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Things have been busy in the last 6 months.  Hell, thing have been busy in the last year.  In fact, the last year has been a difficult one, which is why I’ve been so scare on the posts.  It’s hard to write humorously when you’re mired in shit.  That doesn’t mean that I’m not finding humor in my life, or that I’m focusing only on the bad times…just that I’m finding it difficult to take some of our everyday situations and turn them into a funny commentary on parenting, relationships, mental illness, atypical neurology, and what raging assholes 3 year olds are.  Actually, that last one might not so so hard to write…

In the last year, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, have had to readjust my expectations and my life based on my body and the medications I have to take to prevent irreversible joint damage, started weekly psychiatry appointments for Future Cult Leader to get a handle on her anxiety, ADHD, and daily meltdowns, I’ve struggled with my bipolar disorder, helped my mother after her surgeries (plural, with another one likely coming up) and the after effects of those surgeries (MRSA flare!), dealt with my aging grandmother’s progressing Alzheimer’s disease, hospitalization, moves to different homes and a rehab center for her severely broken shoulder and subsequent surgery, and other minor annoyances that are just part of life that have complicated some of the above events.

On the good side: Future Cult Leader is safely in a healthy weight range, has become a lot easier to handle, Evil Genius has made strides learning how to use the bathroom like a human being (no diapers, holla!), I’ve made some awesomesauce friends, gotten addicted to Words With Friends, had the privilege of officiating the marriage of 2 close friends, have managed a couple times to get my joint pain under control, have strengthened my relationship with Monsieur Stoic (today marks the 6th year anniversary of the day we became a couple), turned 30 (fuck yeah, 30!), have improved my photography skills (maybe eventually I can turn it into a career…who knows?), done a bit of traveling, and I’ve gotten to know my long lost brother who recently moved to Oregon from the Easy Coast to attend Oregon State University.  So it hasn’t been all bad.

Tell me, readers…how has your last year been?

There’s a reason these kids have their nicknames, part 1.

Monsieur Stoic and I were in the kitchen, discussing how to end world hunger while fixing macaroni and cheese for lunch, when Evil Genius tip toes in.  In her arms she is cradling her almost-as-big-as-she-is automatic Nerf dart gun, fully loaded.  She is wearing a mischievious grin.  Before we can register what is going on, she aims the gun at Stoic (as best as she can, considering she has to cradle it like a baby) and pulls the trigger.  Synthetic material flies everywhere as she cackles maniacally, turning her body around so she is spraying the entire kitchen with suppressive styrofoam fire.  Stoic jumps for cover so I spring into action, guiding Evil Genius into another position so he is assaulted by velcro tipped missiles.  When the dust settles, our 2 1/2 year old daughter is giggling wildly, crowing in triumph.  “I got you!  I got you, Dad!”  I cannot stop laughing.  Stoic is shell shocked and appalled.  “You little punk, I loaded that for  you earlier and you had no interest in shooting!”

Folks, I give you Exhibit A.

 

 

All that coffee must have stunted my growth

Another undesirable trait of Monsieur Stoic’s is his habit of forgetting that I? Am not his height. I’m no shortie, standing as I do between 5’6″ and 5’7″. But at 6’4″, Stoic tends to stand a head above a lot of people, and it’s really hard for him to grasp that that 10 inches? Is a HUGE difference.

Going back to the same backyard project: while carrying the ladder from the back yard to the shop, Stoic lifted the ladder over a chair and was stopped short when I pulled on the ladder. “What?”

“I’m not tall enough to lift this ladder over this chair.”

His solution? Another tall person solution. “Then swing it over the table” which was to the right of the chair and in the direction we were trying to take the ladder.

“DUDE. That requires getting it over the chair in the first place! I CAN’T DO THAT.”

And again, later, when we were moving the porch swing….

“We need to move it back that way.” He motioned back about 8 feet, then proceeded to lift the swing near the top of the structure. I simply raised my eyebrow at him. He leaned down to pick it up where I was picking it up, down near the base, where I *actually* had the leverage to lift it.

Oh, and there was that one time we argued over whether or not I would be able to lift our 70 pound LCD TV onto the wall mount 6 feet off the ground. To get my point across, I agreed to give it a shot. Luckily, he stopped just before I dropped the freshly repaired piece of technology on his foot.

All the keys to the doors in the house? On top of the door frame. I can reach, if I stand on my tip toes, strain my shoulder, touch my tongue to my nose, and wiggle my right nipple. And he can’t figure out why I get so annoyed when all the doors are locked.

And, sooner or later, I invariably find all the most useful things in the kitchen on the top shelf. You know, climbing up on the counter was a lot easier when I was a kid. Now that I’m out of shape (it’s that damn bon-bon and soap opera habit of mine) and no longer 16 years old, lifting my foot above my waist AND THEN EXPECTING IT TO DO SOMETHING LIKE PULL MY WEIGHT OFF THE GROUND is more like the start to a bad joke.

I suppose I shouldn’t forget his point of view. After all, he’s been tall for the last 20+ years; plus, he’s spent most of his life doing physical projects with Womb Mate who is less than an inch shorter than him. But, I’ve decided all that is null and void because: he complains that he hates having to bend down to kiss me.

OH SURE, FORGET THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE WHEN WE’RE LIFTING HEAVY SHIT BUT COMPLAIN ABOUT IT WHEN WE’RE MAKING OUT.

It’s like it causes him physical pain to speak in coherent sentences

Monsieur Stoic has this terrible habit of forgetting that I am not his brother. See, they’re identical twins. This means I have nearly embarrassed myself a couple of times by almost grabbing my brother in law’s ass because the two of them often dress alike, completely coincidentally, so unless you’re paying super close attention to the tiniest of details it’s easy to confuse them from behind. Or while being bounced between them on a trampoline. But that’s another story.

As it usually is with twins, they have their own form of communication. They may not have the full extent of the twin ESP you hear about, but they can get by using only a couple words at a time and understand each other perfectly. I guess that kind of shorthand comes naturally when you’ve been womb mates. The problems is this: I didn’t share a placenta with my husband. I need more than 2 words to know what it is he wants. We’ve been a couple for 5 years, but that isn’t long enough for me to decipher his cryptic ass messages.

The other day, in order to make the house presentable for the photographer to come get some photos of the house so we can con someone into buying it, we needed to remove an extension ladder that leaned on the balcony off our bedroom. It was a 2 person job to take it out to the shop, so like a good little wife I agreed to give him a hand. “Walk it backward,” he told me. “It’s heavy.” As that was all he said to me, I assumed he wanted me to walk backward with the ladder, facing him, like one would help carry a table or a couch.

Nope.

Stoic grabbed the ladder, straightened it, and started moving it. The feet started to come off the ground, so I grabbed the ladder at that end and tried to move backward with it. “No, don’t grab it. Walk it backward!”

“I’m trying!”

“No you’re not!”

“DUDE. YES, I AM.”

“No, walk it backward.”

“Like put it upright and make the ladder walk backward?”

“No. Like this.” He proceeded to demonstrate by holding the ladder at a diagonal angle and walking backward while keeping the ladder stationary, moving his hands as though he was on monkey bars. The ladder’s feet never lifted off, and the ladder wound up safely on the ground. Oddly enough, he did this just fine without my help.

“Wait. So you wanted me to guide the ladder down to the ground so we could put it on its side to carry it?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you just say that? I’m not your womb mate. I need more than 2 words to know what to do.”

That same day, Future Cult Leader was Losing Her Shit last night in pretty epic form. A few days ago I swore that the next time she threw a fit I would take video to show her later and, okay, to get some validation by showing the video to people and going AND YOU THOUGHT I WAS EXAGGERATING. Since I needed to step back from her, I thrust her writhing body into Stoic’s arms so he could take her to tantrum in her bed where she wouldn’t get hurt or hurt someone else. Five minutes into their time upstairs, I get a text.

“Video?”

I stared at the words, trying to figure out what he meant. So I tapped out “what?” and hit send.

“The tantrum.”

Perhaps it was because I was so rattled by the force of Cult Leader’s fury over a dinner she refused to eat, even though she didn’t actually know what it was, but I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. Was she Losing Her Shit because I had mentioned we could rent a video soon and didn’t run straight to the nearest Red Box to pick one up? Of course, this would be more than adequate to send to Womb Mate, who probably wouldn’t have even needed the second text.

I responded. “Stop speaking in sentence fragments, please.”

He came back with “want to video the tantrum?”

SERIOUSLY. WHAT WAS SO HARD ABOUT THAT.

Moving on up

If you don’t live around these parts, then the Astoria Column is this:

Why are most towers built to resemble penises?

and it’s 125 feet of terror. Or, it is if you’re afraid of heights. And ohhhhhhh, I am. I can’t even climb a 6 foot ladder without feeling like I’m going to soil myself. One hundred twenty five feet, so multiply that by about 20. Or 21. Or, if you’re literal like my husband, 20.8.

I have no idea what possessed me to climb the column. Call it a lapse in judgment, a moment of stupidity, or thinking my balls were bigger than they are. Either way, it was not my brightest choice.

Inside the column is a metal spiral staircase with 164 steps that lead to the top.

ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FOUR

About halfway up…

Me: “WHAT WAS THAT?!” I drop down to a whisper. “Is that an earthquake?”

Him: “No.”

Me, in a desperate whisper: “I THINK IT IS. IT’S AN EARTHQUAKE.”

Him, patiently: “No, it’s someone else coming up the stairs.”

Me, a little louder: “ARE YOU SURE?”

Before he can respond, we hear voices. “Oh. I guess you are.”

Later….

Me, in another panicked whisper: “WHY ARE THEY LAUGHING. DO THEY NOT REALIZE THAT WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE UP HERE?”

And later still…

“I CAN FEEL THIS SWAYING. ARE WE SWAYING? I THINK WE’RE SWAYING. WE’RE GOING DOWN.”

Needless to say, I was relieved to get down, even if I nearly had to scoot down the stairs on my ass.

It was a hell of a view, though.

It’s a family trait.

Monsieur Stoic, as I may have noted, is a bit anal. He’s can be so literal and so precise at times that you (well, I, really) just want to kick him in the shin. (Note: I am not advocating violence. I’m merely expressing a fantasy.) I am not usually so exact. However, there are moments where the two of us trade roles. The difference is the situation as well as the reaction. When I’m being anal, I freak out. When he’s being anal, he gets really mocking. Let me give you a glimpse of what this is like.
 

Example A. We are out shopping for groceries. We walk by the milk case, where I open the glass door and reach in for a gallon of 1% milk.

“Don’t grab that one.”

“Why?”

“Check the date on the one behind it.”

“I’m not checking the date. That’s stupid. We’ll go through this gallon in 3 days.”

“Check the date so we have the freshest milk possible.”

“I’m not checking the date,” I say as I set the jug in the cart. He calmly removes it, opens the cooler doors, and swaps it out for a gallon with a use by date 3 days after the one I originally grabbed.

“That was” he chuckles “SO hard, wasn’t it?”
 

Example B. Since we’re in the process of getting our house ready for sale we need to make things more…presentable. We need new guest bed sheets, so while we’re out and about, I look at sheet sets. (WHY the hell do they make 8 piece sets that have a bunch of stupid pillows and not a single fucking sheet in the set? It makes no sense to me. WHO DRESSES THEIR BED WITHOUT SHEETS?!) I settle on a set that looks nice but has all the necessary pieces and goes with the scheme of the room. I bring it to the cart.

“How much is it?”

“$79.99.”

Stoic gives me a look. “I’m not paying $80 bucks for a set of sheets.”

I bristle. “Look buddy, I’ve been looking for sheet sets. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a decently priced set of sheets that have everything in it? This is a good deal.”

“We can find it cheaper online. Go put it back.”

I chuckle in that way that suggests I am not amused. “You have to be kidding me.”

“I’m not paying full price for a sheet set.”

“But it’s not full price, that’s the sale price.”

“Not cheap enough. We’ll buy it online.”

I growl, but I walk off with the sheet set to put it back. Should have made him do it.
 

Example C. We are getting ready to can home made vegetable stock, because it’s cheaper and tastier than that crap you buy in a can at the store. We’ve never used a pressure canner before, but he’s helped his dad make pickles, and we’re pretty good at reading. How hard can it be?

“How much is in there?”

“I don’t know, I’m filling up the measuring cup.”

“Why not use a ladle?”

“Because this is easier.”

“But you’re not filling it up to the 2 cup mark.”

“Then I’ll get some more in there,” he says, moving to dip the cup back in the heated broth.

“Just use a fucking ladle,” I say exasperatedly, shoving one in his hands.

Then…

“Wait, you didn’t pour all that in.”

“It doesn’t all fit.”

“But how much did you put in there?”

“I dunno. A cup and a half?”

“Honey, I need to know.”

“I didn’t measure. I can’t tell you,” he replies without sympathy as he loads up the next cup without really looking at the amount.

“HEY.” My frustration is palpable, but he dumps it into the waiting jar anyway. “You need to measure that!”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

I’m more or less panicking, so my voice is getting shrill. “YES, it is. I cook with this stuff, I need to know how much is in there so I don’t have to measure.”

He shrugs. Inside, I’m screaming. I take over filling the jars and learn that a pint jar? Doesn’t actually hold a pint.

“But I need these to hold 2 cups! If it doesn’t hold 2 cups then it messes up my plan!” And I’ll lose my homemaker badge and life will suck and BLARGH. So, in light of this lesson, it makes sense to me to start filling some of the jars in 1 cup increments, so I fill one of the jars half full.

“You can put more than that in there.”

I snap at him, “NO. This is how much is going in this jar because this is a logical amount.”

No conflict until we’re outside with the camp stove and pressure canner. This happens:

“How much pressure is needed?”

“Ten pounds.” Not that I knew, but I had looked it up on the internet BECAUSE THE INTERNET KNOWS EVERYTHING.

Fifteen minutes later….

“Wait, the pressure gauge is reading 11.”

“It’s like cooking with the pressure cooker. You get it up to pressure and have to relieve pressure when there’s too much.”

“How do we relieve pressure on the canner?”

“You don’t. You turn the heat down.”

“But what if it keeps going up? It’s supposed to be at 10!”

“It’s not going to hurt anything if it goes up a little. I wouldn’t let it get to 15 or anything.”

“BUT THE INSTRUCTIONS SAID 10. IT’S AT 11. IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD.”

Of course, after I relent and let the pressure vacillate between 10 and 12 without having a cow, the pressure drops to 8. I start to worry. IF IT’S DOWN TO 8 THEN WE’VE RUINED ALL THE JARS AND WE’VE DONE ALL THIS WORK FOR NOTHING AND OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW POORLY THIS IS GOING.

Stoic comes out to check on my progress. I’m not visibly upset, but as soon as I open my mouth…

“Thepressureissohardtomaintainanditgotupto13andthendroppedto8andwashardtogetbackupandifitdroppedto8doesthatmeanwehavetostartoverandIcan’ttakethepressurenopunintended.”

My head explodes.
 

On second thought, I’m not anal. I’m just neurotic. My bad.

I’d call the Ghostbusters, but I don’t think they’d do much good.

We lost power last night. Stoic and Basement Dweller had gone out to relive their high school glory days while I stayed home with Evil Genius and Basement Dweller’s kids, Jolly Giant and Jolly Smalls. Future Cult Leader is gone for a week, and it’s a good thing because there’s no way I would have handled last night had she been home.

It was about 8:45. The Jollies and I had just sat down to watch 30 minutes of Toy Story 3 before I sent them to bed and started my stay-at-home-mom style debauchery: sitting down with a bitch beer and my laptop to lose a few brain cells, courtesy of the internet. My plans were screwed, because the power surged and everything went down. It surged again, then everything shut down again. The Jollies and I just sat there, stunned, when there was one last mini surge that turned some lights on and shut them off again. Cue my fear of the dark and fear of wandering mass murderers.

Yes. I’m a grown ass adult and I’m afraid of the dark. Not so much the dark, but the vulnerability of being in the dark. I’m fine as long as there is someone with me because, you know, safety in numbers and all that. But I was alone with 3 kids. Two of them weren’t mine and while they are essentially family members, being responsible for someone else’s child is still a little nerve wracking. Oh, did I mention that Jolly Smalls has diabetes? I have the training and I’m experienced in caring for her and all, but being responsible for her for a big block of time like that had my anxiety stretching to take a power walk.

The power outage? Had it setting off for a rapid, butt shaking pace. With hand weights.

Candles and flashlights were gathered, and Facebook was texted to update my status. No better way to handle a power outage than talk to Facebook! While things were being gathered, my front door opened. My men weren’t due home for hours; who the fuck is walking into my house? I grabbed something heavy to throw at the intruder, but when I came around the corner it was just my mother, stopping by on her way home from the store.

My anxiety got ready for a light jog.

Once the Jollies went to bed and I had every single light source in the house collected and on, I concentrated on reporting the outage. Except? To report I had to have a phone number attached to the account, or an account number. None of our phone numbers worked. I texted Stoic to get the account number. He directed me to the filing cabinet in his office, where he had EVERY SINGLE BILL from the old house, but NOTHING from the new house. My man, he is fastidious, almost to the point of anal which is something I make fun of him for, but at that moment all I could think was, HE IS NOT NEARLY ANAL ENOUGH. But when I texted him about his lack of anal behavior, he told me the account number was the same. So, I called the power outage hotline again. That account has been closed.

My anxiety started jogging.

I went through the house to lock every single door to every single room that wasn’t being used, and closed every window so no serial rapists could get in and hurt me. Because a few panes of glass are going to protect me, amirite? Then I started searching Stoic’s office for something resembling a current power bill. Guys, the only stuff he had for the new house was irrelevant.

My anxiety decided it was going for a long distance run.

I grabbed my computer to check the power company’s website. Silly me! DSL isn’t going to work in a power outage! I called a friend to see what they could see online, and guess what? Same shit! I can’t find out anything concrete without that information! All she could tell me is that there are 2 outages in my area affecting X amount of customers with X number of people reporting.

My anxiety thought long distance sprinting was a fabulous idea.

I sat there, the occasional tear falling. I held a flashlight so I could read to distract my mind. Except, there’s NOTHING distracting about reading in COMPLETE AND TOTAL DARKNESS, save enough candles to set off a smoke detector in the adjoining kitchen and an LED flashlight mounted in my mouth. Then 2 things happened. I noticed a bunch of emergency lights across the river (anxiety hit an obstacle course at a record breaking pace). My mom fell asleep and started snoring. So the company I had to help me feel better? Was of no actual use.

My anxiety started a meth fueled frenzy, tap dancing in a car while going for a ride on the world’s fastest roller coaster.

I hate roller coasters.

So there I sat, cursing Stoic for not buying a generator when Basement Dweller and I told him to and for not having information available to me that might soothe my overactive imagination. I think if he had come in the door just then, I’d have punched him in the chest.

An hour and a half after the lights went off in Georgia, my house being Georgia and the lights going off for only the literal reason and not the figurative one, power came back on. However, because my anxiety had been slammed into overdrive, I was still a bit of a train wreck. Or five. In fact, I turned on every single light on the ground floor, a light in the basement, and bedroom lights in my room on the third floor. My mom woke up when power returned and she said she had to go home or she’d fall asleep here. (Figure that one out.) I followed her around the house as she gathered her stuff up (to protect her?), then walked her outside and shined a light on her car (because a porch light wasn’t enough). I ran inside when I heard a car on the road and locked the front door against the boogeyman that was coming to get me. I grabbed myself a bitch beer, sat on the couch with my laptop and the TV on, and I didn’t really move from that spot until Stoic and Basement Dweller came home.

Since nothing about my behavior was rational, they didn’t do much more than laugh at me. Thanks, guys!

“She thinks my riding lawmower is sexy” doesn’t have the same ring

The Basement Dweller likes to earn his keep by doing yard work, because he is one of those crazy mother fuckers who relaxes by doing manual labor. Weirdo.

I’m outside hanging laundry because I’m a dirty crunchy little hippie, while Basement Dweller is riding around cutting the grass. No wait, I wasn’t hanging laundry. I was in the driveway with the basket of clothes, waiting for Basement Dweller to finish mowing the edges of the lower field. So I’m across the property from the mower and Basement Dweller hits a pile of rocks, probably left there by a bunch of (our) kids. The mower blades hit the pile and the rocks go FLYING everywhere.

That incident resulted in the following conversation. Monsieur Stoic is on the couch, I am in the kitchen washing my hands for lunch, and Basement Dweller has just come in from the yard.

Basement Dweller: “Ran over a pile of rocks while I was mowing.”

Stoic: “Ah ha. Where was that?”

Dweller: “On the other side of the driveway outside the lower field. Nailed the neighbor’s cars and everything.”

Me: “Yeah, got me in a leg a couple times, too. I have the bruises to prove it.”

Dweller: “Wait, it got you? All the way over there?”

Me: “Yeah. Shit was flying!”

Stoic: “What he’s not telling you, honey, is that I took out a contract on you. He’s supposed to carry it out.”

Me: “Welp, I guess he failed. Don’t pay him.”

Stoic: “Just because he missed doesn’t mean he’s supposed to stop trying.”

Dweller: “Yeah, I’ll have many other opportunities, believe me. I need the money.”

Me: “Well, you’d better dock his pay at the very least.”

Stoic: “Don’t worry, his salary will take a hit.”

A conversation

This morning, I opened the front door to a package of clothes I had ordered via internet a week and a half ago. I’ve given up shopping in the store. Something about the atmosphere causes me to Lose My Shit over the clothes I try on, because I have an oddly shaped body and a low self esteem. They don’t make clothes for girls with big boobs, wide hips, and a flat ass. It makes for a lot of self loathing and vaguely suicidal thoughts when trying on clothes. I also won’t pay a lot, which explains my bad fashion sense.

“What’s that? Your camera?” I had ordered a 1907 Kodak Brownie 2A, and was anticipating its arrival without any dignity whatsoever.

“No, these are the clothes I ordered that UPS never bothered to update the tracking on.”

“Ah.”

“Their tracking sucks. They told me when it left, and they tell me when it arrives. Who the hell knows where it goes in between.”

“Their billing sucks too, which is why I switched carriers.”

“Interesting. Well, I suppose I should go try these on.”

“Should I call 911 and get them over here so you don’t kill yourself?”

My husband, he knows me so well. “No, but you might want to keep them on standby, just in case.”

Beating my wall against a head

Trying to plan a weekend getaway with Monsieur Stoic is so frustrating that I think I’d rather spend an entire day trying to keep Cult Leader quiet. It would probably be less trouble, in fact. Stoic has an addiction to saving money, and will do whatever he can to keep from spending it if he doesn’t have to. This comes in handy, like that time we bought a house for half price, or the time the car dealership lost money on the brand new car we bought from them, or when we’re out of Frosted Flakes, which is the only cereal all 4 of us can and will eat, and 200 boxes of it magically showed up at our doorstep. But he will stay in a hovel before he stays in a semi nice hotel if it means paying an 20 bucks less. We will stay an hour and a half away from our destination if it means an extra $50 in his pocket.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m cheap as fuck when it comes to some things. That toothpaste tube? You’d better not throw that away until your fingers are blistered trying to get that last dab out. You’re using a spatula to scrape out every last glob of mayonnaise, so help me god. Don’t throw out those carrot peels, because I can totally use them when I make a chicken stock. Are you really running the dishwasher like that? You better fill it up to capacity, or I’ll shove you in there to take up space.

But I also understand that sometimes, you’re going to have to pay a little bit more for some things. Like clothes. I’ve stopped shopping for clothes the way he shops for clothes because Old Navy shirts are shit and only last about a year and Target jeans either smell funny or fit funny. No, now I’ll spend $20 on a shirt that will last 2 years unless the monsters decide that rubbing their greasy fingerprints on it is a great way to start the day, and why not end it with stretching out Mommy’s shirt until it’s no longer recognizable? And you know what else? You probably shouldn’t cut corners on things that hold a baby’s shit unless you like running your washer 40 times a day.

Vacations are the same way. No, I don’t want to stay in some fussy luxury hotel (although that time the bestie and I got a mansion for the price of a studio because the studio was a falsely advertised piece of shit was pretty rad) or sleep in a water bed made from seal tears. But I also don’t want to sleep on a bed where a hooker was killed, and I don’t want to worry about getting shivved when getting ice.

Right now, we’re looking to go away for the weekend of our anniversary. We’ll have been together for 5 years on the 22nd, so we’re celebrating that shit. Anyone who puts up with me for 5 years straight deserves a goddamn trophy. And honestly, I deserve a vacation for dealing with him for half a decade. Surprisingly, we have sitters lined up for Future Cult Leader AND Evil Genius–at the same time!–so all we need to do is plan. He doesn’t want to fly anywhere (even though he has a gajillion frequent flyer miles and could spare some for a mini trip for us) and I don’t really want to go to Lincoln City even though it’s cheap because frankly, I’m sick of it. I’ve been going there for the last 29 years, it’s getting old, whatever.

We settled on a road trip, but a road trip to where? I suggested the 11 hour drive to the Redwood Forest, which he vetoed because hotels in the area are too expensive. I vetoed Crater Lake because the nearest hotels are an hour and a half away, and I’m not staying in some podunk town 90 minutes away from our intended destination.

“We could drive down 101,” he suggested without choking.

Hmmm. I like that idea. I’ve always wanted to do it. So I came up with an itinerary that was reasonable and started looking for hotels. Three nights = three hotels, and we’ve found 2. I don’t know how familiar you are with Oregon’s North Coast, but it’s expeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnsive. Not as expensive as sleeping on a bed made from dodo feathers and woolly mammoth skin, but if you’re going to stay a weekend prepare to give an arm and about half your leg.

I am okay with staying at a hotel for 1 night at $100 ONE time. He is not. It’s way too much money for him to spend on one night, plus gas, plus food, and speaking of food I can count on eating dollar menu fast food during our trip to save money. I should start saving up for the gastric bypass surgery I’ll need.

We’re at an impasse. It’s his delicate financial sensibilities versus my desire to explore the always beautiful Oregon coast as well as some new sexual positions we can’t try at home for fear of waking the kids. Hmmm. I wonder if there’s a position I could use as my ace in the hole.

So we could go home and not finish our Oregon Coast tour, which I refuse to consider, or we can keep looking for alternatives until it’s next Wednesday and we don’t have the last day of our trip planned.

At this rate, we may be sleeping in the car.