Let me preface this post by saying that I love my husband to death. I do. I don’t know what I would do without him, and he’s oftentimes a better man than I feel I deserve. I’m damn lucky, and I acknowledge this. That said, some of the crap he does is absolutely asinine. I know I mentioned the mouth-mind disconnect in The English-to-Man Dictionary, but some other things just reach far above and beyond my capabilities of understanding. (And I’m not posting this just because he dug out my last nerve and has been dancing on it for the greater part of the past week.)
Here are a few of his signature moves:
Part-Time Barista: Wherein my husband pours coffee from great heights in order to attain the appearance of foam.
The Theatrical Burp: Burping with inflection (i.e., woooboooboooboooboooop), complete with jazz hands and satisfied smirk.
A for Effort: Two thirds of the dining room table is wiped clean after dinner, and there’s no one in sight. (See Also: baby without pants)
The Crop Duster: Unbridled sneezing or coughing (Note: Hubby works in a hospital), causing me to take down the babies as if anticipating an airstrike.
Selective Narcolepsy: Only takes effect while watching anything I like, when I’m driving, or at other people’s houses.
Predictive Discussion: Conversations based solely on the one word I said that he heard. Me: Are you going to rearrange the baby seats in the van today? Him: Yes, I know she’s up. I’ll go get her!
Jaw Tourette’s: Emerging from the kitchen clearly chewing, while claiming nothing was eaten.
Like Mike: Throwing items at receptacles too far away to reach, in an effort to avoid crossing a room, resulting in Walk of Shame, from Downtown.
Chef de Cuisine: Cooking exclusively with oyster sauce, red pepper flakes, and shredded cheese.
Laundry Magician: Making entire loads of washed, folded clothes disappear. And not into their drawers.
Turning Japanese: Sushi and Anime, sushi and Anime, sushi and Anime. Think nausea.
Impromptu Naps: Not to be confused with Selective Narcolepsy, this is when he disappears upstairs to bring down one of the babies, and curls up to take a nap on the floor, under the guise of ‘playing with the kitties’.
Mongo Love Babies: When ideas like swinging Matthew around by his shirt/legs/the waist of his pants sound reasonable.
It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint: Because every domestic activity requires an hour of rest in between, right?
The Ebenezer: Like when it took me two months to convince him we needed a car that fit all the babies.
You know what’s awesome, though? 1) My husband’s such a great sport that he helped me compile this list, and 2) this is one of those lists that doesn’t have to end. I can keep adding to it, like, forever…