Funny Conversations With My Husband: The Difference Between Presents and Necessities

Brian recently started working full-time as an RN. It's so exciting!! Not just because he's finally living his dream, and putting his education to good use. But because he's nearly tripled his salary.

That's right, I said tripled.

So naturally, when he got his first pay check, we sort of felt like this:

We're not exactly swimming in cash, but his first check, paired with our tax refund money, left us giddy with that "holy crap we're rich" feeling. And so, we did what all good Americans do when they find themselves "in the money."

We went out yesterday and spent some.

After months of dreaming about, talking about, and drooling over an air brush kit for his most recent hobby (customizing and hand-painting Transformers), Brian finally took the plunge yesterday and bought one. This particular kit, and all the bells and whistles needed to make it actually work, set us back about $250. For the housewife who recently was trying her best to stretch $50 to last two weeks (i.e., ME) I had a little bit of sticker shock. But he's really been wanting one, and we definitely had the money in the account for it. So the "green light" was given, and he happily marched up to the register at Hobby Lobby with the air brush kit under his arm.

(Not really, because Jacob the cashier wouldn't let us walk through the store with the giant box by ourselves, because we might stuff it under our shirts and try to walk out with it.)

(Also, if you haven't noticed the money puns I've been using, I'm very sad. Go back and look for them. I'll wait.)

As we loaded his purchases into the back of the car, the following conversation took place:

Abby: So, when do I get my big ticket, $250, "We Have Lots of Money Now Woohoo" present?
Brian: Oh, yeah. I've been meaning to tell you, if you wanted to go ahead and schedule your eye exam so you can get some new glasses, that would be ok.
Abby: Are you kidding?
Brian: ... ... ... What?
Abby: You get to spend $250 on a super-fun toy, and you think that is equivalent to me getting my eyes dilated and getting a new prescription for glasses?
Brian: I mean, you've been asking for glasses for awhile now...
Abby: That's because I CAN'T SEE!
Brian: Ok, Ok...I get it...
Abby: It's been THREE YEARS since I got new glasses, and I have to squint with the ones I'm wearing now just to read road signs!
Brian: I know! I'm sorry, I didn't mean...
Abby: I mean, seriously...that's like winning the lottery, and you get a shiny new car, and I get to go in for a colonoscopy.
Brian: I get it, I get it...I'm sorry. 
Abby: ... ... ...
Brian: So, what big ticket item do you want?
Abby: I don't know. Diamond-studded glasses?


Watch out, world. Here I come.

Conversations with My Husband: The Omelet That Never Ends

As I mentioned in my last post, Brian is on summer vacation from school. Which means he's home 4 days a week, from dawn to dusk. It's been three whole weeks of no school, and I've enjoyed every second of having him home.


So much so that I'm afraid I've already been spoiled by his constant presence.


Because even though Brian doesn't have classes right now, he still works on weekends---three 12-hour shifts, Friday through Sunday. And even though I always look forward to my Gilmore Girls Marathon on Friday morning, by Friday evening, I'm desperately lonely.


Which leads to conversations like this one, which we had last night while climbing into bed:


Abby: "Don't go to work tomorrow."
Brian: "I have to."
Abby: "No, don't. Stay home with me. You know you want to."
Brian: "Of course I do. But I have to work because we need money."
Abby: "P-shaw. Who needs money?? I'll pay you to stay home."
Brian: "And where are you going to get the money to pay me to stay home?"
Abby: "My bank account."
Brian: "You mean our joint bank account?"
Abby: "Well, yeah."
Brian: "Uh huh. And what do we do when we have to spend that money on groceries and there's no more money left in that joint bank account for us to survive off of?"
Abby: *grumble grumble whine sigh grumble*

It continues on like this, logic versus relentlessness, until it becomes obvious (to me, anyway) that only bribery will work.


Abby: "Soooo...if you stay home tomorrow, I'll make you breakfast. Anything you want in the whole wide world."
Brian: "Oh yeah?"
Abby: "Yeah. And then we'll go to Disney Land and have lunch with Tinkerbell. And then we'll go on a cruise. In outer space. It'll be awesome. You really should stay home."
Brian: (long pause, then) "Well, alright. I'll stay home."
Abby: "REALLY?"
Brian: "Yeah, sure."
Abby: "Awesome! So, what do you want for breakfast?"
Brian: "An omelet."
Abby: "Just a plain omelet?"
Brian: "No. An omelet with sausage. And onions. And peppers."
Abby: "Ok, I can do that."
Brian: "And tomatoes. And cheese. It's not an omelet without cheese."
Abby: "Naturally."
Brian: "I also want scratch-made biscuits. And pancakes."
Abby: "Gee, you're planning on being really hungry tomorrow morning."
Brian: "Yep. Pancakes from scratch--no mix. And organic syrup."
Abby: "Wow...."
Brian: "And also, apple-wood smoked bacon."
Abby: "Are you sure you want to eat so much before your first trip on a rocket to outer space? You might be sick."
Brian: "Yep."
Abby: "So let me get this straight. You want an omelet with sausage and onions and peppers and tomatoes and cheese, scratch-made biscuits and pancakes with organic syrup..."
Brian: "Scratch-made pancakes, no mix."
Abby: "Right, scratch-made pancakes, no mix, with organic syrup, and apple-wood smoked bacon. Did I get that right?"
Brian: "Yep."
Abby: "Gee. I'm going to be cooking all day."
Brian: "But if you're cooking all day, we won't have time for Disney Land, lunch with Tinkerbell, or the outer-space cruise."
Abby: "I know."
Brian: "So I guess we better cancel all those plans, huh?"
Abby: "Yeah, probably so."
Brian: "That stinks. Maybe another day?"
Abby: "Maybe."
Brian: "Don't worry. We can go Monday. I'm off all day on Monday."
Abby: "Okay."


We open our prospective books and read in silence for a few minutes. And then...


Abby: "Wait, what kind of cheese do you want on your omelet?"
Brian: (without missing a beat) "Goat."
Abby: "Goat. Got it. So you want a goat cheese omelet with sausage and onions and peppers and tomatoes with scratch-made biscuits..."


And we both collapse into giggles. Because we are awesome. And I am not above bribing my husband with the omelet that never ends in order to spend a few more hours with him. Any day.

Abby Gabs News: A Video Blog

While watching the news with my husband the other day, a question popped into my head. I turned to him, and the following conversation ensued.


Abby: Do you think they teach the newscasters how to talk like that in school?
Brian: I dunno. Maybe.
A: Like...is there a text book? 
B: Guest speakers, maybe?
A: *In bad newscaster voice* "Today in class we will teach you how to use the inflection of your voice to make your point."
B: You should blog about it.


So I did. In video blog form. Enjoy.

Can't see the video? Point your browser here: http://youtu.be/eGafzYC4dTw

Saturday Mornings

What was your favorite part of Saturday as a kid? Not having to go to school? Racing downstairs to devour your Mom's famous flapjacks? Getting up early and heading to the fishing hole with your Dad?

Who are you kidding? You know it was the Saturday Morning Cartoons.

A few of my faves.

I've mentioned before my admiration for Shera. And I know I've outlined my husband's love of all things robot.

This past Saturday, thanks to The Hub, I got to revisit my childhood. My husband, ever the narrow-minded child and only interested in "boy" cartoons, totally missed out on one of my all-time favorite cartoons, ever. So the time had come for me to school him on "real" cartoons.

AKA = "Jem and the Holograms."

I was obsessed with this show. And before you ask, yes, I had the dolls, too. And the Rockin' Roadster.

Since I've watched a gazillion hours worth of Transformers in the years I've been married to my husband, it only seemed fair that he get a taste of what my childhood was like. So we settled in and watched an episode of "Jem."

The following argument conversation took place during the commercial breaks.

B: This is terrible.

A: So's your face.

B: It is really really terrible.

A: Whatever. It's the coolest cartoon ever.

B: Who do you think they hired to sing this crap? Do you think they told them to be bad? Like, they're singing off-key on purpose?

A: They're the Misfits. Like, the Decepticons of rock n' roll. They're supposed to suck.

B: Oh...

Next commercial break:

B: So you really watched this as a kid?
A: Yes.

B: And you never watched Transformers?
A: No.

B: Wow. Now you know what you were missing. Your cartoons were awful.

A: Whatever. I'd rather be a rockstar than a Transformer anyday.

B: WHAAAAAAAAT? How can you....

A: (Abby interrupts) SHHHH. It's coming back on and I'm dying to find out if the Holograms are going to figure out where the Misfits hid the master tape for their new album.

B: (pouts)

Next commercial break:

B: HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY THINK THAT JEM IS BETTER THAN TRANSFORMERS?

A: Because I'm a girl.

B: So? Even girls know that robots that transform into sports cars are cooler than a chick with pink hair and flashy earrings.

A: No, I don't think so. Girls would rather be rockstars and wear awesome clothes and tour the world with their friends.

B: Awesome clothes?
A: What? Leg warmers were the height of fashion in the 80s.

B: (GAG)

As if he needs further proof, I've devised a simple check list of all the ways Jem is cooler than Transformers. 

Seriously, Bri...you can't argue with that.

And if you can argue with that, you can't argue with the
AWESOMEST THEME SONG KNOWN TO MAN EVER.

I win.

Conversations with my Husband: What a Difference One Letter Makes

Recently, my husband installed a new stereo in our car. This made me very happy, because now I can listen to my iPod without several hundred wires and cords hanging in my face.

This is a happy Me.

After a few days of radio bliss, the thing began to rattle. Not like a quiet, not-so-annoying rattle that made you occasionally wonder, "What is that?" But more like a loud, obnoxious "This is what makes it obvious that I'm not factory installed and ruins your enjoyment" rattle.


Brian and I have had several discussions about said rattle, but the one we had last night was relatively blog worthy, and so I'll share it with you here.


Radio: *rattle rattle rattle*
Abby: *giant sigh*
Brian: "What's wrong?"
Abby: "The radio. She rattles."
Brian: "Yeah, I know."
Abby: "It's really frickin' annoying."
Brian: "Yeah, I know."
Abby: "Why is it rattling?"
Brian: "I think it's this little bit of flimsy plastic here." 

Abby: "Well I hate it."
Brian: "I know, me too."
Radio: *rattle rattle rattle*
Abby: "I bet you're wishing you'd had it professionally installed now, huh?"
Brian: "Not really. It's just that little bit of plastic that's making the noise."
Abby: "Well, it's evil. It's an evil radio."

Brian: *snort*
Radio: *rattle rattle rattle*
Abby: "Seriously, can you fix it?"
Brian: "Maybe."
Abby: "Maybe you can wedge something in there...like a piece of paper or cardboard or something. You know, like a shiv."
Brian: ....  .....  ......
Abby: "Oh, no, wait...a shiv is what you use to kill someone in prison. I meant a shim."
Brian: *ten minutes of insane laughter followed by...* "Oh what a difference a letter makes."


To recap: you'd better watch out, evil car radio. I'm coming for you.

Conversations with My Husband: Man Day

In the throes of birthday celebration last night, my husband and I came to the decision that we wanted to install a new car radio. In our excitement, we proceeded to our favorite store, purchased said car radio, mounting kit, and appropriate wires.


My husband, who currently works in a predominately female profession (restaurant business) and is also studying to begin a career in a totally different predominately female profession (nurse), is practically foaming at the mouth with delight. Finally, a project he can sink his teeth into that screams "I am man, hear me roar."


As we were pulling out of the parking lot, my husband turns to me and says:


B: So I guess tomorrow is going to be a MAN DAY.
A: A man day?
B: No, a MAN DAY.


(In order to get the inflection right, drop your voice approximately 4 octaves, stand with legs akimbo, hands on hips, drop chin to chest, and draw out your vowel sounds. MAAAAAAN DAAAAAY.)


Amused, I asked him what MAN DAY entails.


B: Well, first of all I'm going to mow the grass.
A: Because that's manly?
B: Absolutely. Maybe I'll do it bare-chested.
A: Clutching a dagger between your teeth?
B: Well, no, but that would make it manlier.
A: What else constitutes MAN DAY?


Keep in mind, reader, that every time we use the phrase MAN DAY, we say it like I outlined above. MAAAAN DAAAAY.


So anyway, I had just asked him what other manly plans he had, and he responded:


B: I'm going to install this car radio. 
A: I'll agree, that's a pretty manly task.
B: Yes it is. And then I'm going to fix that door knob. 
A: The one that's been missing for 2 weeks since it broke and I had to pull it out of the door with pliers?
B: Yes. That door knob. I'm going to take out my tool belt, rev up my power tools, and fix that door knob because it's MANLY.


At this point I'm giggling like a crazy woman. As the laughter dies down I turn to him and ask:


A: Any other plans for MAN DAY?
B: (long pause as he considers....) I don't know. Do we have any heavy furniture you want me to move?

I love this (manly)man.

Conversations with My Husband

While mowing the lawn yesterday, my husband broke one of my bird feeders. He apologized profusely and offered to go out immediately and buy me a new one.


I milked the situation and talked him into buying two. And bird seed.


About 20 minutes after he left the house with his tail between his legs (not really, because I really wasn't mad at all. Promise.) I decided to try my luck and ask for a shower caddy, too. So, I called him up.


B: (like the obnoxious guy on Storage Wars)Yep?
A: Are you still at Target?
B: Yep.
A: Can I have a shower caddy, too?
B: A shower caddy?
A: Yes. Space saver, company coming Friday.
B: Sure, you got it.
A: Thanks. Love you, bye.
B: Love you too, bye.


This is how our phone conversations typically go. He knows I hate talking on the phone, and I know he would rather get whatever he's doing over with and just get home. So, we speak as few words as possible when a decision-making conversation is necessary.


We also like to amuse ourselves by answering the phone in silly ways. It's the smart phones' fault. When he calls I can see his face on my Droid, and hilarity ensues.


A few minutes after I phoned in my request, my phone rang.


A: (using my Lerch-iest voice) YOU RANG?
B: Hi, so, let's talk shower caddies.
A: Ok. Whatcha got?
B: Big one, a middle one, or a small one?
A: How big is big?
B: Um....three shelves, 9 hooks and a soap tray.
A: Too big. How small is small?
B: One shelf, two hooks, no tray. 
A: Too small.
B: Medium it is. Black, silver or chrome?
A: Not black. Otherwise, don't care.
B: Ok. Chrome it is. Love you, bye.
A: Love you too, bye.


A few minutes after we'd picked out our shiny new chrome shower caddy, my phone rang again.


A: Go For Abby...
B: *Laughs for approximately 19 seconds* That was funny. Ok, so, anyway...do you remember how I told you that there was a new wave of Transformers out this week?


I immediately know that this conversation isn't a decision-making conversation because 1) his opening sentences had more than 5 words and 2) he said the word "Transformers."


A: (knowing that we both know I tend to tune out those conversations)Yes, and...?
B: Well they have one of the toys. Except it's the $45 toy. And I'm having a hard time justifying spending that much money since I know we'll be spending this weekend while The Weekend Company Family is here. (Pause for dramatic effect.) But he's SO COOL.


At this point, I due my wifely duty. Do I convince him to keep the money in his wallet? Of course not.


A: Hon, didn't your grandparents just send you a "Congratulations On Finishing Your First Semester of Nursing School" check? 
B: (Pause)
A: I think it's okay to use that money for this.
B: (Pause)
A: After all, you just got me a caddy and some bird feeders, right?
B: You're the best wife, ever.
A: I know.
B: Love you. Seriously. Bye.
A: Love you, too. Bye.

How could I say no to this face?

My Husband Is In My Brain

Yesterday, while watching bad TV with my husband, the subliminal messages in the commercials were really starting to work.


I wanted Chocolate Milk, and I wanted it BAD.

Damn you, adorable Nesquik bunny!

But, we were in our comfortable, legs-intertwined just so, took-us-10-minutes-to-get-settled-into-this-perfect-position TV positions on the couch when this desire arose. And I was too comfy, and too lazy, to head to the kitchen to investigate our fridge to see if I had the necessary tools to produce said chocolate milk. Plus, there was the question of whether I could actually HAVE the chocolate milk, since I knew I was close to meeting my Weight Watchers points for the day.


An hour, and 3 more chocolate milk commercials, later, Brian heads to the kitchen to scare up a late night snack. "Abby," I hear, "We DO have chocolate syrup."


HOORAY!!! 


Pause. 


Have a 30 second argument with myself that chocolate milk isn't a total sin and I think I have a few points left anyway. Check Weight Watchers on my phone, discern that I can have chocolate milk, but it will send me 1 point over on the day. Decide that's not the end of the world and convince myself that it's a-ok. Happily, I skip to the kitchen to whip myself up a cold glass of chocolatey-chocolate goodness.


Then I see the dinner dishes. And the slightly messy kitchen. And the full dishwasher that needs to be unloaded.


Pause.


Tell myself that Brian will be gone all day tomorrow, and I can take care of the dishes first thing in the morning, thereby procuring more free time to spend with him tonight. But it will only take 10 minutes to clean this up, then I won't have to do it in the morning. Plus, dirty dishes overnight---ew. Except, Brian is sitting in there, waiting for me to come back and snuggle with him on the couch. Guilt guilt guilt, back and forth, back and forth. Dammit! I know, I'll knock it out REALLY super-fast, and then I'll reward myself with chocolatey-chocolate goodness. I roll up my proverbial sleeves and start cleaning like a mad woman.


Five minutes into my impromptu cleaning session, I hear Brian laughing behind me.


A: What?
B: I thought you were coming in here to fix some chocolate milk?
A: I'll get to it in a minute.
B: (laughing) You're totally doing the dishes first, because you're feeling guilty about chocolate milk, and you convinced yourself that if you cleaned the kitchen first, you could use the chocolate milk as a reward, which also justifies going over your alloted points for the day.


I looked at my husband, stunned, and started laughing like a crazy person. 


It's scary, and somewhat exhilarating, to be married to someone who knows you so well, it's like he's living inside your brain.

Conversation with My Husband

**Warning: This blog post contains pictures of, and conversations about, toes. If you have a phobia, look away now!***


Let me set up this story by saying this: My husband thinks I have cute feet. He tells me so all the time. (Although by no means does this constitute a fetish. I really do have cute toes. See?)

It's ok. You can say "Awww." They really are cute.

The other night, the hubs and I were having a nice, relaxing night at home. We were stretched out on the couch, my feet in his lap, watching bad TV. (It really is the perfect way to spend an evening.)


During a commercial break, my husband started tickling my feet. The following conversation ensued.


B: You have cute toes.
A: Just cute? Or really cute?
B: Really cute.
A: I'm glad you think so.
B: I do. In fact, I'm going to name them.
A: (Pause) You're going to name my toes. (Thinking to self: awesome blog fodder!)
B: Yes. 
A: Ok. Go for it. Name my toes.
B: (Points to big toe.) This one's Tony.
A: You're naming my adorable big toe Tony?
B: Yeah, you know...."Toe-ny." (giggle)
A: Oh. I get it. Ok, who's next?
B: (Points to second toe) We'll call this one Alberto. And this one (indicating middle toe) should be Gilberto.
A: So my toes are cute AND Italian?
B: Yep. We'll round out the clan with Little Tony and Tony, Jr.
A: So, basically, I have the Italian mafia on the end of my foot.
B: Yep.


If I'd had a thought bubble over my head, it would've contained the following image:

Yep. Piedi means foot in Italian. You bet I Googled it.

And if you're thinking "I bet the only reason she told us this story was so she could put her toes in pin-striped gangster suits," you'd be correct.