Steve Vs. Nemo

I was talking with a really good friend and we somehow ended up on the topic of our pets.
I knew she had cats (kind of) and two very precious doggies (they're just so awesome you have to use the baby voice) but then she told me she has a lizard...

Me: You have a lizard?

Friend: How do you not know about our lizard, Steve?

Me: I have no idea. Did you know about our pet fish, Nemo?

Friend: You have a fish? What? Where?

Me: He's plastic and fake but he's in a fishbowl in the boys' room, so it counts.

Friend: Um, no. I actually have to feed live crickets to Steve. It's gross.
Me: We can feed crickets to Nemo, too. He won't eat them though. He doesn't eat very much. I think he's anorexic. Then we'll have crickets hopping all over the bedroom and I'm pretty sure Chunko will end up eating one.
Friend: Dude, you're weird.

Tell me my logic is wrong, I dare you... 

My Husband = Awesome

I have always dreamed of having a cute little shed converted into a playhouse in my back yard. When we lived in an apartment and we didn't even have a backyard, I wanted one on the balcony. When we lived in a house with a huge backyard, I wanted one. I even tried to save up money so that I could build my own but those suckers are expensive and I wanted Doritos more.

When I was about 7 years old, my mom converted our storage room next to the apartment into a grocery store for me, complete with groceries to buy. I blame that for starting the obsession. It was too darn cute and I wanted more.

The other day my husband and I were traveling somewhere (probably work but it was a long drive) and I mentioned this undying need to him.

This is kind of how the conversation went:

Me: I want a tool shed in the backyard.
My Husband: We don't have room for it right now.
Me: When we move, I want a big huge backyard and I want a tool shed back there.
My Hubs: Yeah, okay. Sure.
Me: I want to convert it into a cute little play house for me... er... the kids to play in
My Hubs: Okay.
 

^ This is what I am picturing

 
 

^ This is what he's picturing

Me: Actually, I want to make it into a little apartment.
My Hubs: For your dad?
Me: No! For my pink flamingo statues.
My Hubs: Oh?
Me: Yeah, I'm going to dress them up and stage them like they live there and then every week I'll change their clothes. The neighbors will think they're coming to life.

My Hubs: That doesn't make any sense. When we're truck drivers, you won't be able to change their clothes every week (<---- we've decided to become truck drivers when we retire. We can travel the states and see all the tacky little USA things we've always wanted to. We're going to be awesome old people).
Me: Oh. Then I guess I can only change them seasonally. We'll have to be sure to be home for the holidays. You know, for the kids and my flamingos.... And the ferrets.
My Hubs: What ferrets?
Me: You know, the ferrets we're going to start collecting when the kids move out and I start suffering empty nest syndrome?
My Hubs: Are the ferrets going to live in the tool shed?
Me: Pssshhh, no.
My Hubs: How are we going to have ferrets if we're truck drivers?
Me: Um....
My Hubs: Oh, I know. They'll stay in the back of the truck, right? They'll help us keep track of our deliveries.
Me: Yeah, exactly what I was thinking! And then we can trade which ferret will visit us in the cab for the day's drive.
My Hubs: Okay, makes sense.

I love that at no point did he question my sanity and why I felt the need to have really well dressed flamingos in a tool shed in our backyard.
And i love the fact that he thinks it all makes sense.

We are so made for each other.

Ps, we're going to get those damn gnomes next time....

Birth Control

This past weekend we went out to eat at a restaurant. It was late, so it was fairly empty, so we figured we were safe to try to gulp down food with a slightly crabby Chunko....

~BuZZZ~ Wrong!!!
Chunko, my very precious, heart melting baby has become birth control.

I heard uterus's and cervix's closing tightly shut. Women who were currently pregnant were googling adoption as my baby screamed for his food, screamed for some soda, screamed because we tried to give him food, screamed because he liked hearing his own voice and screamed just to scream and keep us on our toes. He threw crayons and straws. He ate sugar packets, paper packet included. He knocked over a soda and then tried to suck it up off the table. He threw salt over his shoulder, followed by pepper, onto the people behind us. He squirted ketchup and it missed another diner's white shirt by thismuch. 

He settled down for 5 seconds when I let him watch "Elmo and I know it" on my phone for the billionth time but then Daddy doesn't know how to work my phone and it was gone all too quickly.

I think at one point, Chunko swung from the lighting fixtures but I was hiding under the table in embarrassment and can't confirm that.

Chunko has decided that since he is now big enough to sit at the table, he should be allowed to. We wouldn't have reason to argue with this, except when he decides he is done eating and it is time to leave, he can now slide out and leave. We really don't like that so much.

So as we rush through our food, Chunko is done. He is flopping around on the bench, back to his screaming and is trying to slide under the table. As he's sliding, he smacks his head uber hard on the table. My love grabs Chunko and goes to the front to try to pay and get us the heck out of there. Chunko is fighting him and screaming louder because we have to do the thing... You know the thing.

Oh you don't know? It's where we smack and yell at the thing that hurt Chunko so that he will stop crying. He knows only Mommy or Daddy (or only Mommy) can do it and it's been a helpful way to get him over whatever crazy injury he's incurred.

However, it sucks when the entire restaurant is watching you walk the screaming baby back to the table. It sucks when you smile at the busboy and say, "I am so very sorry. I'm not crazy, I promise." Then you smack the table, lightly, and dishes rattle, the cheap ass table jumps up and almost topples over and you have to yell, "Bad table! Don't hurt my baby!"

Chunko, of course, has to yell, "Bad! Bad!" over and over but at least he's clapping. I slink out of the restaurant as all of the other diners stare in horrified shock and the bus boy is crying from laughing so hard.

Yeah the whole restaurant erupted into applause when the door shut behind us and yeah, the manager, waiter and busboy all clearly remembered us when we came back the next weekend.

They did sit us at a much sturdier table this time...