He Said, She Said, Engineers versus Artists

She Said: Marriage According to the Great Unwashed

(Tex has added in his two cents in italics)

In a word, being married to an engineer is awesome. I love it. 

I always know where Tex is and what he’s doing; I’m kind of like Santa Claus but without the beard

Around about when we first started dating, Tex linked me to his Google Calendar. To say that it’s a comprehensive document is an understatement. It includes when to check his tire pressure (the 2nd of every month), any outings he has tickets for within the next couple of weeks and his work locations for the next year. I’m not saying I know when my hubby goes to the loo; if he starts slotting that activity in there too, it wouldn’t be shocking. After Tex sent me his schedule, I was supposed to create my own. That was a year and a half ago.

“By the way I need to borrow the car tomorrow to do this thing. Didn’t I tell you about that? Remember?”

 

The keys are always in the same place. Actually everything is in the exact same place

Or rather I should say Tex’s keys are always in the same place. It’s a crap shoot as to where I’ve stowed mine. This makes it easy to take my significant other’s keys. Please note this kind of behavior will get you into trouble on occasion. Along these same lines, Tex has routines and protocols for everything in our home, up to and including washing pots and the proper storage of baking soda. Everything is very easy to find and is grouped with like items when Tex has organized or tidied a room.

Since we’ve moved into our new place, there’s a constant litany of “Unwashed where did you put the colander/spatula/baking pan?” and she’ll respond with “It’s in the garage/shed/under the couch.” Of course it’s there. That is the obvious place for a frying pan.

 

Everything in the house is in perfect working order

Engineers love problems. They live for problems; the show “How It’s Made” is engineering porn. I’m always surprised whenever I see it on TV during the daytime, because I know there’s engineers out there, watching saying, “Oh, oh yeah, look at how well they figured out how to make paint spackle. Oh the hydraulics.”

pencil-sharpening

Somewhere, an engineer is getting worked up over belt sanders. (Photo Credit: all-that-is-interesting.com)

Along these same lines, whenever something in our house breaks, Tex launches into engineer mode, taking our tap apart, determining where the problem is and whisking Mini-Tex and me off to the local Rona to locate the necessary part. (It’s possible I’m only along for the charity popcorn that is always sold at the hardware store.)

 

Our car seat is installed properly

Remember what I said about “How It’s Made” being engineering porn? Oven manuals, car seat directions, really any kind of manual is like a dirty magazine for engineers. I’m not saying that I’ve found instructions for the lawnmower under Tex’s side of the mattress, but let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised to find them there. Whenever we purchase anything, Tex reads the manual from cover to cover then adjusts the item so it exactly meets his specifications; our car door opens after pressing only one button and it never beeps when it locks. Afterwards he files the manual so he can always refer back to it even though he never needs to because he has an eidetic memory. (But won’t admit to it because then he would have to confess that he’s actually a super villain.) He then carefully explains to me how the item works and all of the minor changes he’s made to improve its function. I half listen because I know that if something breaks I can always call my husband in a panic and say “Tex! The dishwasher/dryer/car is broken!”

 

Everything somehow relates to science

It doesn’t matter whether the topic is weather, cooking or machinery- an in depth explanation of the science behind the subject always follows. Yet I still can’t recall the basic rules of matter.

Unwashed’s equivalent is celebrity name dropping and referencing obscure Canadian authors. For example her post about Desmond Howl “Oh you don’t know Hornjob McGee? He appeared in little known indie film “That Greasy Summer.”

 

He Said: Marriage From Tex’s Perspective

(With Unwashed’s comment in italics)

By contrast, this is what it’s like to be married to an artist- bedlam.

Nothing is ever where you left it including the car

For a period of time, Unwashed hid various pieces of mail and vital items like my phone charger. It was only after I had exhausted my own search of our apartment that I questioned her “Have you seen my ID badge for work?” “Oh” she replied nonchalantly as if she wasn’t a magpie squirrelling away my belongings and correspondence “they’re in the Very Important Place.” “The pardon?” I asked “The Very Important Place” my wife repeated “I put everything right here” and then she pointed to the most random of hiding spots in our home. It wasn’t a loose floorboard under the bathroom cabinet but it was close.

Admittedly, sometimes I do tidy Tex’s belongings away for company and then forget to move his items back. And the car wasn’t my fault; we had just moved here and I drove past the house three times before finally throwing the car into park and walking home. I will cop to forgetting that I had done this and where the car was parked though.

 

Your laundry flies stand-by and there has been an exponential increase in the number of lost socks

They say purgatory is a place between heaven and hell, currently in my house there is a laundry purgatory or one might say it flies stand by as it exists neither clean in my drawer nor dirty and obviously in need of washing in my hamper. I suspect one day I will be searching online classifieds and find a “Missed Connections” ad written by one of my socks.

In my defense, I once witnessed Tex systematically search for an hour for one lost sock. He found it in the end. I am neither that thorough, nor do I possess the memory to retrace my steps and the steps of others exactly to locate lost undergarments. As for the laundry, I’ve created a complex system that there isn’t enough time to explain, be assured that all of my and Mini-Tex’s clothes are found and cleaned on a regular basis. Tex’s shirts make it into the wash when they can hence the stand by comment.

 

I’ve been forced to take bizarre and ridiculous pictures of her

I had to take a picture of her covered in chocolate icing, holding a wad of flaming bills while riding a pig and I was supposed to not only understand the symbology of this but at the very least hold the camera steady. Not to mention catch the terrified pig.

This is a complete exaggeration. Ok not complete. There wasn’t a pig though. I did make Tex take artistic photos where I composed an image of multiple juxtaposing elements and then posed myself in awkward ways to enhance this effect.

 

Arranging a room has less to do with what will fit and more to do with the “chi” and whether it makes a room “warm” or not

I’ve moved sectionals more times than I care to count. And I had to buy a big, really expensive chair to provide her with a place to read and feel artistic or whatever it is that she does when she isn’t riding pigs.

Again, he’s totally fabricating the pig thing and what can I say? Chi is a moving target. Happily I don’t have to move it.

 Also, did anyone else notice that Tex didn’t comment about the memory thing? I expect I’ll find his blaster ray gun in the basement any day now.

Advertisements

Subliminal Marketing And An Undying Passion For Cheddar

Roscoe and I do not have cable. There are a number of reasons for this; the first being that I haven’t yet figured out how to work the television itself. It has three remotes. Roscoe says that the remotes and the television are easy to operate. I question this factoid, as he also claimed that his car was easy to operate and I spent fifteen minutes in the driveway trying unsuccessfully to turn it on.

I tried to order two of Suzanne Somers but they were out.

Once I tried to order two of Suzanne Somers but she was out of stock. (Photo Credit: torontopubliclibrary.typepad.com)

The second reason that we don’t have cable is that I’m very susceptible to marketing; subliminal or otherwise. I don’t sit for long periods of time so my television watching is limited to programs that are ten minutes long or less – like an ad on the shopping channel. When Roscoe and I were dating, I lived at home with my parents who had cable. This led to a number of phone calls in which I tried to convince Roscoe that I needed an ab blaster or a mandolin made in Switzerland despite the fact that I believed in neither gyms nor cooking at the time.

Hence in the interest of not filling our house with useless pieces of exercise equipment and chotchkes  we live without cable. And life was fine and dandy, that was until Netflix arrived.

Although Netflix does not have a shopping channel, it does have documentaries. Unlike sitcoms or movies one can watch ten minutes of a documentary, pause it then walk away only to sit back down a day later without feeling as though a plot refresher is necessary. For this reason I love documentaries. However my favourite genre of documentaries are the sketchy ones. Documentaries without enough proof or information tend to be short thus my sense of accomplishment is greater as I can watch two of these a week versus just one of the more reputable, longer documentaries.

Although this new habit has had some unexpected side effects- last night Roscoe walked in on this scene.

The Great Unwashed stands in front of the bedroom mirror staring intently into her reflection.

The Great Unwashed -“You are valid” pauses, still staring into her reflection. “And hopeful” pauses again for longer “Also you like cheese.”

Roscoe unable to watch this bizarre scene for any longer asks “What are you doing?”

The Great Unwashed speaks to Roscoe’s reflection in the mirror – “I watched part of a documentary today on vegans. It told me to look at my reflection and repeat a message to myself every night, only I forgot was the message was.”

Roscoe- “Vegans don’t eat cheese.”

The Great Unwashed – “It might have been a movie about the Kennedy conspiracies, I don’t really know, I only watched ten minutes of it.”

For some reason I have a feeling the Netflix subscription will be cancelled shortly.

Saving The World; One Hardened Lump of Goo at a Time

Roscoe standing in the bathroom looking perplexed -“Unwashed*?”

The Great Unwashed appears in the bathroom doorway- “Yes?”

 Soap is prone to exploding when exposed to science because science is great. (Photo Credit : klce.com)

What do you mean you don’t want to wash yourself with this? (Photo Credit : klce.com)

Roscoe holds up a giant white mound of hardened scented goo- “What’s up with our soap?”

The Great Unwashed – “I believe what you meant to ask was; What’s up AND out with our soap? As it has clearly grown both up AND out.” The Great Unwashed gestures to emphasize the soap’s growth.

Roscoe still not any closer to having clean hands- “What did you do to our soap?”

The Great Unwashed- “I blew it up. For the good of mankind.”

Roscoe takes a closer look at what was a bar of soap and watches as small pieces flake off into the sink- “How does this help mankind?”

I improved the soap, by making more of it. (Photo Credit : lessonsfromateacher.com)

I improved the soap, by making more of it. (Photo Credit : lessonsfromateacher.com)

The Great Unwashed- “It’s science, and science is good. As a doctor science employs you every day and helps people. Ergo I also helped people by microwaving our soap because it was a part of a scientific experiment.”

Roscoe looks as though he is about to ask a follow up question but refrains until The Great Unwashed is walking away, undoubtedly to create more calamity away from his watchful eyes. “Does this mean the microwave is clean?” he hopefully asks The Great Unwashed’s back.

Fun Science Fact For The Day: If you microwave a bar of Ivory soap it expands and you can mold it or just keep microwaving bars continuously until you have a series of small soap explosions. I don’t recommend the last option though. It seems fun at the time, but then your spouse realizes that all the soap in the house looks funnier than the stuff they sell at Lush and disintegrates when it’s touched. This might result in microwave privileges being revoked.

Unless of course you are the kind of pious, responsible person who never microwaves uncovered tomato soup.

I’m not- I heat up uncovered chili in the microwave too and I never ever, ever clean it out. I am an excellent wife. Roscoe would probably hug me right now if his hands were clean. Nonetheless microwaving bath products is a fun and educational science experiment. And science helps everyone. Especially Roscoe, even if he doesn’t always recognize it.

*On occasion Roscoe omits both the article and the “Great” from my name. Generally when I have done something not so great, like dying my hands blue or purple, or putting dirt in our freezer and making him eat chicken fingers for eight days straight.

Midnight Thespians; profanity, moaning and sprinklers

The Student Ghetto Chronicles Part Two

Last night my sleep was interrupted by Roscoe turning on the lights and swearing about “the damn students”.

A hamburger with a rim of lettuce sitting on a...

A truly stylish hood ornament. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This kind of thing happens sometimes, generally after a young, drunken soul leaves a hamburger with the ketchup covered patty face down on Roscoe’s car. For the record this has never once happened to my truck, likely because I bring our rabble rousing neighbours bagel flavoured cake. Don’t ask, I was teased mercilessly for that abomination at home, but the frat boys didn’t complain.

Personally I’ll take the odd McDonaldsified vehicle over moving to a less colourful area where people don’t shout “I effing love boooooooooooobs” at three am. Only they don’t say effing. It adds spice to my day. Or in that case my very early morning. There’s a certain amount of youthful joie de vie which is lost when you don’t wake up on March 17th with teenagers traipsing through your backyard en route to the frat party next door. “Oh sorry ma’am. Cool Snoopy jammies. Do you want to come with us?”

Anyway, so Roscoe has a completely different story but I’m going to tell my version.

So at about eleven o’clock last night Roscoe was studying in a very grouchy manner. The gods of humour and calamity saw this and decided that his evening needed less colostomy bag protocol and more fun. Hence Dude appears underneath the office window. And begins to reenact Hamlet for the two young ladies with him.

Only he doesn’t remember the plot to Hamlet. Or any of the characters, or what Shakespearean prose sounds like. So he just starts fighting a battle to the death.  With himself.

Roscoe, who was focused on colostomy bag incisions, is able to ignore this production. Sort of.

However a moment later Dude realizes that our landlord has left the sprinkler and the hose out. Right next to the tap. Dude senses that his production is lacking a certain something – a storm. Being the Good Samaritan that he is, Dude also noticed that our grass was looking thirsty. This environmentally savvy young thespian knew that the best time to water your lawn is at night. Three birds with one very convenient stone. On goes the hose.

Regretfully Dude had underestimated the water pressure. It was at this point in the evening when swear words, groans and water started to come in through the open office window.

Roscoe, not realizing that Dude was just trying to provide him with some entertainment while watering our lawn, rushed outside and started bellowing at the young do-gooder, who ran, leaving the hose on full blast and soaking Roscoe to the skin.

This is when my husband burst into our bedroom and started going on about that he knows how much I enjoy living in the student ghetto but really we’re just surrounded by awful people.

All I saw was the jerk who woke me up in the middle of the night asking for a towel when there was one on his hook in the bathroom.

Roscoe tells the story differently. Tragically this is my blog, so I’m going to talk about wannabe actors who like to conserve water and help their neighbours. Tough luck dear husband, perhaps wait until morning next time to tell me about our midnight visitors?

Better Than A Cross Country Unicycle Ride

So earlier this week I was struck by a brilliant idea- I could work in Hawaii. Maui in particular is short 500 people in my industry every year. There were a number of obstacles in this plan, the first being Roscoe. Here is how I presented the idea to him.

The Great Unwashed– “I want to work in Hawaii.”

Roscoe– “Can we please have this conversation another time? Or can you at least carry your end of the couch while you are doing it?”

Pipecleaner Art Masterwork, Age 3

While pipecleaners make festive centerpieces they’ve rarely been cited for their abilities to transport anything larger than a googly eye. (Photo credit: cobalt123)

Roscoe and I have an agreement that me and my bendy, pipecleaner arms will pretend to help him move big pieces of furniture and Roscoe will act as though I’m actually helping.

The Great Unwashed obligingly pretends to pick up half the couch- “I want to work in Hawaii, they need people in my field there.”

Roscoe grunting from the exertion of carrying a couch alone- “That’s great?”

The Great Unwashed– “No it is! You could work there too. People lose bits all the time in Hawaii, sharks are always biting surfers’ arms and legs off. You’d have lots of work. Also I hear some fish even bite. You’d be overrun with sewing bits back on, honest.”

Roscoe– “I question your knowledge of ichthyology.”

The Great Unwashed– “I question your knowledge of cosmetology. So there. The point is we need to move to Hawaii.”

After the couch was placed in it’s new spot I went online to find more persuasive information about employment and carnivorous fish.

What I discovered was that in order to work in Hawaii I would have to get my degree accredited, write an exam, fly myself out to Hawaii to attend an interview on my dime and then go through the process of applying for an international work Visa.

After doing all of that to the tune of approximately five grand I might, might get hired to work and be paid two thirds of what I receive here.

“Nutbars!” I cried upon this revelation “Super peanut-y O’Henrys! King Size Snickers!

There is only one possible solution to this costly problem.

I’m going to write to Hawaii and recommend that they install a zipline from Canada, thereby cutting the travel costs down to zero and making the process far, far cheaper. Although it still would be a pain. Now there would be some start up expenses with the installation of the zipline but I think it would be minimal compared to the number of people who would benefit from its use. And it would certainly cut down on the labour shortages.

The Alternative Is Dating Gargamel

I’m having a colourful day. Not colourful as in swearing a lot, or even colourful as in the apartment is filled with rainbows but it might as well be.

I got up this morning and painted my nails a bright and alluring red. When Roscoe got up his first words were “What happened to your hands?”

Although it is out of the ordinary for me to paint my nails (and my toes nails too), what he was referring to was the way I chose to decorate them. In theory you’re supposed to use the edges of your nails as a point for where to stop painting but that’s only a guideline. A suggestion really. You could paint all the way up your arms and across your clavicle if you wanted, the only limiting factor there is the size of those darn bottles. Why do they make them so small? It’s like OPI doesn’t want me to have any fun, ever.

Although I hadn’t painted all the way up my arms, I hadn’t quite respected the nail bed boundary idea so it looked like I had spent the morning in an abattoir. “Uaaah” Roscoe recoiled from my gruesome hands.

“Don’t worry” I assured him. “They’re dry, this should stay on for a couple hours at least” I said while waggling my gory fingers at him.

In Canada it’s a holiday today so Roscoe was determined to take me out to the movies. However I had a number of chores I wanted to finish up before we left. Primarily I wanted to revitalize a sweater of mine by dying it teal. I was all set up in the bathroom, with my big plastic bucket, my sweater and most importantly the dye which was such a vibrant colour that I wanted to be a part of it. Unfortunately Roscoe caught me right as I was about to plunge my hands into the deep swirling blue, thereby cutting my mischief off at the pass. And preventing yet another violet-bathroom, purple-foot incident. “What are you doing?”

“Dying? My? Shirt?” I answered as innocently as one who is about to dye her forearms deep blue can.

“No. Absolutely not, I’m not going out with a Smurf.”

I hesitated, holding my arms a safe distance above the bucket of dye. “”Well technically I would only be part Smurf, not even an eighth, like a Smurf twice removed.”

Roscoe was not smiling. This is why I get up at five am, so that all of my tomfoolery is complete long before my husband wakes up.  Because it’s harder to argue with things that have already happened. There’s only so much you can do when you awaken, rub your eyes and realize there’s a wild turkey perched on the chest of drawers. “Why is there a bird in the bedroom? And I did not agree to this wallpaper!”

Gargamel and his cat Azrael.

No one wants to hit that. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“It could be worse.”I said, still holding my hands within dipping distance of the dye. “I could look like the Smurf villain and then everyone would be staring at you wondering why you want to date a hunched, balding, old man.”

“Put on some gloves” he commanded before turning on his heel while shaking his head.

I suppose I’m just going to have to settle for bright red nails, hands and feet. I’ll wear my teal sweater tomorrow.

The Art Of Being A Good Wife

A photo of a pizza with peppers

This is what Roscoe’s pizza looked like coming out of the oven. Not really, we buy the inexpensive frozen kind. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Roscoe arrived home yesterday after a long day of stitching peoples’ bits back on. My husband spends some eighty hours a week doing this. I’m beginning to think that people are careless with where they put their bits. Also I’m debating petitioning the city to outlaw augers, axes, and possibly lawnmowers.

Anyways being the excellent wife I am, I had made him dinner.

The Great Unwashed : I made you pizza, it’s in the kitchen.

Roscoe looking very tired from putting people’s bit back on : Thank you.

Roscoe goes into the kitchen, pauses then marches back out holding a red, ragged circle of dough.

Roscoe : What is this?

The Great Unwashed : It’s pizza. It was pepperoni pizza but then I denuded it of the pepperonis because I ate one and I just couldn’t stop. Then I took a couple of bites out of the crust because you know how much I love the crust. In my defense there wasn’t a whole lot of cheese on it to begin with because it’s the cheap no name frozen brand. But I left the rest for you.

Roscoe looks down at the dough which is mostly circular but for a few bites around the edge.

Roscoe : So you made me a circle of bread smeared with tomato sauce.

The Great Unwashed : Yes. Because I love you.

Roscoe looks annoyed.

The Great Unwashed : Haven’t you heard the saying “It’s the thought that counts”?

Man Jobs; Like Hacking Up Bears With Axes And Moving Heavy Things

So a couple weeks ago Roscoe was sitting on the couch and I stood directly in front of him. This is generally a sign that I’m going to ask him to do a man job. Man jobs in our house are classified as tasks that require power tools or lifting. It’s not that I can’t use power tools or lift things, the trouble is I don’t want to, so essentially that means that I won’t.

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit: http://www.pcauthority.com.au/News/280159)

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit: http://www.pcauthority.com.au/News/280159)

So there I am standing in front of Roscoe with a look on my face that those closest to me know is generally followed by a lot of grief on their part. Roscoe looks up and is not happy. This may be partially because he doesn’t want to use power tools or lift things (I know I never want to) but I suspect it’s because he’s still annoyed at me for dying his feet purple this past weekend.

In my defense, it was only part of his feet, the soles specifically and I also dyed my arms a bright violet up to the elbows, along with the majority of our bathroom. I had neglected to clean the tub before Roscoe needed to shower and hence, purple feet.

The Great Unwashed with a most innocent and endearing look on her face –“I dropped a book behind the bookshelf.”

Roscoe not being taken in by the seemingly angelic face The Great Unwashed is making –“What kind of book?”

The Great Unwashed –“A book I don’t want to read.”

Roscoe now returns his focus to his computer. The Great Unwashed continues to stand in front of him with a look of unconvincing sweetness on her face. Roscoe, realizing that this issue may not be over sighs and closes his laptop.

The Great Unwashed– “It may have been a library book.” Pauses. “ That’s overdue.” Pauses again as Roscoe starts to frown. “ By a lot.”

Roscoe sighing heavily and with a note of resignation – “Which bookshelf?”

The Great Unwashed– “The smaller one.”

Now I knew that the book wasn’t behind the smaller one, but I was hoping that if Roscoe moved the smaller one he might be able to reach the book I dropped behind the larger one without having to move it.

Roscoe grunts and complains about my choice of storage places for my library books but in a couple of minutes he moves the smaller bookshelf, reaches behind and hands me a hardcover.

The Great Unwashed – “Thank you, but that’s not my book, although this is another library book.” Roscoe is looking unimpressed at this point.

Roscoe– “That’s the only one behind there.”

The Great Unwashed in the most innocent manner possible– “It *might* have fallen behind the big bookshelf.”

More grunting. Annoyance in now radiating off of Roscoe from the top of his head down to his purple soled feet.

Finally, Roscoe with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice- “There are no books behind here.”

The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Oops!”

The book that I supposedly dropped turned up the next day. It was stuck in between the bedside table and the box spring. However three weeks ago I remember dropping two things behind the larger bookshelf. I blame the invisible house gnomes for moving one of my library books without asking permission. As for Roscoe the purple eventually washed off however he was forced to wear black socks and shoes for about two weeks to cover up the colour. I told him it was the price of being married to a beautiful, resourceful woman. (I was dying a shirt to give it a new lease on life.) He told me that I was a pain in the butt.

My 60,000 Dollar Cat Scratch

By my estimation, Roscoe and I have invested some sixty Gs in his medical education, most of the time I don’t see the benefit to this expenditure. As a med student he works long hours at the hospital for no pay, brings in loads of debt and when he has practical exams, insists on testing the range of motion in my knees. Not terribly exciting.

Around the beginning of his second year of med school Roscoe developed his “Doctor Voice”. It’s a very confident but stern sounding voice. Entirely different from his husband voice which is the one that tells me I look pretty and asks whether it’s past my bedtime.

See if you didn’t know the two of us, that last sentence would sound like a come on “That’s what SHE said”. I badly misused that saying, teenage boys everywhere are hanging their heads in shame at me.

Roscoe sometimes attempts to use his doctor voice at home, generally when he wants to prove that he’s right about something. “Put that away!” I’ll yell when I hear those soft but reassuring tones.

So a month or so ago I was running my first road race in three years, my first ten kilometer race in goodness knows how long. The event was in Toronto, so Roscoe and I were staying overnight at my parent’s house rather than driving the two plus hours from our home to the start.

Everything was going smoothly. Well for me at least. Some kids grew up with mothers who cut the crusts off their sandwiches, moms who dropped them off at university and then returned many, many times for visits, mums who really cared about important things like jewelry, and whether your purse matched your shoes.

My mother is a sports mom. She leaves crusts on sandwiches, she visited me once at university after dropping me off and I’ve frequently left the house wearing both stripes and floral print at the same time.

However come race day, get out of her way, she’s a tiger mom, up at five am with coffee and strategies for how to cut your time. She stashes extra safety pins for your bib in her coat and has water and chocolate milk sitting in the car to rehydrate. You’ll recognize her at the finish line because she’ll be the one jumping so high that she might as well be attached to a pogo stick.

So despite the fact that I didn’t train, had no idea where the race was, and had not packed the appropriate gear, I wasn’t terribly worried about the ten kilometer race I had to run the next day.

That was until I was mauled by a Bear.

I have a theory that my parent's cat is related to the Terminator, or some other alien robot being. It would explain her eyes when photographed.

I have a theory that my parent’s cat is related to the Terminator, or some other alien robot being. It would explain her eyes when photographed.

Bear is the newest addition to my parent’s house. She is the only cat they’ve ever had who has not lived with me. The cats that I grew up with understood that I moved like a Sherman tank, crushing everything in my path. They stayed out of my way, and I lived up to my end of the bargain by not being too upset when they loved my mother more than me.

Bear has never lived with me. Bear also moves like a Sherman tank. One with claws.

Which is how the night before my race I got these.

My photoshop instructions to Candy- "Make my foot look more like Charlize Theron's." Candy's reply "I don't know what to do with these instructions?"

My photoshop instructions to Candy- “Make my foot look more like Charlize Theron’s.” Candy’s reply “I don’t know what to do with this request?”

 

Essentially Bear and I played a very dangerous, painful and ultimately bloody, game of chicken.

Bear was racing up the stairs, across the landing and heading for my bedroom at top speed. Watching her shoot straight at me like some sort of ginger cheetah, I stood my ground. And Bear also stood her ground. Until at the last second we both moved the same direction. Which caused Bear to run half into the door frame, as she attempted to stop herself with her claws on my foot. I felt pain, heard a loud thud and watched a starry eyed Bear wobbly make her way under my bed.

“Bear!” I cried, “Bear! Come here, I’m sorry.” I pleaded bending down to lift up the bed skirt, the extent of my wounds disguised by my body’s beautiful shock reflex. Still woozy but expecting me to somehow cause her to run into more door frames Bear darted past me. And that’s when I looked down and realized blood was pooling on my foot.

Roscoe took one look at it and thought “Infection and cat scratch fever”. Immediately he put his doctor voice into action. Overwhelmed by my feelings of guilt and the blood about to stain my parent’s beige carpet, I blindly followed my husband into the kitchen. There he cleaned the lacerations and then set about neatly taping a napkin to my foot. Power gels are on my mother’s grocery list, not gauze. The gory blood now covered up and the new carpet no longer in danger I returned to my senses. “That doesn’t look dramatic enough! You need to wrap it!”

Roscoe stopped ripping the masking tape into neat sections and instead began haphazardly wrapping my foot with tape. “There” he said “happy now?”

“No, take a photo of it.”

The Great Unwashed way to dress a wound. Note how it makes use of none of Roscoe's doctor abilities.

The Great Unwashed way to dress a wound. Note how it makes use of none of Roscoe’s doctor abilities. My first opportunity to use Roscoe’s expensive degree and I didn’t take it.

For the record I ran a fifty-four minute ten km, for my American readers out there I ran a fifty four minute six mile race. Pretty good considering the perfectly straight blood stains I found in my sock afterwards.

STOP! You’ll Kill Yourself!

You know all those studies that say married people live longer because you have someone to tell you to go to the doctor, eat nutritious food and just plain care about you? They’re all right, but I feel like they forgot an important element of marriage. Occasionally a person needs someone to tell them “Stop! What you’re doing is idiotic!” Whether it’s your husband about to snorkel with great white sharks or your wife taking the contents of the tool box to her feet.

Today I got to be the stupid one. As a result of running and wearing too many impractical shoes, I’ve developed massive corns on the sides of my pinky toes. If this is too much information for some of my readers, just be grateful that you aren’t married to a doctor- Roscoe recites the intimate details of gunshot wounds over soup.

The corns got so large last week that I decided to get some of those Doctor Scholl’s corn removers. Only I didn’t buy the Doctor Scholl’s kind. Roscoe is almost a doctor, which means we are still paying massive tuition fees every twelve months, so we eschew name brands in the name of not drowning in a tidal wave of red numbers.

I digress, the corn removers shrunk my pinky toes so they could fit into my shoes again (Hurray!) but they also left giant, unsightly calluses. I’m many things; a weirdo, a hippie, a tiny, spastic dancer but I am not a woman who takes good care of her nails. As a result we do not have a nail file in our house. Mostly because when my nails grow long enough to be cut or filed I bite them. However these gigantic calluses were bothering me, so while Roscoe was searching for a cord to hook up my little netbook to the television, I decided to problem solve. Heading to the front hall closet, I pulled out Roscoe’s toolbox, reached in, tore a small square off a large sheet of sandpaper, then put the box and the remaining sandpaper back.

Now I knew this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, however my husband is becoming a doctor, so I figured that if using sand paper on my feet was really bad, he’d stop me.

Juggling Fire

Clearly the best idea ever. A married man would never be allowed to do this.(Photo credit: dpup)

When a man makes the decision to juggle fire, somewhere after the first request “Honey? Do you know where I put my devil sticks?” but before heading out to the backyard with the blow torch, “We keep the lighter fluid in the garage right?” an alarm bell will go off in his wife’s head. A nosy “What are you up to?” from a concerned female will kibosh the whole idea pretty quick.

However Roscoe was on a hunt, so I had been sanding away at my feet for a good ten minutes before the “What the hell are you doing?” came. And then of course the sequitur “STOP that!”

So thanks to my marriage, I’m happy to announce my pinky toes are still intact. Roscoe is currently out purchasing a nail file.