If You Would Just Go Where I Tell You to Go, We Wouldn’t Have These Problems. We’d Still Have Problems. Just Different Ones.

Bible verse at Chuckles Miniature Golf Course.  (I’m not absolutely sure how it relates to putt-putt.) This is what I’m going to read to Cap’n Firepants the next time he needs directions.

If I ever divorce Cap’n Firepants, I will cite the reason as being “irreconcilable differences induced by Yahoo.”  Just because, ten years ago, we spent an hour trying to find a hotel to which I had printed Yahoo directions and I finally realized that the top of the directions stated, “We could not find the address you searched, so we have given you driving directions to the center of the town,” my husband has completely lost all faith in my navigation ability.  Technically, I guess he should have faulted my reading ability, but he likes to misplace blame.

He never had faith in my driving ability.  But I can’t really blame that on Yahoo.  The man has trust issues, and I guess I didn’t really help matters when I backed into his parked truck one day.

So, you can probably picture the dilemma we face when we travel somewhere unfamiliar.  Cap’n Firepants drives, and I sit in the passenger seat telling him where to go.  And he ignores me.

That’s why I like flying.

This should have all changed when I downloaded my new nifty smartphone app that actually speaks to you and tells you exactly where to go.

But, Cap’n Firepants refuses to take it seriously, perhaps because it is a woman’s voice, or maybe because she periodically mispronounces street names (Alamo is said, “A Lamb, Oh!), but the most likely reason is because I am the one holding the phone.

He constantly questions the woman – “Why is she saying to go down that street?  I’m pretty sure it’s the next one.”

And when I tell him that I’m pretty sure she knows what she is talking about because she is crowdsourced by millions of people, he scoffs and goes whatever way his superior intuition, crowdsourced by every male with which he has had contact in his life, directs him.

This happened, several times, while we were on vacation in Tennessee.  But the most memorable example from that trip was when we were on our way to Chuckles Entertainment Center.

“It says to turn right on Chuckles Parkway,” I said.

“But I see it right there,” he responded.

“Yes, but if we turn right now, we are not turning on Chuckles Parkway.”

“So we’ll get there faster.”

“Don’t you think she would tell us if there was a faster way to get there?”

“No.”

So, we turned right.  Into the Lowe’s parking lot.  And drove all the way to the back of the lot where we could clearly see Chuckles Entertainment Center.

Below us.

If we had packed our parachutes, we definitely could have gotten there faster.

“This is going on my blog, you know,” I said.  To his credit, he did not push me over the cliff.

Now that I think about it, Yahoo’s probably not the only reason for our irreconcilable differences.

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This Marriage is Over

Cap’n Firepants wants to divorce me. I would like to file the legal papers first, but I’m in that week of the month when I don’t allow myself to make any major decisions or sign legal documents.

Of course, he hasn’t actually come out and said that he is planning to divorce me. But I know he is.

Because he unplugged my flat iron.

At first, I thought this was a great reason for me to head down to the court house and start my own proceedings. But, then I realized that there was a message there. And, it was not, “I’m going to drive you crazy by doing things that will make you divorce me.” Instead, if you really read between the lines, it was, “This girls is going nuts, but it’s useless to even tell her, so I will just pretend everything is fine and slap her with papers when she least expects it.”

You see, I knew the flat iron was still on and plugged in. But Cap’n Firepants did not know I knew. But, instead of yelling to me, “Hey, did you mean to leave your flat iron plugged in?” he just assumed that I did not know because I must be losing it, and unplugged it.

Naive people might believe that he was being kind by not mentioning to me that I forgot to unplug the iron, which, by the way, I DID NOT FORGET, but I know the truth.

I confronted Cap’n Firepants with this information.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“No, you didn’t. And I am pretty certain this is your subtle way of saying that you want a divorce.”

He laughed. And then he said, I KID YOU NOT, “Do you mean all of the other subtle ways didn’t tell you that?”

I can’t wait until my moratorium week is over.

I’m Probably Not the One Who Should be Filing Papers

About once a month, I come to the conclusion that I really need to divorce Cap’n Firepants; in fact, I should have done it a long time ago.  I mean, how can I live with a man who can’t stay up past 10 P.M., or who cannot smell, no matter how many times I ask, the mildew odor emanating from our brand new mattresses?  He is clearly the most unreasonable man in the world.

You’ve probably noted the regular schedule of this revelation, and I bet you have wisely deduced the reason this epiphany occurs every 30 days.  I have, too.  But that doesn’t make it seem less important every month.  Fortunately, during saner times, I instituted a Major Decision Moratorium for these 12 weeks a year.  And, despite the clarity with which Cap’n Firepants’ many transgressions suddenly overwhelm me each time, I am somehow able to suppress the urge to initiate any divorce proceedings long enough for the deep conviction that I would be better off as a single woman to subside.

The conversations I have with myself in my head are interesting, though.

“Is he crazy?  Did he just have the gall to ask what you wanted for dinner tonight?  As if you are going to be doing the cooking?  Why can’t he do the cooking?  It’s the weekend.”

“Don’t you think you are overreacting?  Isn’t it, uh, you know…”

“Of course I’m not overreacting!!!!  Do you think any other woman puts up with this garbage?  Do you think Oprah lets Steadman expect her to do the cooking?  What about Hillary and Bill?  Or Michelle and Barack?”

“Um, I think they all have other people cook for them.”

“Great, so I have a horrible husband and I’m poor.  Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Maybe you should just take a look at the calendar.”

“So I can see that I’m another day older?  Trust me, I haven’t forgotten that I’m old and wrinkly.  Boy, you really love making me feel low.”

“O.K.  Forget the calendar.  Look at your pills.”

“Well, thanks for telling the whole world that I take Happy Pills.  You are just determined to completely demoralize me today, aren’t you?”

“Not those pills.  The other ones.  You know, the ones that have the days of the week on the pack?”

“Uh huh.  Yeah, what about ’em?”

“One week left.  That’s all I’m sayin'”

“And why do I have to be the one that takes the pills?  Why can’t he be the one who’s responsible?  God, he is so selfish!  That’s it.  This marriage is over.”

“O.K.  I tell you what.  Wait 7 days, and if you still feel that way, I will completely support you.”

“Fine.  That will give me 7 more days of ammunition to use anyway.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.  Can I divorce you, too, while I’m at it?”

“Good luck with that.”

“Fine.  Just give me some chocolate and shut up.”

12 years, and the divorce papers have never been filed.  Cap’n Firepants is one lucky guy.

photo credit: DanielJames via photo pin cc

What Part of Our Home is Being Improved?

I would be willing to lay Odds (who is Odds, anyway?) that there have been more marriages toppled by HGTV than by ESPN.

Of course, I have insider information that leads me to this conclusion.

My husband, Cap’n Firepants, is a mild football enthusiast.  He can take it or leave it, most of the time.  In fact, the more interested he is in the outcome of the game, the less probability there is that he will watch it.  He seems to think that his mere presence in front of the screen somehow negatively effects the results for his chosen team.

But he will be more than happy to sit in front of the T.V. for an entire Sunday watching shows about ripping out your kitchen or making your small patio into a mega outdoor living space.

And while I find the Cap’n’s choice of television shows slightly ironic, I have a bigger problem when he gets up from his armchair, inspired by the amazing makeovers he has been witnessing for hours.

This past weekend, we were spending a leisurely morning taking in one of the more ambitious of these DIY shows.  During the commercials we discussed what we hoped to accomplish during the weekend.  The Cap’n mentioned getting the Christmas tree down.  It had been standing forlornly with the lights wrapped around its branches ever since I removed the ornaments over a week ago, so I, of course, wholeheartedly approved this idea.

After the manly, testosterone-laden DIY show that had something do with crashing houses was over, I wandered off to begin my projects.  I heard the garage door open and close a few times indicating that the Cap’n was hard at work.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a tree being taken down our house crumbling down around us. I raced out to the living room to find the Cap’n slamming a hammer into the tile in our entryway.

“You are NOT taking down the Christmas tree!” I intelligently observed.

“I’m just exploring,” was his irritated response.

At this point, here is whatimeant2say:  Did I mention you’re a pirate captain, not friggin Marco Polo? And since when do explorers completely decimate every thing they come into contact wi- oops, bad metaphor.

“So, uh, what exactly are you exploring?”

“I’m just seeing how hard it is to remove the tile.”

“So you chose destroying the one piece of actual floor we have left, that visitors to our home who never make it past the storm door might see, over taking down the Christmas tree?”  Actually, I didn’t say that either.

I just said, “Oh.”  I can pack a LOT of power into that little word, believe you me.

To be fair, the rest of our flooring looks worse than this solitary island by our front door.  Wonderbutt, our bulldog (or my bulldog – depending how angry the rest of the family happens to be at him), pretty much destroyed our carpeting and rearranged the padding underneath, and the Cap’n decided staring at a concrete floor with a skin disease was better than the lumpy, partially shredded, giant diaper our carpet had become.  We are waiting on some estimates from people who will transform our concrete foundation into a glorious, polished, bodily fluid repelling work of art that costs less than 1 cent per square foot.

We’ve been waiting for awhile.

Wonderbutt's Idea of Interior Decorating

We were pretty sure the tile was going to be removed when we started the new flooring process.  But, apparently the Cap’n decided he wanted to see how hard it was going to be to eliminate the entire area by himself since he had nothing better to do.

Hard enough, I guess, that he decided not to complete the task.

Before the Exploratory Expedition of Cap'n Firepants

 

After (Shouldn't These Two Pictures Be Reversed?)

I am declaring a moratorium on HGTV until one of the following happens:

1.)  We get enough money to tear this place down and rebuild the house of our dreams

2.)  We get enough money to move to the house of our dreams

3.)  HGTV sends Carter Oosterhouse to build us the house of our dreams

The Man Who Could Save our Marriage