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  • Enhanced Husband Torture Techniques…

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    Part 1 of 2…

    You really never know exactly what an evil redhead like E K is going to do to you. Sure, there are all the normal, everyday tortures she has in her bag of tricks. The evil, sadistic stuff that wicked redheads do that would make even Dick Cheney cringe. I’ve already told you about those.

    I’m talking about the far more intense EHTT’s (Enhanced Husband Torture Techniques). You see, E K is among that elite group of hypersadistic not-of-this-earth redheads who come up with ways to grind their stiletto heel into the back of your head without even being within 20 miles of you.  Pretty scary stuff this “Remote Torture”, and The Evil Redheads of the world have perfected it.

    I’ll let you in on a little secret – I’m pretty sure E K is their leader. She disappears for a couple of hours every week and whenever I ask about it she just gives me one of those really evil grins and says she was at a “meeting”, then tells me to make sure I have chocolate fondue or finger sandwiches ready for her to take with her to “the meeting” the following week. Unless I am missing my guess here, these “meetings” are where the redheads get together and devise new and frightening things to do to poor husbands like me. This includes not returning my Tupperware and/or fondue forks, but that’s another blog.

    Anyhow, regarding these new and sadistic tortures, let me give you an example – Take for instance a couple of Christmases ago… (nice segue, eh?)

    SocksYou see, E K is a “sock lady”. This is almost exactly like a “shoe lady” (she’s one of those too), but it involves socks instead of shoes. Also, be aware that “sock ladies” should not be confused with “sock puppets”. They are something entirely different. Sock ladies can, however, have puppets, especially if they are evil redheaded sock ladies. But, usually they just call us lackeys, slaves, or “hey you”. For some reason they eschew the use of the word puppet. It probably has something to do with “sock monkeys” and corporal punishment, but we won’t go there.

    Yeah, I’m  digressing… so what’s new about that?

    Okay… Back to the situation at hand – or, at foot as the case may be…

    As I was saying, E K is a “sock lady”.  Back in her early twenties – which isn’t all that long ago since, as we all know, she just turned 25 (wink wink, nudge nudge) – her majesty wore skirts, stockings, and heels to work. Yeah… Even as a service technician out in the field she could be found lithely prancing about on high-heels while beating a printer into rightful submission, and looking damn good doing it. (Not that she doesn’t look damn good doing now too, mind you.)

    However, for the past several years she has reserved her “fancy shoes” for “fancy occasions”… These days when going all dominatrix with a screwdriver on a printer or plotter she is far more likely to be found in slacks and a stylish pair of black or brown leather, flat-soled Mary Janes.

    This is where the socks come in.

    You see, she is not about to sacrifice her quirky individuality for anything. Therefore, she has an entire room full of socks.  And when I say socks, I don’t just mean your average, run of the mill, 6 in a package from K-mart type of socks. Nope. Not E K. She has knee socks, over the knee socks, mid-calf socks, ankle socks, lacy socks, sheer socks, polka-dotted socks, striped socks, solid color socks, argyle, oddly patterned, holiday, whimsical, thin, thick, fuzzy, wool, cotton, synthetic, electric, nuclear, hybrid… wheeeezzzzzzz… wheeeezzzzzzz…

    (Pant… Pant… Pant… Hold on a sec while I catch my breath, okay?)

    wheeeezzzzzzz… wheeeezzzzzzz…

    (Whew… Better now… I think…)

    catsockSo, anyway, you get the point. The woman has socks galore, and is always all about obtaining more socks galore.

    She will buy them in a box. She will wear them with an ox.

    She will wear them on her feet. She thinks socks are really sweet!

    She will get them from the store. She will get them more, more, more!

    And, that’s just the beginning.

    But, much like the folks who collect those little “baby spoons” from National Parks, she doesn’t want just any socks. They have to be socks she doesn’t already have in her collection. Socks that speak to her. Showcase her individuality and wicked stylishness.

    Which brings us back around to Christmas a couple of years ago.

    Here’s the thing… E K and I have been together for a long time. When you have been together as long as we have, no matter how much you are “in love of one another” you tend to start scaling back in the Christmas gift department. Instead of going out and mortgaging the house for the Faith or Charity Diamond (I mean, who would want the Hope Diamond. It’s cursed!) You tend to go for gifts that are slightly less pricey and sometimes even a bit more practical. Especially when you are married to a Taurus. They are all about practical. So, on to the socks… You see, those couple of years back I asked The Evil One if there was anything special she wanted to find under the Yule tree. Without missing a beat she replied, “Cool Socks.”

    Okay. Cool socks. Easy like pie. This, even I can do without screwing up too badly.

    I should have paid more attention to the way the corners of her mouth curled up into a fleeting grin, because little did I know she had just set her wicked, wicked plan into motion.

    More to come…

    Murv

    To Be Continued In:  Murv The Purv…

  • Periodic Airbag Testing…

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    I almost wrecked my truck the other day.

    Not Actual Truck But Damn Close...There I was, minding my own business, as usual. Summer break had officially begun and
    because of that I wasn’t able to get much writing done. You see, I kinda need peace and quiet when I write, which is something severely lacking when the O-spring is bopping around the house. All good, not a problem. She would soon be starting her summer day camp stuff and this gave us an opportunity to hang out for a bit.

    Of course, as O-springs get older – and we parental units do as well – we become an embarrassment and they really aren’t all about hanging with us. Still, we had errands to run and the kid had no choice but to come along, so she had to hang out with me whether I was an embarrassment or not.

    This is where the path to near wreck begins.

    O-springs have contingency plans. If they don’t want to hang with you, even if they are going to be in the same vehicle, they find a way around having to interact on anything more than a minimal basis. My O-spring’s method of doing this is to immerse herself in a game with her Nintendo DS.pink nintendo

    We didn’t have these things when I was a kid. Hell, I was in my tween’s when I saw – and played – one of the first commercially available PONG games at a Shakey’s Pizza Parlor on St. Charles Rock Road. I was a full fledged teenager before video game systems that did anything more than the aforementioned PONG were sold for home use. Now my O-spring has something the size of a checkbook – in a designer color mind you – that has more computing power than the system that put astronauts on the moon back in ’69. There’s something not quite right about that…

    But, let’s get back to the almost wreck.

    There we were, cruising along taking care of errands. We’d been to FedEx, the Post Office, the Recycling Dropoff, and several other stops in between. Our final stop before heading back home was the local Walgreens and I had aimed the big red truck in that direction. All during the excursion, O-spring had her nose in her DS. Anything I said to her elicited either a grunted “yeah” or more often a “what?”

    Silly music was blaring from the pink time waster as the O-spring engaged in untold feats of stylus-on-touchscreen über-skillz while playing something called “Mario Party”. Judging from the somewhat familiar midi tune, I gathered it had something to do with the old Donkey Kong / Mario Brothers stuff.

    Suddenly, the kid spoke up, much to my surprise. Seems I was now a necessary part of her day…

    “Daddy?” she said with that questioning note all parents have come to expect whenever they hear their “name” called.

    “What, honey?” I asked.

    With a perplexed tone to her voice she asked, “What are Crazy Crotch Hairs?”

    Brakes squealed… The steering wheel spun… And caffeinated beverage sprayed…

    We missed the telephone pole at the entrance of Walgreens by something on the order of half an inch. I still haven’t been able to get the coffee stains out of my dash from where I spewed a mouthful all over the instrument panel.

    Upon some careful and targeted questioning I came to discover that “Mario Party” is a cluster of games, one of which is named “Crazy Crosshairs”.

    The truck is fine, and the O-spring now knows what crosshairs are. Me? Well, I think I’ll be making an appointment with a cardiologist. As I understand it these “holy crap” moments only get worse as the kid gets older, and I’m not sure how much my old heart can take.

    Now, if I can just find a way to NOT test the airbags on my truck, I’ll be all good…

    More to come…

    Murv