I was going to title this "How Mr W dug himself a big hole in 24 hours or less" but it wouldn't fit.
It's a good thing he's cute, and makes me laugh, or he'd never get away with it.
We're going to Disneyland this month. I booked our trip a couple of weeks ago, and made the mistake of letting all the kids know then. The big kids are okay with it, the waiting game, that is, but Audrey is another story. Every day, she thinks is THE day, and it takes a few minutes of talking to get her to understand...and still, she does things like this:
I bought her some new shoes recently, (a few pairs, okay, I admit it) and I went to get her dressed, and poof! gone. Where are they? I wondered, out loud. She pipes up that they are "in my bag." What bag? As I go into the living room, she is ahead of me, unzipping her backpack, inside of which is her lunchbox, packed full of shoes, and a bathing suit. "I'm ready for Deeneyland," she announced. (Um, no, not yet.)
Then I made her a paper chain, to tear off a link each night so she could "see" how many days we had left. And I was sooo proud of myself, as I trotted off to my room...only to be followed a few minutes later by Audrey with a handful of paper in her hands. Links. "Sweetie, what is that?" She explained to me that she tore off a few links, you know, so time would pass more quickly. (Um, it's not that easy. I wish.)
But back to my husband--
We were in Ross, and just walking down one of the aisles. I forgot they have luggage in there, and when we travel, usually I pack one giant leather gym bag for us, one for the kids, and we are all set. I think I pack it up pretty well, and it's worked so far for us. But Mr W suggested we try something different, so I'm game, let's try this rolling box on wheels, sure. We start unzipping bags, looking inside, and just feeling giddy about taking the trip in general. He knows I'm looking for something more colorful than black, but I decide on black anyways, because rust is eewww and blue is dirty; red is too much of a good thing; and I've learned the hard way through beige that sometimes, with kids, black is the best choice. I'm biting my lip, in a perplexed way, and he says "What?" "Oh, I just wanted to not have to take such big ones."
He guffaws, right there in the aisle. "What in your life is small ?"
I straighten up immediately, hands on hips, somewhat offended, <did he just look at my chest? is he referring to my ass?> and before I can stammer a retort, like, "flattering yourself?" he goes on:
"Big family. Big kids. Big dogs. You drive a van. Nothing in your life is small. Okay, well, maybe the house. The house is small." He waving his hands around as he makes his point, and I'm giggling. But of course, still mock-offended, I have to smack him on the arm.
"NOoo, what I meant was, will the boys still be able to maneuver these things..." at which point, Audrey grabs the handle of one and starts walking toward the registers...and Mr W does a 'voila' maneuver with his hand..."once they are full?" She looks over her shoulder at me, 'mom-you're-nuts' on her face. And he shakes his head as they walk off together.
As for the other hole he dug himself into, it was in response to one of those stupid girl questions I don't know why I asked, in the vein of "Does my butt look big in these pants?"; the question to which there is no right answer for a man, brought on by a post-Victorias Secret commercial/Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue rant. Ultimately, he kept making things worse when he was trying to make them better, and I was bad because I knew there wasn't anywhere to go with it that wouldn't end in a bloodfest, and I kept leading him that way anyway.
I started out with this thought, just follow a downward spiral from there on your own:
"They're freaks, freaks of nature," point, look, "She's got kids, (point at model on cover) and she had two kids (more pointing), and the magazine has the gall to say that this one did a shoot, in only paint, what, like five minutes postpartum (I think it was 3 months, but still, I mean, come on, most of us are still sporting all kinds of unpleasantness at that point)" rant, rant, "I'd give up IQ points and boobage, for a few more inches of height, blondeness...would you have been interested in me, back in the day, if I was taller, but stupider?"
(Ugh. I'm stupid now, it appears, isn't that enough? Poor man...but hey, he's the one that had the magazine on the bed next to me to begin with...)
Compelled to respond, and yet doomed with his answers, try as he might; until he threw up hands, exasperated, "There is no way to answer that that I will not get in trouble from.."
(Oh, come on. I didn't get mad, I knew I was being an idiot, and I made up for it later.)
Besides, he had the presence of mind to distract me. With chocolate, and a switch of the remote to Grey's Anatomy. "Hey, your show's on."
And, in one gesture, I understand it doesn't matter how tall, short, smart, dumb, pretty or ugly I am, he gets it. He loves me, even when I'm impossible.
I prefer to think of it as "hormonally challenged."