Conversations With The Man

Due to the Man's crazy work schedule, we don't see each other much. And when we happen to occupy the same place at the same time, he's usually unconscious. So on the very rare occasion that a) he's not working b) we're at home and c) he isn't comatose, we try to catch up on each other's lives as quickly as possible (you know, before he falls asleep again.) Not that we have very deep and meaningful conversations...


Me: I think you put too much lighter fluid on the charcoal.
(The Man lights the grill. Giant flame ball erupts.)
The Man: Do I still have my eyebrows?!
Me: Told you.

The Man: Let's go to Dairy Queen.
Me: I don't want to go to Dairy Queen. It's too expensive.
The Man: YOU'RE too expensive!

Me: Can you please take the garbage out? It smells like nasty.
The Man: YOU smell like nasty!

Me: Shooting clays are on sale at Farm & Fleet.
The Man: YOU'RE on sale at Farm & Fleet.

(and so on, and so forth....)

The Man (singing): "I keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding out.....keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding out."
Me: Are you singing Leona Lewis?
The Man: I don't know. It was on the radio.
Me: You know the real words are "bleeding love" not "bleeding out."
The Man: Yeah, but "bleeding out" is more manly.
Me: Right. Because singing the regular words to Leona Lewis is just downright girly.


The Man: Can you come put me in a rear-naked choke?
Me: What?!
The Man: I need to practice how to escape a rear-naked choke.
Me: Because that happens all the time?
The Man: Just do it, please.
(I put him in a rear-naked choke. He hits his head on the bedroom door. I stop.)
The Man: Ok, I can't practice MMA with my wife.
Me: Why? Didn't I do it right?
The Man: Yeah, but since we love each other and stuff, we always stop when the other gets hurt.
Me: Sorry that our love got in the way of violence.
The Man: That's ok. I'll just spar with Dale from now on.

Me (calling from work): Wanna take a study break and go to Starbucks?
The Man: Yeah, I just gotta finish cleaning up first.
Me: Cleaning up what?
The Man: (long pause) The bowl of cereal I spilled.
Me: *sigh*
The Man: Don't worry, I kept the mess contained.
Me: *sigh*
The Man: It spilled in my lap, so I grabbed a bunch of junk mail from the coffee table to keep the milk from seeping onto the couch.
Me: *sigh*
The Man: I waited until the milk was absorbed into the mail and my t-shirt before I got up.
Me: *sigh*
The Man: So I just need to change my shirt and I'll be right there.
Me: What am I going to do with you?

The Shotgun Chronicles

As I mentioned in my previous post, my family went camping at the Kankakee State Park last weekend. The Man and I figured it was the perfect time to take the family clay shooting since it was so beautiful outside. My mom, bless her heart, had never held a real gun before nonetheless actually shoot one. After a quick safety lesson, the Man handed our 20 gauge shotgun to my very hesitant mother.

My mom is a self-prescribed adrenaline junkie, so we knew that she would enjoy shooting once she got over the initial fear. We spent the rest of the morning going through almost 100 clays and 75 rounds of shells. How does that math figure, you ask? My brother's girlfriend and my dad couldn't quite figure out how to throw the clays, thus resulting in several thrown directly into the concrete. It's a learning process.

Me?

I'm not that bad of a shot, if I do say so myself (considering I hail from the south side of Chicago where the only gun I've ever held had "Super Soaker" written on the barrel). The man and I are officially hooked on clay shooting and have subsequently spent the majority of our "fun money" on clays, shells, and gun cleaning kits. We figure it's a pretty harmless hobby -- as long as the safety is on and the Man doesn't say something snarky. It's hard to believe that just 3 years ago I spent most of my free time reading Shakespeare at Moon Monkey and discussing its philosophical implications over minty moons.

Now I sing along to "Backwoods" while riding shotgun in my husband's Chevy on our way to skeet shooting. I may be morphing into a pseudo-redneck, but you'll never catch me missing teeth or standing barefoot in the kitchen with a baby on my hip and a pie in the oven. No way. I'll be barefoot in the kitchen with a dog at my feet and an overpriced espresso drink in my hand. I'm classy like that.

He is Risen! (Better late than never...)

Despite my lack of blogging, we're still here - dysfunctional as ever. We've been keeping busy with Easter festivities, nursing the man back to health, and soaking up Sir Booska Squeakerface.

The Saturday before Easter, the Man woke up with a splitting headache and a temperature of 102.7. Typically I'm pretty no-nonsense when it comes to sickness -- my general treatment for anything and everything is two Tylenol. Neither I nor the Man have been to the doctor (other than for state-required vaccinations and line-dancing induced sprained ankles) since 1996. Simply put, sympathy does not flow freely at the Heller house. And yet, that morning I found myself on the phone with my mom coming completely unglued. I couldn't figure out why I was suddenly so concerned about a fever when it dawned on me: it was my sister's fault.

I know, he's simply irresistible. And yet, such a wonderful miracle almost came with a significant price. My sister's pregnancy had been, for the most part, normal and problem-free. Sure she had the typical pregnancy woes, but her health was never in question. All of that changed in what seemed like an instant. She went from being an expectant mom to a critical intensive care patient in a manner of hours. I assumed everything was ok, only to find out that her life had been in jeopardy. As "no-nonsense" as I am, this rocked me to the core.

So when the Man woke up delirious and pale, I had flashbacks to my poor sister waking up in the ICU. I understand that a fever and headache aren't necessarily life-threatening, but at the time I just couldn't shake the memory of my sister being fine one instant and critical the next.
Praise the Lord my sister made a full recovery and is the healthy mother of the most ridiculously lovable boy in the entire world. (Oh and the Man made a full recovery as well -- the two Tylenol did the trick.)

Whew! All of that just for Saturday. Easter Sunday was spent rejoicing our Savior's victory over death, eating more food than what we thought was humanly possible, and fighting over who got to hold Sir Booska. Nothing says, "He is risen!" like "Shutup and give him to me - you don't know what the heck you're doing!" Luckily, no fistfights broke out.

But seriously, I would probably punch someone in the face for the chance to hold this guy. Understandably so as I haven't had a chance to spend quality time with my sister or Booska -- they're pretty popular these days. Good thing they're coming down this weekend for the first camping trip of the season! Oh and did I mention we're going to teach my mom how to shoot a shotgun? That's a blog post waiting to happen...