ShaunaGlenn.com » why george clooney would make a better mate

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!”

Shauna — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 12:10:43 +0000

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

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?

Nice weather we’re having.

Shauna — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 15:53:00 +0000

My husband has an illness.

Oh, you’re sweet. Thank you for your kind words and your prayers.

He’s going to need a lot of help from the big man upstairs because I’M GOING TO KILL HIM.

This illness I speak of?

It’s nothing too serious and is not life threatening–unless I stab him with the grilling fork.

You see, he is listening challenged.

So he says HUH a lot. Like a lot, a lot. Like so much that I start imagining how I could properly dispose of his body.

I think I would bury it in the yard and pretend nothing happened–or that he even ever existed.

Monday morning would roll around and his assistant would call the house around 11. “Um, Shauna? Hey, is Tommy there?”

“Tommy? Tommy who? I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is this and how’d you get my number?”

Silence.

And then, “Shauna, is this a joke? Tommy’s not here today and he’s missed two really important conference calls.”

“Ooooh. That Tommy. Yeah, he was getting on my nerves with his inability to hear and, or listen, so I stabbed him and buried him in the yard.”

Nervous laughter ensues.

Or something like that. I haven’t got all the details worked out yet.

Anyhoo, the man needs help. If for no other reason than to save his own life.

I am a reasonable person. I am well educated. I speak clearly and enunciate my words. I don’t speak too softly or too quickly. Everyone else on the Goddamn planet can hear and, or understand me.

It is beyond me why he cannot.

He seemed to hear me just fine when we were dating. I don’t recall him being involved in some accident that left him hearing impaired.

It’s almost as if it happened overnight. And it’s getting worse by the minute.

A usual conversation goes something like this.

“Wow, it’s raining again for the 4th day in a row. I’m beginning to think the sun is never coming out again.”

“What’s that?”

“I said it’s raining again. Four days in a row now. Sun, nowhere to be seen.”

“The sun is out? Awesome.”

“No. The sun is not out. The sun is opposite of out.”

“What was that you said about the sun?”

This is about the time I start going through the inventory in the knife drawer–trying to decide which one is the sharpest. Is it the butcher knife? Or how about the serrated bread knife. Ooh, I know, the Emeril Lagasse tomato knife is a badass. I bet that would do some major damage to a quadriceps muscle.

And then I answer, “Never mind.”

He’ll then be interested in what I have to say. It could have something to do with the fact that blood is coming out my eyeballs.

“Tell me what you said.”

I SAID IT’S BEEN RAINING FOR FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT WITHOUT SUNSHINE, MOTHER FUCKER!

“Seriously, Tommy, it’s not worth repeating. Honestly, I was talking about the weather. It was a lame conversation anyway. I mean, really, who talks about the weather besides old people and people who have nothing to say to each other?”

“What’s that?”

I DARE you to find the jury that would convict me.

The babysitter

Shauna — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 23:20:00 +0000

I’ve noticed that Tommy helps me out more and more with the children these days. I fully realized that this last week when he was gone from Monday to Thursday night. (Refer to this post where I was sure my life sucked)

Taking care of four kids requires more than one person. Trust me. Unless you’re specifically looking for a way to die young, do not attempt to do this alone.

But his helping me hasn’t always been this way. A few years ago when Ethan was much younger and still in diapers and still difficult to navigate around, the scene was much different.

Like this one time for instance.

It was a Saturday and I asked Tommy to watch the children so I could go on a quick shopping trip to buy a wedding present. The store I was going to is a quaint little place with lots of expensive, breakable things. It’s NOT a place you take small children. Unless you’d like to buy a bunch of shit your kids just broke.

I also know that it’s almost impossible to get cell phone reception there.

So I looked up the number of the shop, wrote it on a Post-It note and left it next to the phone. You know, in case of an emergency.

I said goodbye, and went about my merry way. I remember looking forward to having an hour to myself.

I parked in the lot of Cute Gift Shop and went inside. There were beautiful platters, canister sets, picture frames, candles…well, you get it.

I browsed through the many aisles, taking my time and really considering the couple I was buying for.

Just as I was deciding between a pasta bowl and a 10-piece pewter serving set, a woman in her mid 50′s approached me. I was ready to tell her I didn’t need assistance when she said, “Are you Shauna Glenn by chance?”

Stunned by this I took a step back and said, “Yes. Um, I’m Shauna Glenn.”

She seemed relieved. “Oh good.” And then she rested her hand on my shoulder. “There’s a man on the phone for you. He said he’s babysitting?”

Babysitting?

Who was she talking about? Tommy?

He referred to himself as the babysitter? Like, I’m babysitting therefore I am the babysitter?

I put the bowl down and followed her to the front counter.

She handed me the cordless phone and I put the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey Shauna.” (Screams could be heard in the background)

“Is everything OK?” I was ready to jump in the car and haul ass home.

“Yeah. Sorry to call. But Harley wants 2 pudding cups and I told her ‘no’ but she said you let her do that. Is that all right?”

Was he serious?

“Um, yeah, that’s fine with me.”

“OK. And… where do we keep the diapers?”

Oy vey.

I noticed the woman who worked in the shop was standing 3 feet from me, arms folded across her chest, and by the look on her face, she was somewhat concerned.

I finished my conversation with Tommy and handed back the phone.

I no longer remembered why I was there.

Oh right–wedding gift.

The woman nodded her head and asked, “Everything OK with your babysitter?”

I laughed and said, “Yes. But we don’t call him ‘The Babysitter’ as much as we call him ‘The Dad.’”

It was silent for a second and then she snorted and covered her mouth.

And then we spent the next 10 minutes laughing our asses off.

Oh, and I bought the pewter serving set.

Note to husbands: When we ask you to watch your children, it’s not considered babysitting. You’re the DAD. You might wanna write this down.

something else men suck at

Shauna — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 13:28:00 +0000

in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s only 2 days until christmas. are you ready? if you’re a man reader then the answer is yes. the answer is always yes, because you penis yielding kind don’t have to do anything in preparation for the holidays. yeah, you might lug the tree from the attic–but probably not. you might string lights on the house–but why bother when you can pay someone? you might be involved in the “buying” of YOUR parents’ gifts–but you probably have better things to do. like scratch yourself and fart the alphabet.

it’s funny. over the last couple of days, tommy and i will be somewhere and someone will ask him, “you ready for christmas?” without hesitation he looks at me. because i’m the ONLY one who knows the answer to that question.

how did we let them get away with THIS too? are we so effing utilitarian that we can’t delegate? on december first we should have pointed in his direction and spouted off orders–”you! go up in the attic and bring down the 13 boxes marked ‘xmas decorations.’ you! run to home depot and get clear lights–a bunch of them–like 20 boxes–oh, and not the twinkly kind. you! put on this apron and beat the eggs until they are thick and pale.”

but we didn’t. we let him reside in his present state of holiday coma, and just took it upon ourselves to do everything.

and now, we’re bitter.

we’re not bitter, bitter. we would just like a little help. if you’re not going to be involved in the production known as “it’s not really a wonderful life, but for a couple of days we can fake it pretty good,” then at least take the children for awhile so we can wrap presents while addressing christmas cards while cutting out cookies in the shape of reindeer while brining a turkey.

can you handle that? and must we point out AGAIN that george clooney would never act like this. he would adore us and be more than happy to help us bake 17 pumpkin loaves.

ps. this is going to sound unbelievable but this story is actually NOT about tommy. this is a common story i hear every year about husbands and their lack of participation. any hopes i had that tommy would be involved in the holiday preparations went out the window the first year we were married when he said, “we have to WRAP the presents too?”

oy vey.

let’s play a game.

let’s write our own christmas story. i’ll start. someone pick up where i leave off and then someone pick up where that person leaves off…i think you know where this is going. make it as absurd as you’d like.

ok, here goes.

it was the beginning of another holiday season. this year i decided to join the masses and shop on black friday. little did i know that i’d end up in the emergency room getting 12 stitches in my head. seems people are serious when it comes to getting a good deal on cashmere/wool blend scarves. as i made my way through the outlet store, i spotted a stack of brightly colored scarves on a shelf, higher than my reach. i beelined to them, looked around for someone to help, but was having trouble seeing anything through the sea of people. i decided to climb my way up to them. as i placed my second foot up and was about to reach for the scarves, i felt someone grab me from the back and begin to pull me down. all the sudden i heard, “oh no you don’t–i want those!” and then i hit the ground. the next thing i remember i was in an ambulance, the siren blaring in the background. i looked up and saw george clooney, leaning over me.

does having the hair lasered off your body really make you a better person?

Shauna — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 13:09:00 +0000

i’m up early…on a saturday…when i don’t have to be. and you know why?

tommy’s fart alarm went off and scared the bejesus out of me. i swear to god it was as loud as a bull horn.

needless to say it’s hard for one to go back to sleep after one’s heart leaps out of one’s chest and flies across the room and splats against the wall.

in case you’re wondering i’m the “one” in this scenario and the only “one” that counts.

i sat up in the bed, trying to recover from what i thought was our house being bombed.

tommy asked, “you awake?”

since it was obvious i was awake i didn’t answer. i just got out of the bed.

“where you going?” he asked.

“to call a divorce lawyer,” i said behind me in his direction.

he laughed.

and joined me in the kitchen a few mintutes later.

now he’s clearing his throat and snorting snot.

it’s a beautiful thing.

so yesterday we got a babysitter and drove to dallas to have dinner with a friend who just moved here from the bay area. i had really been looking forward to attending a grown up dinner. on the drive over i noticed something i hadn’t noticed before. tommy does this thing where he reads signs to me.

we were cruising along and he offered, “bob’s hickory house. jerky the way you like it.”

first i said, “huh?” it made no sense to me. especially since we’d been talking about how the stock market faired that day. so i said, “what’d you say?”

“that sign back there. i was reading it.”

“oh.”

then a minute later i was telling a story about harley’s last day of school before the break and he busted in with, “laser hair removal. be the person you want to be for only $99.”

side note: if only it was that easy.

now, back to the story.

what the fuck was going on here? why was he reading billboards to me?

so i stopped talking. he didn’t seem to notice. he just kept reading road signs.

after another 10 minutes of this i jumped in with, “nue 328.”

“tyv 879.”

he turned to me and said, “what are you saying?”

“oh, i’m reading the license plates off the cars as they pass us. illuminating conversation, isn’t it? i mean it’s really interesting stuff. don’t you think?”

he turned away and muttered, “asshole,” under his breath.

i didn’t care.

he stopped reading to me.

mission accomplished.

now all i have to do is beat him at farting and snot snorting and i’ve won. yes, i’ll win the award for most annoying person on the planet. it’ll be a difficult challenge since tommy is the world champ 3 years running, but i’m up for the task.

wish me luck.

do your mate a favor today. read the road signs while you’re in the car. he/she will LOVE it.

the jawbreaker (and the douchebag who forgot to bring money to the candy store)

Shauna — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 11:30:00 +0000

WARNING: all you uptight people might want to stay away from the post today. grandmothers and children under the age of 25 need to leave the room immediately cuz we’re getting down and dirty.

how many times must we preach this?

are you not listening?

or maybe you don’t think we know what the hell we’re talking about?

ok, that’s true sometimes, but trust us, we’re right about this.

ask any woman.

what’s that? you don’t know many women? hmm.

there’s probably a reason for this.

and it most likely isn’t because you have a certain je ne sais quoi about you.

it’s because you’re a douchebag.

harsh? yeah, sorry about that. sometimes it’s best to just tell it like it is. pull the bandaid off really fast.

ooh, that open wound looks pretty bad.

it’s a good thing we’re here to help.

that’s just part of our service.

you’re welcome.

so here it is.

you really suck at convincing us to have sex with you.

not you, you. the general you. please, we’re not a whore. well, at least not one that gets paid or anything. in fact, if we were being paid for sex we wouldn’t be on here bitching about how sick we are of having you walk by, honk our boob, call that foreplay and then ask, “how bout me and you right now?”

bleck.

here’s the thing, fellas–and all you fellas with vaginas–we don’t want to leave anyone out–this here’s an equal opportunity bitch slap–we don’t NEED to have sex with you. we’ve got a vibrator and we’re not afraid to use it. in fact sometimes we prefer it over having 200 pounds of hairy flesh on top of us.

side note: you understand that it’s not ONE vibrator and we all share it right? that would be totally disgusting.

we need to WANT to have sex with you. period. end of story.

so to help you out, we’ve listed some things you can do that will surely have you headed in the other room with only your hand and a bottle of lotion and maybe some cheap porn that may or may not involve midgets.

1. complain about there being nothing to eat in the house.

2. shove the credit card statement in our faces while yelling, “what the fuck happened here?”

3. bitch about watching the kids (the ones that are HALF YOURS) whilst we prepare something for his majesty to eat. (refer to number 1)

4. leave your dirty clothes all over the floor in the bedroom, bathroom and closet. what are you, 7? we are not the maid–or your mother. we might be a whore, but we’re certainly not the maid and we’re definitely NOT your mother.

5. stroll in the kitchen, let out the biggest, god awful smelliest fart and then slap us on the ass. that’s actually a good way to get stabbed. see, we’re holding a knife. (refer to number 3)

6. say things like, “wanna give me a blow job?” the answer is always no. no one wants to give a blow job. ever. (my friends who are freaks and actully enjoy giving blow jobs? you be quiet. i’m making a point. don’t ruin this. i’m on a roll. like i said, you’re freaks. there’s clearly something wrong with you. we’ll visit this in another post.)

7. lecture us on how we could do things better. like organizing the fridge, parking the car in the garage, parenting the children (the ones you bitch about “babysitting.” how many times must we say this–YOU’RE NOT BABYSITTING. YOU’RE THE DAD! watching them every once in a while is part of the job description. what’s that? you don’t want to watch them? well you should’ve thought about that before you coerced us into having sex with you. see the kind of trouble mr. magnificent penis can get you into?).

8. makes lots of noises. please. it’s like you’ve got the annoying version of tourette’s. but i’m pretty sure unlike people who really have tourette’s, you can control yourself. practice this immediately.

look, if you want to do the bow chicka wow wow with us, you have to be more clever about it. we can’t have sex with you if we’re mad at you and we definitely can’t if we wish you were dead. everyone knows that having sex with a corpse is just wrong. we will not be party to it.

think of sex with us as a challenge–or a video game–or a sport. ooh, look over there. is that a hooter’s girl!?

(psst, women. over here. i’ve got to dumb this way down to a level they understand. what do you think? 3rd grade? no? too advanced? how about 1st grade? ok, 1st grade level it is. oops, they’re looking at us)

what’s that you say? no hooter’s girl? aawww, my bad.

anyway, back to what i was saying. ok, so you want to have sex with us. well, pretend you’re in a candy store, but you don’t have any money. and you really really want that jawbreaker, but you don’t know how to get it. (you understand the jawbreaker in this scenario is us, right? you don’t really want a jawbreaker. who eats those anyway?) so you work really hard until you have enough money to buy the jawbreaker. yes, the jawbreaker can be bought. so technically we are being paid for sex and my whole theory just went up in smoke.

well, i tried.

look, the point of the story is this–we want to have sex. we just don’t always want to have sex WITH YOU. so do something to change our minds. be sweet to us. tell us we’re beautiful. tell us we’re a great mother. tell us you couldn’t live without us (and do it with a straight face). tell us we’re skinny (you might even get a blow job for this). tell us you appreciate the fact that we haven’t killed you yet. don’t give us that look when we go for the third cupcake. thank us for putting up with all your bodily functions/noises. and lastly, do something about all that pubic hair. we’re not saying wax it, but please, introduce it to a pair of scissors and a razor. too much hair equals no time with the jawbreaker.

we’re just sayin.