Category Archives: husbands

Ladies, Do NOT Take Your Dog to Your Manicure Appointment

Posted on by wiggles

What color shall I paint my digits this week? So many choices.

I’m ashamed to admit that the array of nail polishes crowded onto that dish represents the winners I kept after getting rid of at least as many other colors. Am I out of control? Yes, but it’s a pretty cheap thrill, considering I favor Sally Hansen, Revlon, and Essie. Strictly bargain brands for my hands.

Like our mother Jeanne, I spend one day a week indulging in an old-fashioned beauty regimen. First, I bop into Sisters Salon & Spa for my weekly shampoo and blow dry. As I’ve told my stylist, “You know that soft, touchable hair? Don’t give me that. I want a ‘do that even a tornado cannot move.” The Lord & Master is well trained not to attempt running his hands through my hair, lest he get the equivalent of a paper cut.

Spray that hair 'til it's hard, hard, hard.

Stop number two is She-She Nails. When I think back to the old days when I painted my own nails, I shudder. Thank goodness my neighborhood is chockablock with nail salons.

Could you resist that face? Not I.

Now, normally Theo Fannybrice does not accompany me on my Day of Beauty. But this week, the power of his pleading face overcame my good senses and he came along. The hairdressers often have their own little rascal at the shop, plus, they know Theo, so he’s treated like a long-lost canine prince. I do believe he was stuffed with treats for the entire length of our visit.

The nail salon, well, that’s another story. In a vain attempt to keep Mr. Fannybrice occupied, I scooped up one cow’s trachea at the local pet store. This rigid white skeletal monstrosity was easily double the length of my doggie. Still, he seemed enchanted. Unfortunately, cow’s trachea make disturbingly loud sounds when knocked against ceramic tile floors. Wouldn’t you know it, some other patron complained to me that Theo’s noisemaking was ruining the Zen experience of watching her nail paint dry. The gaggle of Vietnamese employees scooted a towel under my boy and his toy. Which worked, as long as he stayed on the towel.

By the time my turn came around, my Zen experience was kaput. I skipped the massage, the lotion – everything but the basics. We beat a fast retreat out of there, with Theo still dragging his beloved trachea along.

I love you, my pet, but Never Again. Beauty may know no pain, but it does know when my dog should keep out.

Va, Va, & Voom.

Crap. Now I’ve Hurt MY Back

Posted on by wiggles

I hope they have this modified straight jacket in my size. I knew I should have strengthened my core when I had the chance.

Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.

Uncensored yelps of pain have been shooting out of my mouth.

In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch”  - along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.

Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.

"May I help you?" never sounded more ridiculous as I gasp for breath and clutch the counter. The customers want to help me instead.

The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)

My husband wants his wanton wild wifey back.

Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.

Allow me to Introduce You to Mrs. George Clooney

Posted on by hot pants

Here she is, Clooney's Bride!

 

So here’s what happened: my friend Claire (above) went through a period where she would begin her mornings with the following affirmation: “Good Morning, Mrs. Clooney.”

He’s fabulous, it made her feel good, and what the hell. It was kind of funny, too.

George himself thinks it’s funny, also.

I know, I know: How the hell does George Clooney know about this? Well, it seems that Claire, entertainment journalist, found herself meeting Stacy Keibler, aka George’s latest inappropriate girlfriend. At the end of the conversation, she told Stacy about her affirmation.

Stacy thought it was great. So great that she told the Man himself. George cracked up. How do we know? Because Stacy sent Claire flowers and a note that said so.

I now think Stacy’s fantastic, though I do feel that Claire would make a better wife for him. I mean, she’s put in the time with the affirmations, don’t you think?

Is a Little Bread Mold Really So Bad?

Posted on by wiggles

It's mostly un-moldy. I think.

I don’t want to imply that my husband, The Lord & Master, can be a wee bit picky about what food I toss into his trough, but his report on Monday’s lunch bag offerings went like this:

Wiggles:   Did ya like your lunch?

L&M:         [gesturing a big thumbs down] No. I did not like that weird bun thing.

Wiggles:    How about the meats and cheese inside? Good?

L&M:         How could I tell? All I could taste was that crummy roll.

Cut to: tonight, making yet another sandwich for the man I worship and adore. I knew the detested brioche roll was out, so I grabbed some whole wheat slices. Unfortunately, just a skootch of mold had developed. Only on the outer edges. I swear. Finding two mainly spared specimens, I picked off any offending greenish developments. He’s not going to notice those raggedy edges, right?

Our nephew Max, back in residence in the Sassafrass Suite, happily accepted my offer for a brioche roll lunch feast.

And he’s promised me that should the L&M develop any peculiar tummy troubles, mum’s the word.

Deny, deny, deny. Who’s to say a bissel mold ever hurt anybody?

Honest, I threw out this funky junk.

My Dog Has Surgery, Part 2

Posted on by wiggles

Little black stitches - they go with everything, right?

I don’t mean to imply that the Lord & Master has no future in the nursing profession – human or canine – but after one day in his care our dog Theo Fannybrice practially had a nervous breakdown. And we’re talking about a dog who’s so macho he refused to get into the carrier post-surgery. Instead, he heroically limped to the car.

The next day I toodled off to buy gold and silver as usual. By day’s end the L&M began peppering me with increasingly frantic phone calls.

“You’d better get here. He’s crying.” Just what I don’t want to hear while I’m waiting on yet another Oriental loaded down with 24K baubles.

“Of course he’s crying. He’s in pain. Don’t worry,” I soothed.

Ha!

Here’s what I found:

That meat's looking mighty rare.

“Honey, where are Theo’s stitches.”

Silence. My bigger half was completely clueless that our pooch had made a craft project out of removing his own stitches. That’d make me cry, too.

But wait, there’s more!

“Are you aware you two are sitting in a pool of his pee?” I gingerly inquired.

Whereupon my normally mild mannered spouse launched into an impromptu performance of his long running hit one-man show, I Hate My Life. At full volume.

I banished him from the room while I stripped off the wet blankets and sheets, dried the fitted sheet with a hair dryer, and reassured the actual patient that everything would be fine.

Here's some of the soggy bedding.

Yes, it’s always been my dream to return home from a full day of dealing with the public and clean up a veritable lake of dog pee.

By the next morning, the vet had stapled Theo’s leg back together.

All in all, he’s been a real trouper. The staples are gone, he’s back with his pack at Fort Funston, and all’s right in his doggy world.

My husband’s busy reading, writing, grading papers, and otherwise sticking to his professorial duties.

Happy 2012!

My Dog Had Surgery Today

Posted on by wiggles

And, boy, is he steaming mad. I’d say “hopping mad,” but it was on the left hind leg and he ain’t hopping nowhere.

"What did I do to deserve this," Theo Fannybrice ponders through post-anasthesia fog.

A few years back, Theo had the same surgery on his right hind knee tendon. When we brought him home from that date with destiny, he bit the watch off my wrist. (A snazzy Joan Rivers number.) Then sat indignant in the back yard looking away from us for six hours. The next day he held his pee in until 5 p.m. He’s one rough and tough terrier.

Tonight, he’s positively mellow by comparison. And I, of course, refrained from wearing a watch while near him. (I’m slow, but I do learn a thing or two along the meandering path of my life.)

I can just imagine him complaining to his canine friends: “You’re not gonna believe it, Spot and Rover. They dropped me off at this torture chamber where some goons in masks knocked me out, cut me open, and stitched me back together. For the second time!  Hurts like a sonofabitch. And now they keep yapping about how much they “love” me. Yeah, right, that’s why they threw me to the wolves who carved me up.”

With any luck, his coat will cover the scar. Oh, the indignity.

Poor Theo. At least veterinary medicine keeps up with major painkillers. He’s loaded up on two meds as I write. Sleep it off, my furious little macho hound. I do love you.

My Husband Bought Himself a Ladies Watch

Posted on by wiggles

Here it is after I butched it up so I could wear it.

While off speaking as an expert at a one of his mind control/hypnosis/trauma/dissociation whizbang conferences My Husband The Lord & Master’s watch battery died.

So, for $5. (Canadian) he bought a new watch. A ladies watch. With a bone-colored  fake leather strap. That was too tight for his wrist.

“I like it,” he insisted.

“But it’s a ladies watch. And it doesn’t fit you.”

“I still like it.”

That’s my man. He’s got a soft and creamy center.

With his blessings, I spent a fast $30. (American) and got a better band. For myself.

Thanks for the new watch!

It Is the Day of My Dear Daughter’s Birth

Posted on by wiggles

The Lord & Master and I truly won the Parent Lottery.

Being the Mother of Sassafrass has been – and still is – the greatest joy of my life. As the Lord & Master says, Sassy is proof that 2 wrongs can make a right. She exceeds us in every way and exhibits a charm and graciousness not found in any blood relative. (Sorry, Hot Pants, but, let’s face it, it’s true.)

Happy Birthday, My Darling Girl. It was worth the 33 hour labor and vomiting bile and not being able to move my own legs. I love to live in your shadow.

Enjoying the pool during a stay in N'awlins.

When people used to ask if we were considering having a second child, I’d say, “Oh, we can’t. I have to take care of Sassafrass’s hair.”

Of course, the true reason is that she drained the gene pool, and we were afraid to see the dregs she left taking human form. In other words, we stopped at perfection.

I may be the happiest mother in the world.

Happy Birthday, Sassy, my sweetheart.

She's the only person I know who spends her birthday at an annual Tibetan Meditation Retreat. Om on, m'lady. May all your dreams come true.

I Am So Happy My Mother-in-Law Is Dead

Posted on by wiggles

Her beauty was only skin deep. Underneath, just greed & bile.

Faithful followers of Starkravingsisters may recall my recap of Old Ironsides’ parting indignity towards her two sons. Remember how she put roughly a million bucks into an annuity that ended upon her death with all monies going to the insurance company that bamboozled her into that lovely scheme? Against the advice of her oh so expensive accountants? (Nothing but the best for O. I.)

Well, just the other day, my sweet, kind, loving, miracle of a husband, the Lord & Master, received the final paperwork from his mother’s estate attorney. Turns out she had one more little surprise in her designer bag of nasty tricks.

Originally, my father in law, who referred to me simply as “Doll,” since I’m the L&M’s Wifey #3, had set up his will leaving money to each of his sons. O.I. made certain that never happened. “Now it’s all mine,” she crowed to the live-in health aide who tended to my f.i.l. He thought he had made his shrew of a wife happy by changing his will to include a trust fund for his offspring. Just one nagging little detail escaped him: the funding of the sons’ trusts was left to the discretion of their heartless mother.

Upshot:  She refused to toss a single penny into that trust.

Only upon her death was her chicanery revealed by a letter from her oh so expensive lawyers making it clear that she had declined to fund the trust, against their advice. (Why did she hire such costly advisors only to ignore everything they said?)

Knowing of my hostile feelings towards this heartless haridan, my sweetheart never told me he has known about this since her death over a year ago. Why he thought I wouldn’t open his mail from her estate lawyers and find out for myself, I’ll never know.

Yep, I am so happy my mother in law is dead, ’cause if she weren’t, I’d have to kill ‘er.

Wiggles Helpful Household Tip #26

Posted on by wiggles

Come on, baby, light his fire - with chocolatey "high" powered yumminess.

Ladies, when defrosting medical marijuana fudge in the microwave, heat it in ten second intervals. Otherwise, like me, you’ll have an oozing brown puddle on your hands.

I served it up to the Lord & Master, a.k.a., the Birthday Boy, as a warm mousse to be eaten with a spoon. He looooved it.

Okay, mine wasn't that yummy looking and it was sloshing in a blue plastic baggie, but, sweetheart, it was oh so good.