my marriage benefits package

I am not an entirely squeamish girl.  I don’t like blood or frogs, but I can handle poop and vomit.  I prefer not to deal with rodents, bugs, or dead birds, but when forced  into action, I can manage without too much unnecessary drama. However, one of the advantages of being married to Tim is that I don’t have to.

This is not a one-sided street.  Tim reaps many benefits being married to me.  For example, I am the one who told him that “just because you can still fit into the jeans and striped polo you purchased in 1992, doesn’t mean you should wear them.”  And, I am the one who gently mentioned that “just because you know how to efficiently kill a chicken doesn’t mean you should use those details as your go-to bedtime story.”

I believe I do my part to make Tim’s life better, and so when I find a fat hairy spider in the bathtub, I call in the big guns.  It is part of my marriage benefits package.  I get health insurance, car maintenance, guard-dog protection, and spider rescuing.  I also get heavy lifting, drain de-clogging, and chauffeur services.

Tim was recently travelling for work and while he was gone, my four-year-old found a GIGANTIC spider in the bathtub.  I got a cup and piece of cardboard and used these tools to trap and transport the spider to our porch; I confess that I emitted a rather girly shriek as I released him to the backyard.  He was massive, hairy, and pissed off.

The night Tim returned home, I filled him in on our week.  “Oh, and I captured an arachnid.  Not just any arachnid, a steroid-taking, wife-beating, prison-escapee spider who wanted to eat our baby.”

Tim was obviously impressed.  Today he sent this photo to my inbox:

House Spider by Harold Taylor.  Winner of the 2012 Nikon small world photography competition.

House Spider by Harold Taylor. Winner of the 2012 Nikon small world photography competition.

 

Check out the other winners of the Nikon small world photography competition.

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ancient horse meat and the road-kill skunk

English: Striped Skunks (Mephitis mephitis)

English: Striped Skunks (Mephitis mephitis) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My husband has a long history of eating virtually anything:  squirrel, frog, snake, prickly pear cactus, you name it.  My children never tire of his weird food stories.  Once, in college his roommates found a can of horse meat left over from world war one in the basement of the house they rented.  Tim ate it for $50.

During his time in the army special forces my husband ate a wide array of truly gross things.  On survival training he ate skunk road kill.  Not fresh skunk; skunk he found already dead on the side of the road.

He remembers fondly dining on earthworm bacon, which apparently is worms you grill on a hub cap over an open fire.  Somehow when you are alone in the middle of the woods it is easier to find a spare hub cap on which to grill worms than a black berry bush or some dandelion greens.

Tim often travels overseas for his job and always returns home with a story of odd meals.  He has eaten every single part of a pig, various critter tails, and countless unheard of sea creatures.

This week when he returned from China, the kids asked him what he ate while he was gone.

“I had duck feet for dinner one night,” he said.

My teenagers shrugged.  Duck feet simply can’t compete with ancient horse meat and road-kill skunk.

Happy Katentine’s Day

Today is Valentine’s Day; my family members are instructed to refer to the next twenty-four hours at Katentine’s Day.

My husband came home from work yesterday with beautiful roses.

roses from my husband

roses from my husband

“Katentine’s Day is not until tomorrow,” I reminded him

“I know,” Tim said, “but I wanted you to be able to see them when you woke up.”

Awwwwww.  I have an awesome husband.

In general, I am not a very romantic girl.  I appreciate a grand gesture, but for me, romance is not always top-of-mind.

The most romantic gift I ever managed to orchestrate was for my high school boyfriend, which is sorta sad ’cause I have had two really great husbands.  Still, when I was nineteen, I was going to college in California and my high school boyfriend was going to school in Washington State.  I mailed him a bottle of sparkling cider (I was wayyyyyy to timid to attempt to purchase actual champagne) and a champagne flute.  I told him not to open the box until four o’clock on Valentine’s Day and then to call me at that time because I wanted to be on the phone while he opened the gift.  Unbeknownst to him, I had purchased a plane ticket home and was waiting outside his dorm room at exactly four o’clock with a second champagne flute.  Pretty great, right?

Now I feel compelled to do something great for Tim.  You should send me your ideas, or just send me roses, after all, it is Katentine’s Day, not Timentine’s Day.

despite his brilliance

My husband is freakishly smart.  When we first started dating, I asked him exactly how high his IQ was, but he always evaded the question.  I began to feel like the girlfriend who continuously asks her new boyfriend how much money he makes.  I didn’t want Tim to think I was an intellect whore, so I quit broaching the subject.

Despite his brilliance, or perhaps because of it, Tim talks to himself.  I don’t mean he mutters every once in a while.  My husband has full-blown conversations with himself at the same frequency with which I eat chocolate.  In other words, daily.

Last night Tim was sitting alone, in front of a computer, talking to an email. 

I walked into the room, and in a tone reserved for librarians and psycho-therapists, I said, “Hon-ey, you’re talking to yourself.”

He smiled.  “I realize this.”

“Do you talk to yourself at work?” I asked.

“Hell, yes!  All the time.”

“Honey, people are going to think you’re crazy.”

“Let ‘em think that,” he laughed.  “I’ve got a lot a’ shit to discuss.”