mamikaze

Mike works an industrial job that involves a bunch of big words. Words that sound like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Being the good wife that I am, I listen dutifully as he tells me about how he had to go into a sneedle to remove the snuvs. Sometimes he complains about having to crawl into a grickily gructus because there was a leak in the kwiller. I feel like a moron not having a clue.

I’ve been doing this HTML geek thing for awhile now. He sees me working in Dreamweaver, but never pays attention to anything but the finished projects. I got to turn the tables on him.

He wanted me to move his browser bookmarks to his new HP mini and to a user account on my laptop. He was sitting at the desk and I was doing this over his shoulder in the office tech support fashion when I cracked open the HTML file to see if I could clean it up. He got a peek of

<DT><A HREF=”https://en-us.add-ons.mozilla.com/en-US/firefox/bookmarks/” ADD_DATE=”1235846679″ LAST_MODIFIED=”1235846679″ ICON_URI=”http://www.mozilla.org/2005/made-up-favicon/0-1239015937″ ICON=”data:image/png;base64,iVBw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAABAAAAAQCAYAAAAf8/
lwCVmDDJBZQNsdYlCraGlUSu0X/ZDak67tWmxpWjh9Szk9tJue/ncBG6LbL/9mbcvYhKs
kVXcdaTfdt97HT+j/YirEYA7mMBkQZuQYY1IMIcKmAjkcdu5jHqtieM4WkXqVbT6l+lowr
tYQjC7Xo7l/8JTgeEfhEwJ1uYNzDcNUUTB5toZ+Ss63de8wB8Z0ntYb5TBlTrxC6XAB5lAB/
Iagz5JSjl1o30ca2nR7nOJMyfOkSzMEc/g93ogjezzDqZhiwZVH3Q/t+0tCi2/tUtXoQzuY
bJgAhFqUBRlI/ijBdhIY3DkM2JbWBd+0amp475JijUqYiRUxm5BhXyiC9y3/u9mblOJiNSRj
3MIw4RfxkSSnHz2r2EE5Fq/L6Z2ll2CFi0C6iz7Ko/DgpFL/rNhpr1drD/1He5LPv6Y4w9Vf6
2r6mN/WNmsH+0110+qe06t/8St/A10n5SW/zQjywAAJRU5ErkJggg==”>Get Bookmark Add-ons</A>

He started screaming like a baby. I’m surprised our neighbors didn’t make a domestic violence call.

“My eyes! I have a headache now! Why did you do that?”

ha ha ha.

I really hope that when Mike comes home tomorrow night he will be so happy to be home he won’t notice this as he walks in the door:

Bear is sabotaging my every step. That is a pile of books she keeps pulling off the shelf. they are Fluffy’s books. I would put them away, far far away from my four year-old tornado but can’t cut off my budding reader’s access to literature. I feel like a frat mom in an 80s movie. the kid is constantly turning over chairs and climbing on tables.

Just look at what they have done to my kitchen!

Nah, I can’t pass that off on them, it is all me. I haven’t had a chance to get the dish washer loaded or anything else. Honey, if you’re reading this, I demand a housekeeper next time you leave. I can’t take this cleaning-the-whole-house shit.

This is the part where I am supposed to say something like “Now I am off to clean this pig sty” but I can’t. I have homework to do then I have to go get treats for Bear’s class party, then take her to a Neurology check-up, take her to school, socialize with the parents, go to Fluffy’s school, schmooze there and help clean-up after her class party, then come home and get my work done.

All of tha totally justifies my lack of cleaning and my raging Starbucks addiction.

Send help.

We pulled up to the Alaska Airlines curb at 6:50 a.m.; his phone rang. It was his boss. The trip was off. Ten effing minutes before he was to check in. Asshats.

I may or may not have said these things to my children (or husband) recently:

“if you don’t pick up that coat I am going to throw it away.”

“if you blow that whistle one more time I am going to make you eat it.”

“we are only going to be in the store a few minutes.”

“say that again and see what happens.”

“stop screaming or we will leave this place.”

“tell her she can kiss my lily-white ass.”

“do you want me to give you something to scream about.”

“touch me one more time and I will knock you into next Tuesday.”

“do you want some cheese with your whine?”

“are you fucking kidding me?”

“turn that off or it is going out the window.”

The Good…

The Bad…

The Ugly (as in I keep having trauma center nightmares) ….