Wednesday, December 7, 2016

baby, it's cold outside

Every winter, at the Dabels, there is a war of wills.

If you will.

Every winter for the last 21 years this willful war gets waged and the wrangling for position between husband and wife begins. Despite my best efforts, and wow, have I put in my fair share of effort, I never walk away the victor of this recurring war. My personal arguments do change from year to year, but the man is nothing if not consistent.

Me: I have another bladder infection and I am really freaking cranky about it.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I just graduated from university and I cannot, for the life of me, find a job.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I have so much homework. I am drowning in papers and finals.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I have so much homework. I am drowning in papers and finals.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: University is hard, my brain is mush. Also, we have four kids and two foster kids and that's a lot of laundry and university is hard.

Him: You know I work outside, right?
Me: I am 8 months pregnant with a 10 pound baby and I have walking pneumonia.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I am 8 months pregnant with an almost 10 pound baby and its hard to walk and bend and do things.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I have a three month old baby and a toddler and the baby does. not. ever. sleep. Ever. I want to die from the tired.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: Look at our cute baby that I take care of 24 hours a day. I am a woman of sacrifice.

Him: You know I work outside, right?

Me: I got the car stuck in 3 feet of snow and had to walk all the way home. It took, like, 13 minutes. It is freezing outside.

Him: You know I work outside, right?
Okay, okay okay. We get it, Man. Your struggle is real. I just want to mention that it's cold outside, baby. Real cold-like. And my hands are chilled as I type. The chill is slowing me down.

Talk about a struggle.

Monday, December 5, 2016

honey ham

I swear to you people, I could not make this stuff up if I tried. It's like there's a sign on my back that says "Confuse me. I dare you."

Today I ran into the grocery store to grab a couple of things. I do not like the grocery store. I do believe we have talked about this before. My disdain for the store runneth deep, and it affects the quality of my life. Is that dramatic? I don't care.

Every single time I go in there I lament the fact that food is what sustains us. Why can't we be sustained by air? I can get air anywhere and I don't need to put on a bra to do it.

I see the flaws in this line of questioning, no need to mention it.

Anyway, I literally run through the grocery store because I hate it so much. I once had a cashier comment on how fast I was.

"I saw you come in like ten minutes ago. And now you are here with a full cart. I can't believe it."

"It was 6 minutes ago and I am dead serious about the grocery store. No time to waste in this here house of discontent. In and out, I say. In and out."

Today I approached the deli counter and managed to somehow get the attention of the red lipped, big haired deli gal.

"Can I have 300 grams of the honey ham, please?" Sweet as honey.....ham. That's me.

"Sure," she replied as she reached in and grabbed the giant piece of fake meat. Is ham real meat? I am never quite sure. She held it up to her face, perhaps closer that I would have preferred, but since I don't eat the ham I don't care about whatever it is she might be throwing on it via her nose and mouth. And then she said, "how much is 300 grams?"

Yes she did.

I froze. Never have I ever been asked that before at the deli, where I am not the one standing next to the weigh scale. Because of the freeze of confusion she raised her penciled eyebrows at me and said, "Hello? How much is 300 grams?"

Okay, hold up. So now you've asked me a stupid question and you were rude about it? Game over, sister.

"Well, 300 grams is 300 grams. So you need to slice up the ham and then weigh it. When it gets to 300 grams wrap it up and hand it to me." All said with a passive aggressive smile. Because like I said, I despise the grocery story, and now the cartoon woman has made me stand and ask for unreliable meat more than once.

With a sassy tip of the head she said, "I realize I need to weigh the meat. I'm just asking you to show me with your hands how much 300 grams is because I don't know."

Is this really happening to me right now? I started glancing over my shoulders because surely my husband is standing in the corner giggling at me and this epic joke he has somehow masterminded.

I tilted my head to match hers and reveled in the fact that she was still holding this giant ham up at head level. That cannot be light. The karma was too good.

"I'm sorry. I am not understanding," be nice be nice be nice be nice, I mentally challenged myself. "Do you have a new system in the deli that I am unaware of? Usually I ask for a certain amount and you guys just keep slicing until that amount is reached. Is that not how you do it anymore? Are the customers supposed to ask for their deli meats in inches or centimetres? Like, can I have an inch off your ham, please? I don't really get it, but if that is what you are asking me then I would like you to slice off approximately three centimetres of ham."

"Ugh." She ughed me. She really did. And then she turned around and began slicing the honey ham. Every slice going up on the scale. When she got to 301 grams she stopped, wrapped the erroneous meat and handed it to me.

Just like the good ol' days.