A Tim Gunn Moment

So yesterday I spent the entire day working in that damn yard, getting it ready for winter. Like I give two shits if everything green just up and died. For my efforts, I have shoulders that feel like I’ve been lifting fire trucks and humvees. The good news is that I didn’t seem to get into any poison ivy for once, so you don’t have to listen to me bitch about that for the next three weeks.

Hubs and I had a “project” to do this weekend. Our stupid garage door opener decided to die a swift and unpredicted death last week. I called around and most places wanted $100 to $150 in labor to put up a new one. I called hubs to ask his opinion because I usually don’t mess with anything electrical. If I wanted to get electrocuted I’d just murder someone and get the chair. There are a number of potential murder victims on my list, just in case you are wondering. Anyhow, hubs seemed to think that paying someone $100 or so just to put the damn thing up was too much money. Cheapskate.

We went to Home Depot to get the new opener. Let me tell you, that guy in the garage door opener aisle knew NOTHING about garage doors openers. Hubs would ask a question about the installation process and our particular set up and that guy kept unhelpfully reading the shit that was on the box to us. That asshole has no idea that he is now on my To Murder List for wasting my fucking time. My eyeballs also got really tired, not from reading the box, but from rolling them to the ceiling every time that guy opened his ignorant yap.

So on Saturday, hubs got up, and went where all manual laborers go to breakfast, Starbucks. After his intake of his embarrassingly metrosexual coffee, he came home to take off his dainty underthings and find his dusty Y chromosome to put to use. He even changed out of his Bolivian Sheep Herding shirt for this adventure into manhood. As he walked through the kitchen to the garage, I actually smelled a dude with purpose. He was out in the garage for about 20 seconds before he needed a band aid. After I kissed his boo boo he got back to work.

Fast forward about six god damn hours of sweat and muttering to himself, and to my surprise, the garage door opener was up! I congratulated him on this manly feat and for my minimal involvement. I asked if it worked and got a glare that set my hair on fire. Of course not, that part wasn’t done yet, so I skedaddled back into the house as fast as I could to sit on the couch, drink beer, fart, belch, and watch some more college football. About six more hours passed and by god, the garage door opener worked! I’m sure my neighbors are just as happy as I am because now they don’t have to look at that mess in my garage anymore.

I think I like role reversals most of the time. This was one of those times. Actually, I wonder if we are a gay couple and just don’t know it. I don’t know if I’m more manly or he is more girly, but in the words of Tim Gunn, we make it work.


Moose the Ball Licker

My dog is laying here licking his balls and farting. What a buzz kill. I’m just sitting here minding my own business, trying to enjoy a glass of wine and watch some program about women who beat their husbands to death with bricks. Yet here he is pleasuring himself and making my wine taste like somebody took a dump in the glass. FML.

Moose is a big boy. His AKC official name is CH Halo’s Chief of All that Matters, HIT. This title means he is one fucking expensive dog. He is a Rottweiler so when he does things, he does it in a big way. Farting is no exception. It’s not a little toot or a polite pfffftt; it’s a full-on barn burning, wretch inducing noxious haze. I couldn’t think of much to write about this evening so I decided to search “fart” on Urban Dictionary. I peed myself laughing. I love Urban Dictionary. So I know you are sitting there, eating your breakfast and slurping your coffee but Me and Urban Dictionary are gonna WRECK your morning. Here is the top 100 from our friends of alternative names for fart:

1. 1-man salute
2. 7.4 on the Rectum scale
3. Acid-rain maker
4. After the thunder comes the rain
5. Air bagel
6. Airbrush your boxers
7. Anal acoustics
8. Anal ahem
9. Anal audio
10. Anal salute
11. Anal volcano
12. Arse blast
13. Ass blaster
14. Ass-scented methane
15. Ass biscuit
16. Ass thunder
17. Ass whistle
18. A turd whistling for the right of way
19. Backdoor breeze
20. Backfire
21. Bad sprinkling
22. Baking brownies
23. Barking spiders
24. Bean blower
25. Beep your horn
26. Belch from behind
27. Better open a window
28. Blast off
29. Blast the chair
30. Blasting the ass trumpet
31. Blat
32. Blow ass
33. Blow mud
34. Blow the big brown horn
35. Blowing the butt bugle
36. Blowing you a kiss
37. Bomber
38. Bottom blast
39. Bottom burp
40. Break the sound barrier without a plane
41. Break wind
42. Breath of fresh air
43. Brown horn brass choir
44. Brown thunder
45. Bun shaker
46. Burnin’ rubber
47. Buster
48. Busting ass
49. Butt bleat
50. Butt burp
51. Butt hair harmony
52. Butt percussion
53. Butt trauma
54. Butt trumpet
55. Butt tuba
56. Buttock bassoon
57. Cheek flapper
58. Cheesin’
59. Colonic calliope
60. Crack a rat
61. Crack one off
62. Crack splitters
63. Crimp off some breakfast biscuits
64. Crop dusting (surreptitiously farting while passing thru a cube farm, then enjoying the sounds of dismay and disgust)
65. Crowd splitter
66. Cut a stinker
67. Cut loose
68. Cut the cheese
69. Cut the wind
70. Death Breath
71. Deflate
72. Doing the one-cheek sneak
73. Doorknob
74. Drop a barking spider
75. Drop a bomb
76. Drop ass
77. Dropped a bomb
78. Eggy
79. Empty my tank
80. Exercising the meat nozzle (not sure if this one doesn’t belong in a different category)
81. Exploding bottom
82. Explosion between the legs
83. Exterminate
84. Fart
85. Fire a stink torpedo
86. Fire the retro-rocket
87. Firing scud missiles
88. Fizzler
89. Flame thrower
90. Flamer
91. Flapper
92. Flatulate
93. Flatulence
94. Flatus
95. Flipper
96. Float an air biscuit
97. Floof
98. Fluffy
99. Fog slicer
100. Fowl howl


I Married a Metrosexual Man

My hubs is a lovely man. Good natured and laid back for the most part. He is also kind of metrosexual. He doesn’t get his nails buffed or any stupid shit like that because I’d divorce him if he went that far, but he is a HUGE J. Peterman fan. He buys weird clothes from there and thinks they are so very fashion forward. Then he puts on his Tilly hat and destroys that illusion in a second.

He was at the grocery store one time stocking up on Brie, chardonnay and face scrub when the helpful teenager at the register asked him a question. “Is that a Tilly hat?” Hubs replied with a giant shit eating grin because this young lady obviously KNEW about fashion, “why yes, it is!” Register girl says, “Neat! My grandpa wears one too!” Poor hubs… his sense of self was destroyed. That and she did not ask him for his ID and helpfully gave him the senior citizen discount. Just FYI, we are no where NEAR AARP status yet…

Back to J. Peterman. Hubs gets so excited when the catalog comes in the mail. He can and does shop online as well, but dances around waving his hands in the air like he don’t care when the catalog shows up. There is something about its pretentious recycled paper cover and faux colorized pictures that excite him. He also enjoys the illustrations of clothes without people in them. Hubs caresses his catalog and exclaims with glee as he turns the pages to the textile wonders advertised inside. Me? I glance at the prices and laugh. I must admit to reading the ridiculous stories about the clothes. I could write those but they would be much more entertaining.

This past winter J. Peterman had a SALE TO END ALL SALES according to hubs. He showed me what he wanted to purchase. Most of it was okay except for this one shirt. I believe it was called something like a Bolivian Sheep Herding Peasant Top. I voted nay on that item. Hubs kept coming back to it and whining about how the Bolivian Sheep Herding Top was woven from the legs hairs of newborn lambs by orphan children and how soft the shirt would be. I held my ground. Hubs placed his order after I fell asleep cuz he kept talking about sheep.

The next week two boxes from the estimable J. Peterman Company came via UPS. The guy in his brown pants and shirt snickered as I signed for the boxes. I don’t know what he was snickering about given his attire. I took the boxes inside and forgot about them.

Hubs came home from work and spied his packages. He chewed through the packing tape with his teeth and started oooing and ahhhing at his new clothes that were each hermetically enclosed in its own heavy duty plastic bag and sealed with a kiss from none other than Mr. J. Peterman, Esquire himself. All was well because they were approved purchases. Then he pulled out the Bolivian Sheep Herding Top. I sighed, resigned to his fashion sense. Then I saw that not only did he purchase one of those shirts, but TWO in the exact same color. When I asked him why he got two he muttered something about comfort and giving Bolivian Sheep herders a job.

He wears those two shirts a lot. At least I think he wears both. He might only be wearing one. I can’t tell because they are the same. I guess I was wrong about him buying two of those crazy looking shirts. I still love the guy even if he is a little metrosexual. J. Peterman would be proud to know him.

JPeterman Shirt

The Bolivian Sheep Herding Top. I can’t believe I found a picture of it.


The Fake J. Peterman from Seinfeld