When we last left The Hubster, he'd glued his finger to his bridge and his bridge into his mouth. He was able to get the entire thing out by the judicious application of fingernail polish remover. Yes, inside his mouth. It's a wonder he didn't die.
He made an appointment to meet with the dentist, who recommended that he have the entire bridge replaced - lose another tooth to create a post and make the bridge larger, but more secure. He agreed, but didn't realize that the process wasn't a one day affair - it'd take a few appointments. In the meantime, he was given a temporary bridge and a tube of (basically worthless) cement. He was to use it as needed.
A few days later, I was vacuuming and listening to music while he showered. I sang along with the music, making the chore into a bit of an aerobic workout. I looked over at the top of his bureau; "Hey, what's that thing up there?"
Yes, ladies and gents, it was his bridge. He'd removed it while showering.
I promptly tossed my cookies. I love my husband, but the thought was just too much for me.
Note: My husband gave me full permission to post his set of stories, even though I think they will crack your pants off. He has promised to try not take it personally when you laugh at him. I decided to tell these stories because a reader asked why I said that "Daddy was great with the crazy glue", when my daughter dropped the flower pot. She insisted that there must be some background there. And, indeed, there is.
When my husband was about 12, he was riding his bike. He hit the back brake and flipped head over handlebars. He hit a fire hydrant and knocked out a couple of his front upper permanent teeth. He remembers very little of this time, except that his cousins brought him home, supported between them. He remembers his Aunt shushing the other cousins, cautioning them "don't tell him he looks ugly!" To which another cousin - he has LOTS - said, "But he IS ugly!" He looked in the mirror to see his face covered with blood and swollen beyond recognition. He became the "proud" recipient of a bridge for his top teeth.
I wasn't aware of the fact that he had a bridge - his top four teeth were not real - when we were married. I don't know when I realized it, but it must have been five or six years in. It was never a big deal to me. Why would it be - it didn't change him at all.
One day, he told me that the bridge was loose.
Continue reading "Crazy Glue chronicles - the background" »
It's not because my kids will be out of school. No more 5:30 wake up calls, no more packing eight lunches every night.
It's not because I will be off work for three months. I'd better get some massive amounts of stuff accomplished in that time, is all I can say to that.
No, the reason that I can't wait until the end of next week would be the fact that I filled my van gas tank today, TO the TUNE of $103.50. Every five days. Every four days in soccer season.
When we first married, I asked my husband to tell me his favorite candy. I wanted to be able to buy it for him. He went into a long, convoluted story about his mother working at a department store, a job that he had at a candy store (both in New York City), and the most amazing Butter Crunch. Thin, crispy toffee, coated in chocolate and rolled in crushed nuts - this candy was the epitome of all he ever wanted.
I hunted and hunted for the right kind. The candy store, Loft's, has gone out of business. The store that his mother worked at no longer exists. I bought every kind of butter crunch that I ever saw. They were all wrong. Too fat, not enough chocolate, too much chocolate, not enough nuts. The consistency was chewy, not crisp - he liked the butter crunch to have a snap to it. I bought cheap candy, expensive candy, tons of Almond Roca - he liked it all, but none of it was "the candy". I mail ordered chocolate from any catalog I saw, and every gourmet store. I was never successful. At least it gave me something to buy for every holiday and birthday.
Last week I went to a chocolate tasting at a new store that opened in my area. We were given teeny tiny pieces of various types of chocolate. Seven different levels of dark chocolate, from 60% all the way up to 85%. Three milk chocolates and two white chocolates, and five flavored - with nuts and cinnamon and chili peppers. When the tasting was over, we were given free range to peruse the different treats that the store offered. They make their own chocolates and divine dipped apples, several drinks and even serve fondue. One half of the store is devoted to chocolates not made on the premises, but brought in from other specialty stores. I walked around and took in the various offerings; gigantic peanut butter cups, cherry cordials, almonds and cashews and goodness knows what else.
And then I spotted it. A tray of the most gigantic slabs of Butter Crunch. I bought two pieces, which totaled half a pound and set me back almost $8. I had no illusions about the quality of this candy. Now, don't get me wrong - I knew it'd probably be very good. I also knew that my husband had never ever once complained about ANY of the chocolate that I'd ever bought. It was good, but just not the very thing he remembered as a kid. I wondered if that candy had ever existed - you know how sometimes, you build stuff up as a kid and it's just not nearly the same as an adult? This had become MY mission, my struggle to find - nothing he'd ever asked me to do.
Hope springs eternal.
Continue reading "The Tale of The Butter Crunch" »
I love Mexican food. Chips, salsa, margaritas, meat, cheese - wrap it all up in a big warm tortilla and I'm SO THERE. (Maybe not the margarita, but you get my drift...) We have a very small, hole in the wall place right in our neighborhood, and the first day I was out of bed, The Hubster took me out for lunch. The aforementioned place is my favorite, but he wanted to go to HIS favorite place. I tried to play the "woe is me, I just had surgery card", but he played the "I'm paying for it so I choose" card, and that one placed higher, so he won.
Whatever. Mexican food is good just about anywhere.
He drove there because I couldn't yet drive at that point, and he wanted to pull up and drop me off. I had Riley with me. The parking lot at this place is very small, and we were in the (incredibly large 15 passenger) van, which he isn't used to driving. The parking lot also has one entrance/exit, barely big enough for two cars at once, never mind the biggest van in the land. He pulled in, right alongside a truck, containing a man and a woman.
Continue reading "Manners Do So Count" »
Quick question:
What's your cell phone ring tone?
Right now, mine is Float, by Flogging Molly. I need to change it, though - my phone rings so often I'm starting to hate the song. Never a good idea.
So, I hobbled into the bathroom yesterday. Walking is sooo much fun with stitches in your abdomen. There's fun, and then there's FUN, and then, there's walking with stitches. I'm right there, in the prime of life.
As I was sitting, I observed a fly in the bathroom. I knew, right then, that we were in deep, deep trouble.
Emma is petrified of flies. No, wait, let me elaborate. PETRIFIED. She screams and shouts, cries and carries on as if the fly was 700 pounds and 6 feet tall. I knew that if I'd opened the door, the fly would escape and we'd all be in for an hour of hysteria. So, I did the only thing I could think of - I called for backup. Unfortunately, the only one around was, you guessed it, Emma.
"Hey, Emma. Can you bring me the fly swatter? Just slide it under the door, ok?"
She stood by the door, clearly suspicious. "Why? What do you want the fly swatter for? Is there a fly in there?" I could here the distrust in her voice. "Mommy? Is there a (pause, pause) fly in the bathroom?"
Continue reading "This is a funny story about stitches" »
