He doesn’t even know why.

Note:  The Weirdo is now known as Kid Sensation.  Because Sir-Mix-a-Lot.

There is a reason my son is named the Destroyer–every single thing he even gets near disintegrates.  It doesn’t matter what it is.  Stone, plastic, metal–it really does not matter.  And God forbid I buy wine glasses.  I have seem him try to put one away and the glass part snapped clean off the stem during the sink-to-cupboard journey (all of two feet). I genuinely hope he never stands near any plutonium.

The accidental destruction doesn’t much bother me.  It’s the senseless, stupid crap that he does that causes destruction.  Like when he tries to jump over the dog and somehow kicks the printer over. Or swings a dining chair around and is somehow shocked when it flies across the room, nearly killing Kid Sensation and  ending a lamp’s life.  RIP, lamp.

Of course, I always ask the same question, usually at the top of my lungs:  “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

What is absolutely maddening and infuriating is this:  He never, ever, ever knows why. NEVER.

But when I think about it, this may be something peculiar to carriers of the Y chromosome.  Not that us XXers never do anything stupid, it’s just that more often than not, we know why we’ve done said stupid thing.  Usually it’s to prove a point, or alcohol is involved.

But, as usual, I digress.

The reason I boil it down to the XY combo is this:  I often have to yell the aforementioned question to my husband. And he’s 37.

Like the time he brought a stray dog home and then promptly left for work.

Or the time he threw our huge dog with untrimmed claws into our inflatable pool filled ice cold water.

The time he almost tore the whole house down because a squirrel got in. The squirrel would never have caused that much damage.

Well, I guess the squirrel had been casing the joint earlier.

The day he moved a 1,000 pound tire into our backyard. (Actually, he did have a reason for that.  He said he “wouldn’t be a stud if he couldn’t move that tire”. He said that with a straight face and the man was dead serious.)

Oh, I could go on for days. But I would love to hear someone else’s tales of senseless woe.  Please share.  Otherwise I will be forced to conclude that this is somehow my fault. 




I am officially a horrible person.

Today’s hate is reserved for a small, helpless creature.  If you are soft-hearted in any way, please stop reading–otherwise you will try to find out where I live and commence with the fisticuffs.

My husband, the Big Man, is known as the Big Man for a reason.  He’s six-foot-three and 340 pounds of bricks.  The man can bench press 700 pounds.  People avoid speaking to him and cross the street when the see him coming.  He rarely talks, smiles, or emotes publicly.  These are all reasons that I love him.

Oh, but this post is about a small and helpless creature, isn’t it?  Well, I’m getting to that, keep your shirt on.

A couple of days ago, my husband leaves the house to take The Destroyer to school.  Just like any other day.  Except on this day, he comes in the door holding what I at first thought was a dirt clod. I would have been happier had it been a dirt clod.

It was a dog. Kind of.

Okay, quick backstory.  The only two dogs we have had have been monsters.  One was a hundred-pound Doberman ; the other is a 150-pound Great Dane/St. Bernard mix.  Those were dogs.

This?  This was a closely shaven gerbil covered in God-knows-what.  And my big, hulking, menacing husband brings him into the house.

“I almost ran it over.”  The Big Man is all sheepish because the look on my face…LIVID.

“Okay, sooo….why is it in my house?”

“I couldn’t just leave her there.”  Hold up, wait a minute. One, HER?!?!  How on earth could he tell what it was?  I still wasn’t sure it was a dog, let alone gender. Two, YES YOU COULD HAVE LEFT IT THERE….because that is exactly what I would have done.  I would have felt sad about almost killing it, glad I didn’t, and moved on with my life.  But then I would have had nothing to write about.

So he bathes it in the bathroom sink. And even though the thing is clean…..it doesn’t look much better.  It. Is. Still. Gross.


And then.  It doesn’t bark.  You know, because maybe a cute little yip may have warmed my shriveled, black heart.  Nope.  It emits the same exact sound as the squeaky wheel on the jacked up shopping cart you got at Fred Meyers because you decided to go at 5:30 when everyone and their momma went so you were stuck with it.  (Run-on sentence perfection.) That sound.  Con-freaking-tenuously.

Let’s be clear.  I really don’t have anything against small dogs.  I just like big ones better.  Because you can make them do things.  Like plow the yard.  (I don’t really do that.  Please don’t call Animal Control.)  But this dog, I mean, come on.

And of course, of course, this happens on a Monday and the Humane Society isn’t open.  So my hopes of getting rid of it before the kids get home were dashed to the ground and shattered.  I wasn’t too worried about The Destroyer or Wondergirl, but I knew if the Weirdo caught sight of–

“We have a new dog?!?!” Dang it.  Before his backpack even hit the ground, he named it Squeak.

“No we don’t have a new dog.”


Okay, so look at these eyes:


Now you tell them that we don’t have a new dog.  Because that is just what the green beans I did.

“NO.  And stop touching it.  It will think we like it. It is going to the Humane Society tomorrow.”

Then the Big Man picks it up, takes it over to his chair, and flippin’ cuddles with it! “Stop being so awful. She wants to be your fwiend.”  Fwiend?  FWIEND!?!?

I swear. Everyone is against me.


I’m so petty, I am actually pointing at the dog, glaring at it, and pointing at the door.  Repeatedly.

I slept way angry that night.

I find out where the Humane Society is, and of course it’s on the other side of town.  Which in a regular car isn’t a big deal.  In Gretchen, however, you can see the dollars flying out of her exhaust pipe.  Whatever, this thing is out of here.  TODAY.

It was not to be.

I yell the F-word at the top of my lungs.  “FISH STICKS!!!!”  (We stick to SpongeBob cussin’ around here.) The Destroyer had a track meet and we had to be supportive parents and such, so getting rid of the dog had to wait until the next day. Fish Sticks, indeed.

The next day.  This is it.  Homeboy is gone.  I gassed Gretchen up and burnt SR-14 to a crisp getting to the Humane Society.  I am mumbling like a crazy person, “They better take this dog.  I am not playing, they better take this dog. I even had a plan for if they tried not to–I was going to throw the dog at them and run out. That’s how horrible I am.

But they took the dog.  Turns out it was a Chihuahua.  And it was a boy.

That’s it, I guess.  Don’t judge me.