July 10 Editorial

In every household a little dirt and disaster must fall, but my house seems more like it’s had a visit from a bull in a china shop. Some people spend their days cleaning up the messes of their children. I spend my days cleaning up the messes of my husband.
This week, I learned the valuable lesson that no matter how old he gets, my man will always need full time supervision. With that being said, I’ll take you back to disaster number one of the week.
It was nearing midnight, and our three crazy dogs were insistent that we take them for a walk before bed. Knowing their track record of keeping me up all night if not properly exercised, we decided that these night owls were going for a stroll. The last time we took a late night walk, we encountered a strange young man who said nothing and wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood, spooking me a bit, so my husband asked, “Should we take the pistol this time just in case?” I told him that I thought it might be a good idea, so he went to the bedroom to get it while I went outside to the car to get the dog’s leashes.
Seconds after I exited the house, I heard a shot ring out and my husband yelling my name. My heart stopped. I sprinted for the house, terrified that he may have hurt himself or one of the pups. I busted through the door to a living room that smelled like gun powder to find him standing there grabbing his ears and squinting his eyes like he had just encountered a flash bang.
I screamed in freaked out excitement, “Are you okay,” to which he replied, “I think so.” He asked where the dogs were, and it took us fifteen minutes to track them all down, as they had scattered like cockroaches when the shot rang out. Tucker was under the bed, Leia was under a bush in the backyard, and Jake had let himself out of the front door and headed down the street. Once all were wrangled, we realized no one was hurt. We had literally dodged a bullet.
“What the heck happened,” I asked. “I was checking to see if there was a round in the chamber and it went off. My hand wasn’t even near the trigger,” he explained. I’m not sure that I believe that this was a gun malfunction over user error, but seeing as how no one was hurt, I thought it was best not to split hairs and point fingers. He felt guilty enough on his own.
Our next task was to find where the bullet had gone, and it didn’t take long. It was lodged in about four pieces in the middle of our hard wood floors. I know that it could’ve been much worse, but spending the next two days ripping up the living room floor is something I could’ve done without.
A few days after the Wild West showdown in my living room, disaster number two happened when he once again decided to take it upon himself to take on another dangerous task…..checking the attic for packing boxes.
Normally, this would be a simple job, but not for my husband. I heard a gigantic crash, so I sprang from the bedroom to find his lower body dangling from the ceiling. I yelled, “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” He giggled like an embarrassed school boy and just said, “Oops.”
A minute or two later he managed to wiggle himself back into the attic with the help of a ladder. The mess was massive. There was sheetrock and insulation everywhere. Not to mention scuffed up walls, a dust covered couch, and a gaping hole the size of a small planet in my living room ceiling.
“This will be an easy fix,” he said hoping that I was in a good mood so that he didn’t have to die. Luckily, I was in fact in a good mood, so I smiled and gave him the eyes that said, “You are completely out of control, but I love you anyways.”
We spent the rest of our day off together repairing the sheetrock and cleaning the mess. I have to say that I nearly lost my good mood while holding up a heavy piece of sheetrock to the ceiling while he measured and searched for a pencil. I beginning to wonder if I can be considered for sainthood?
There are so many things I love about my husband, but his accident prone-ness isn’t one of them. I always talked about having a nanny one day when we have kids, but I’m seriously thinking we may need to hire one now. I’m not sure he can be left unsupervised and he loves warm milk before a nap….I think that qualifies. He may be a giant walking disaster, but at least he keeps things interesting.
I think I need to write an apology letter to my house. Poor little thing never had a chance.

July 3 Editorial

As a food lover, nothing brings me more joy than spending a night out with friends at a restaurant. That is until that restaurant turns into a perfect storm of bad experiences. This was the case last Saturday when my friends and I decided that dinner at a lively hibachi place sounded like a good idea. Turns out, we should’ve stayed home.
We arrived at 7:30 pm, and although the hibachi tables were mostly empty, we were told there was a wait. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I unfortunately was seated next to a baby who apparently thought that the next county over wanted to hear him screaming for no reason. My ears were literally ringing when I looked to his mother for some sign of frustration. Instead, she giggled and encouraged his horrible behavior. Good luck in the teen year’s lady.
We were finally seated at 8 pm, and I cringed when I realized that junior baby mutant lungs was seated around our table. I knew the only way I was going to get through this was to start drinking, so I waited for the waiter to arrive to take our drink orders. Fifteen minutes later, he was still nowhere to be seen and my blood pressure was on the rise.
The waiter finally arrived at 8:20 pm, and asked everyone for their order. Ten minutes later he returned with a glass of wine for me and a ridiculously large fishbowl drink that looked like cotton candy for the woman next to me. When he reached in to put it on the table, he lost his grip on the glass and showered me with sticky liquor and fruit juice. I jumped to my feet, feeling like I had just taken the “cold water challenge” while he fumbled to pat me down with paper towels.
This was becoming a nightmare.
I sat back down in my chair eager to order my food and get the heck out of there. When the waiter approached the other side of the table (which contained 6 people, 4 teeth, and 2 English speakers), there seemed to be some confusion about what they intended to order. They wanted to share plates, but didn’t want to pay the shared plate fee, scrambled to decide who was having chicken or steak, blah, blah, blah.
I stared at them as if laser beams were going to come out of my eyes and force them to explode. I mean, we had only had 40 minutes at this point to work all of the details out. Get it together people.
When the patriarch of the family laughed and said, “Can you just come back in a minute so we can figure this out,” my husband pinched my leg as if he knew I was about to go New Jersey Housewives on this guy’s behind by flying across the table with rage. Thankfully, the waiter just skipped them and took our order instead. I added, “Can you go ahead and put our order in? We need to be somewhere.” Also, I will cut you.
When the chef came out to prepare our food, the idiots next to us were so fascinated by the sight of rice and vegetables that they felt compelled to take photos of each course and selfies with the chef. The woman next to me said, “I’ve never seen rice like this before.” Where was she from? Neptune?
Her phone rang, so she put her camera down to answer it, “Hello? Shane?....Shane?....Shane? SHAAANNNE!!!???” At this point the baby was crying and this lady was driving me bananas, obviously too dumb to realize that “Shane” couldn’t hear her. I had officially come unglued and the main course hadn’t even arrived yet.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that the bar was full of drunken World Cup fans yelling, “GOOOAAALLLL” every five minutes. Yay, my two favorite things; drunken idiots and soccer.
I looked at my friends and asked, “Is this all really happening? Are we on TV right now?” They laughed and agreed that this was ridiculous. We had to get out of there.
All in all, the food was good, but our night was a complete disaster. We paid our bills and headed for the front door, only to be bid farewell by one of the soccer fans who had apparently had way too much to drink judging by the pile of urine and vomit he was sitting in right outside the door. The management in this place must be top notch.
I know that there are different people from all walks of life with all kinds of behavioral patterns, and I can usually deal with them in singles. When a group of these strange birds get together I nearly need to be committed. I know its “different strokes for different folks”, but maybe someone can come up with a restaurant concept that accommodates bad servers, horrible patrons, and complete morons. I’ll be sure to skip it.