah!) here I go, trying to replicate that post. Not much fun doing repetitious work due to stupidity, not when I have a million other things to do.

The deleted post was a “funny” about my birthday, which was Saturday, May 2. I received hundreds of b’day wishes on Facebook, but not one from my hubby. Shouldn’t he be remembering my special day?

If you, the reader, were around my blog this time last year, you might remember how he messed up both our anniversary and my birthday that year. When—after our anniversary but before my birthday—he presented me with flowers and other gifts and an expensive dinner out, I didn’t know if he was celebrating a late anniversary or an early birthday (both are within three weeks of each other). I didn’t ask, mainly because I was too confused. (We did discuss it later and had a great laugh! Turns out he had both dates wrong but did go “all out” for both occasions, more so than any other previous year.)

Hubby usually brings up important dates a couple of days ahead for my input.  Nope, not this year.  When there were no birthday wishes by noon on my special day, I knew he had forgotten. Even a couple of phone calls to me didn’t jog his memory—not even the birth of the royal baby made him stop to think, Hey, it might be my wife’s birthday today, too—not that he’s at all interested in the monarchy.

When he broke out in “Sixteen Candles” at dinner a few minutes after my last phone call, I thought Aha, he’s remembered.  Nope. He was just singing aimlessly as he sometimes does.

I might have had a bit too much vino on Saturday. After all, I had to cook dinner on my special day, so I felt I deserved an extra sip or two. So I got onto Facebook and kinda went overboard. After baring my soul and spilling my guts and mentioning how Hubby had burst out into song, a Facebook friend said Hubby was messing with me. To be honest, I had thought so, too, but just for a mere second.

On Sunday afternoon, we went to see The Age of Adaline (an excellent movie, by the way!). The movie wasn’t on Hubby’s must-see list, but I thought I deserved a belated “something” instead of slaving in the yard despite the day being the nicest one we’ve had since summer 2014. At the mention of anniversaries and birthdays in the movie, I half expected a couple of jabs from him. Like, Hey, did I miss something?


Did I tell you he forgot our anniversary this year as well? Yep, he did. Despite his confusion of the dates last year, at least I was remembered, and it was wonderful when he went beyond the call of duty then on both occasions.

Mother’s Day is coming up. I was in the card section Saturday while we were shopping. When Hubby asked what I was doing, I said I was buying a Mother’s Day card. I thought for sure that would jar his memory. Surely he remembers how close my birthday is to Mother’s Day.

Obviously not.

In retrospect, Saturday was kind of hilarious with all the Facebook postings I made. Of course, the wine helped with the flow. And the lack of shame and inhibition. But the situation WAS funny then.

Sunday and Monday, not so much.

Today, Tuesday, I’m a tad miffed. Pissed, to be more exact.

I’m upset, too, ‘cause I have several beautiful birthday cards I can’t display. I won’t display them. I won’t give him the opportunity to fess up because he’s been reminded. I want to see how long it’ll be before he clues in.

Of course, the situation could backfire on me. Perhaps he’s forgotten on purpose though why I don’t know. There’s no lover’s tiff at the moment.

Or perhaps he’ll never remember. The joke will be on me then!

May all your birthdays be happy…

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First Moves

First Moves

Despite the two-foot distance, Hubby’s breath is soft and warm across my face. The rankness of garlic isn’t a pleasant smell first thing in the morning. He barely touches me, just a flicker of a finger against my skin. He wants me to scoot over to him, wants me to make the first move. He won’t make it himself; not sure why. Why can’t he lay his arm across my chest or stomach?

So I lie there, as I do every morning, hoping for once he might make the first move, but he doesn’t. I don’t want to make the first move every morning. Once in a while, I’d like him to do so, to show me he cares, so I feel wanted.

If I ask why he doesn’t, he says he doesn’t want to disturb me. But that answer isn’t true, of course. If that were the case, he’d be quieter when he gets up to use the bathroom. Instead of throwing the covers and clumping to the next room, he’d gently alight from bed and walk softly to the bathroom. When he returns to bed, he could get into bed more silently and not huff and puff as if he’s blowing the house down. No, his answer doesn’t make sense.

I wish he’d make a first move. Just once!

I crave hugging and that wanted feeling before he leaves for work. I need that to start off my day, to pull me through loneliness or a busy day. To start me on the right track.

I sigh. I tremble. He doesn’t react. He must know I’m awake, more awake than I am most mornings, yet he ignores me. Maybe he doesn’t want to cuddle. He’s a busy man; perhaps he’s too deep into thoughts and can’t be bothered. Perhaps he doesn’t care.

I move. Just an inch. A hint to him to scoot over like his sly invitation to me. I silently pray that he might so I can feel better about myself. But he doesn’t. A counselor once advised me to take what I can, what I need.

I slither over. He reciprocates; he always does. He raises his arm, and I snuggle into him and wrap my right arm around his warmth. I lean my head against his cheek. His hand caresses my shoulder. We lie like that for 20 minutes or so until he squirms—the sign he wants to go. He kisses my forehead—the sign I should move back to my side of the bed. I disentangle myself from him, move over, and shroud myself with the linens.

All is right in the world. For a little while.

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