Tommy has lost his damn mind

I asked Tommy, “What’s that word for that really bad thing that’s going to happen one day? You know, the alien invasion thing?” And he says, “The Apocalypse?” And I’m all “YES!”

by Shauna on November 12, 2009

I’d like to think I’m a simple girl.

I mean, I grew up eating spam sandwiches and spaghetti out of a box for Christ’s sake. I’m not asking for a lot. (Shut up)

What I really want more than anything? A TV that turns on and off, has channel up and down, and volume control. I don’t need it to do my taxes or bring me to orgasm (that is what the blender is for–the orgasm, NOT the taxes).

Anyway, when we moved into this house five years ago, Tommy had absolutely no interest in the design, layout, color scheme or functionality of the house. It was my project and mine alone.

Except for the TV situation.

We have the most complicated television watching experience on the planet.

Period.

And even worse? No one knows how the fuck to work them–any of them. Not even Tommy.

True story.

It’s a complicated algorithm but basically you point the remote to your chin while pressing the ON button, hold your breath, lift your right leg, and in your head name as many fruit as you can in 30 seconds. That usually gets you to channel 2. Which is the Spanish channel. No offense to Spanish people, but I don’t understand what you’re saying or why you’re so dramatic. It might be Escamas Heladas to you, but it’s just Frosted Flakes to me.

Anyway, recently there’s been a problem with the entire “Televisioning System” which is code for “It’s totally FUCKED.” More importantly? It looked like I wouldn’t be able to watch Top Chef. Someone call 911.

I came home to find that the closet which houses the Broadcast Equipment was smoking and making guttural sounds that I first mistook as our cat being on fire.

If only the cat thing had been true. (Sorry Sadie, but we’re talking Top Chef! And The Daily Show! And PBS! You sit there on the couch, shaking your head and judging me–don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking–Yes, I showed my boobs on the Internet–So what)

Without hesitating, I reached in, unplugged everything, and stood there in anticipation of the Apocalypse.

The lights that once flickered green, red, and blue, went blank.

And just like that a little piece of me died inside.

Tommy came home then and I called him over to the closet.

*Before* the blackout

*Before* the blackout

I pointed at the massive mass of mess and said, “Well? What are you going to do about THIS?”

He reached inside, grabbed the plug and jammed it in the outlet. “There. Fixed.”

It was hard to not stab him in the eye socket with my pointy heel of my shoe. For real.

“*I* unplugged it, you idiot. It was making these weird grindy noises. Like it was about to explode.”

“Did you call the TV programmers?”

*Only WE have TV programmers*

“Um, no.”

He loses interest then and starts to walk away.

“Hey, Hey, Hey, buddy. Whereya going?”

“I’m tired, Shauna. I don’t care if the TVs don’t work.”

“Yes. But do you want to have sex with me ever again?”

“I’ll call the TV programmers.”

Thank you.

By the way, the TVs totally work again.

That Tommy, he’s no dummy.

PS. Tommy says I’m using the word Apocalypse wrong. If that’s the case, how’d he know what word I was talking about?

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Not all what it’s Croc’d up to be.

by Shauna on August 17, 2009

So, a week ago Tommy came home from work and said, “I ordered you something. It should be here in a few days.”
My eyes lit up and I jumped up and down like a little kid.
I love presents. Who doesn’t. I mean I am a girl. And it’s been a long time since Tommy just went out and bought me something without me *subtly* dropping hints like cutting out pictures of earrings or handbags and taping them to his bathroom mirror.
Side note: I’m pretty sure he loves when I do that.
After a day or two I forgot about it. I’ve been busy getting four kids ready for school, *a-hem* writing a new book, and repeatedly posting 140 characters on Twitter in between.
So when we got back from Austin Sunday afternoon, there was a box on the front porch.
And that’s when I remembered about the gift that was headed my way.
I picked it up and immediately thought, “hmm, this is WAY too light for a Gucci handbag. Un-less, it’s that Gucci wallet! Oh yeah, this could so be a wallet.”

I ripped open the box, but was careful not to damage or upset my new Italian lover~which I was sure was in there.
When I first peered inside the box, I cocked my head to the side like a dog does when he looks at you and thinks, What the fuck? You want me to eat THAT?!

There was no way I was eating this.
Or, as it turns out, wearing these!
Before my delicate eyeballs were the most hideous pair of shoes you’ve ever seen. Correction. These were not shoes. They were Crocs.
I’m sorry. I’m a total snob when it comes to putting shit on my feet and I swore a long time ago I wouldn’t own a pair of rubber gardening clogs and call them shoes.
Period.
Here’s where it gets worse. There was another matching pair–for Tommy.
He. Bought. Us. Matching. Crocs.
I WISH I could make up shit this good.
As I sat there staring at awfulness in the form of footwear, I thought, Tommy doesn’t love me anymore.
I mean, who loves someone and buys them Crocs? You know who buys you Crocs and calls it a present? Someone who doesn’t love you anymore. That’s who.
Tommy found me just then, staring off into space. In one hand I held *my* pair of red, Spiderman looking Crocs, and in the other, *his* matching pair.
His eyes widened and he yelled out, “Oh my God! They came in! Don’t you love them?”
I looked at him and furrowed my brow. “Surely you’re joking. THIS. Is a joke, right?”
He grabbed his pair out of my hands and slipped them on his bare feet. “What are you talking about? These are great. All the runners wear them. I thought you’d love them, you know, since you’re a runner.”
I looked down at his feet and threw up a little in my mouth. It actually tasted good compared to the burning sensation I felt in my eyeballs upon gazing the rubbery redness. Then I looked at him and said, “First of all, no runner on his worst day would wear these shoes. And second, why do you hate me?”
He laughed and said, “Here, put ‘em on.”
Um, what?
“But they’re so ugly. I can’t do it.”
His shoulders slumped a little and that’s when I realized I was going to have to wear them. Here he had, gone to enough trouble to buy me the ugliest shoes he could find. The least I could do was put them on. And then vomit.
I sighed heavily, smiled through gritted teeth, kicked off my perfectly acceptable flip flops and stepped into my *new shoes.*
Tommy’s face lit up and he said, “Look how cute you are. Now THOSE are hot.”
I looked down at my feet and a little piece of me died. Right there. In the middle of the kitchen.
And then I thought, are Crocs toxic if they *accidentally* catch on fire?
Needless to say, Tommy wore his new shoes the rest of the day. Even in public. I wanted to scream out at all of the people who stared at his feet, “Stop gawking! He’s not a loser! He runs! They’re running Crocs!”
But I didn’t. I just acted like I didn’t know him.
First person to come up with the best use for a pair of Crocs gets a brand new, shiny red pair, size 7.

Aren’t we adorable.

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