~ My Husband is SUCH a Butthead. ~

So this happened:

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Before you panic, yes, the driver was fine.

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It was raining really hard, you see, and she was late for her train, you see, and she doesn’t usually go down this road, you see.

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I failed to see why that translated into destroying my tulip garden.

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Or why the weeping cherry tree that my children and I planted nearly ten years ago had to die for it. Oh, I realize it just looks like mud and tire tracks to you, but not a week ago I had JUST finished every so painstakingly planting hundreds and hundreds of tulip bulbs.

Right there.

So guess what I had to do today?  That’s right, plant hundreds and hundreds of tulip bulbs.  Again.  Oh it’s worth it though, because in the spring, we get this:

2015-04-28 11.25.52And I love it so much, that every fall I spend a LOT of my free time planting for spring.

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It’s worth it.

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I do NOT, however, like to do it TWICE in one year.   But, grateful that that was all that had happened from this accident….SO glad our moose didn’t get run over, or that anyone was hurt, I decided to move on emotionally.

Mostly.

So there I was, working new tulip bulbs into the soil in my unapologetically purple Schmidt work overalls, on the cold but sunny December day that was today, while my handsome lug of a husband worked on his own project.

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He’s been building a walk-out patio for the last…er…4 years or so.

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He can only work on it when he’s not at work, or working overtime, or doing stuff with the Urban Search and Rescue Team.

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Hence the 4 years.   It doesn’t help that he is somewhat of a perfectionist. Just a wee bit.

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And by wee bit, I mean certifiable.

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Anyways, so he was out there, working, and he had one of our Sonos speakers out on the patio with him, playing typical male construction-type music.  He was sawing and measuring and drilling to The Eagles, and Fleetwood Mac, and Jimmy Buffet.

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He did his thing, and I did my thing.  But then I realized that I wasn’t hearing Stevie Nicks any longer.  I was hearing Bing Crosby belt out The Twelve Days of Christmas.  And I had been unconsciously singing along with it!  I turned and bellowed down to My Captain,

Hey!  What happened to the music?!”

With a screw hanging out of one side of his mouth, he yelled back, “I knew you’d rather hear this instead.”

Me: “That’s ridiculous.  Put your own music back on.  You don’t want to listen to this.”

My Captain: “Yes I do. I do because I know you want to.”

Me: “Maybe I don’t.  Maybe I want to listen to what you usually listen to.”

At this point Bing had faded out, and Frank Sinatra was singing Silver Bells.  NOTE:  It’s hard to have an argument with Silver Bells drifting sweetly in the background.

My Captain: “No, you don’t.”

Me: “Yes, I do.”

I began lumbering down the muddy hill to where he was working, pissed that I had to make the extra effort.  I reached for his phone (it holds the channel changing App for the Sonos) and he swatted me away.

My Captain: No, you don’t.”

Me: Yes, I do.”

He turned his back to me and picked up his drill.  I fumed. I didn’t WANT him to have to change his music to my dorky Christmas Retro tunes.  I know full well that men who are building things HAVE to listen to rock.  It’s in the Man Code somewhere.

I waited a beat and then sweetly asked, “Hey, can I borrow your phone a second? I’d like to take some pictures for the blog.”

He turned his head and smirked at me.

Me:  “No, really.  Please?”

Reluctantly he handed me his phone, and I took the pictures that you see above.

And then I promptly turned the channel to the grinding, wailing, pulsating music of Triumph’s  Magic Power, and turned it UP baby!

Snickering, I put his phone down and tiredly hoofed it back over to the part of the yard I was working, picked up my shovel, and began moving dirt again….

….just in time to hear Nat King Cole croon, “Chestnuuuuttttts roasting on  an open fiiiiiiiire.”

My husband is such a butthead.

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I guess it’s our somewhat lame version of The Gift of The Magi.

Don’t judge.

 

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One thought on “~ My Husband is SUCH a Butthead. ~

  1. Paul

    That’s why I never even bother trying to be considerate for my wife.

    (You did all of that in only four years, Troy? Wow, you’re way ahead of my treehouse.)

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