And I would do anything for love…

*Warning: This post might offend vegetarians. And anyone with common sense, which I am obviously lacking today. 

The hubs and I, we don’t really do Valentine’s Day. It’s not that we hate candy and flowers, it just one of those take-it-or-leave-it holidays.

So this morning was just like any other morning – we got up with the kiddo when he started squawking from his crib. Hubs let the dogs outside to potty, I plopped the munchkin in his high chair with some Cheerios and yogurt and then we sat down to read the morning news. (Ok fine, we were on Twitter. Shut it.)

After breakfast, Monkey and I read some books and hubs headed to work. A few minutes later the phone rang.

“Some fat guy in a diaper was on our porch,” my husband said.

There’s still a few inches of snow on the ground and the cat refuses to stay out at night, so I was thinking about how uncomfortable that nappied nincompoop must be out there when my husband added, “He was wearing wings.”

Most women would have caught on at this point, but I actually had a neighbor once who checked his mail while wearing pink underwear, a tutu and alien antennae, so instead of thinking “Cupid,” I was thinking “I hope that door is locked. Where’s my gun?”

Then, over the phone, I heard this weird mouth-fart noise that could only be my husband suppressing a giggle.

“You got me a card, didn’t you?” I asked, feeling like crap because I hadn’t done any Valentine’s planning at all.

And indeed, he had. It was punny and silly and perfect, and inside he’d penned a beautiful letter. I thanked him and we hung up.

As the morning progressed, I thought hard about how to reciprocate his spontaneous declaration of love.

Well you know, of course I decided on food.

We were going to have tacos for dinner tonight – not the fanciest fare even if the tortillas were going to be freshly made.

Suddenly, this post I’d seen the day before popped into my head. Restaurant- style steak! Men love red meat that’s dead, having been drowned in butter, but barely qualifying as cooked. (Or at least, mine does.)

Except that he has the car seat in the truck with him at work and it’s not like I can just zip over to the store with a toddler in the trunk of the car, and we don’t have any steak here…exactly.

Oh! But what we did have was a huge beef tenderloin my mother had bought for Christmas dinner. We’d never actually gotten around to cooking it, so it was taking up an entire shelf in my deep freeze.

Now, that’s way too much meat for our little family to consume in one meal and since we’re heading out for a little vacation later this week I didn’t want to waste it by defrosting the whole thing.

“I know,” I thought. “I’ll just cut off a little piece of the end, slice it into steaks and serve them with roasted rosemary potatoes. What man doesn’t like steak and potatoes?”

Armed with my sharpest knife, I headed into the garage to the deep freeze.

I’d seriously underestimated a couple of things.

One, the size of the tenderloin. This was a $70 hunk of beef, y’all.

Two, frozen meat is freaking hard. The knife wouldn’t even scratch the surface.

So there I am downstairs with a hunk of frozen beef that resembles a cadaver leg – trying to come up with a way to lop off the end of it – when I caught sight of hubs’ tool chest.

“I’ll chisel this mother off, “ I said to myself, returning to my beefy challenge with a hammer and a (very clean) wood chisel.

You know, I discovered that would be a great way to cut beef medallions, but it wasn’t going to get me a clean slice through the middle.

Luckily, a more thorough search of the tool cabinet revealed a fresh, unopened package of new hacksaw blades.

Now I’m standing on a pile of dirty towels, this large, plastic-wrapped tenderloin pinned to the top of the washing machine which was the only clean flat surface available, vigorously sawing back and forth while meat confetti flew everywhere.

But I got a chunk cut off that sucker for dinner. Oh yes I did.

It was about 15 minutes later, after I’d cleaned up the murder scene in the garage that I realized he’d taken the car to work and left the truck – complete with toddler car seat – in the driveway for me to use.

Linking up with Yeah Write #44! You should really come check out the posts there. No two are alike. 

The Pythagorean Theorem in real life

I wrote this post a couple of days ago dedicated to my husband and all the things I love about him for What I Love About Him over at Multitasking Mumma’s.

In that post, I included this picture.

It seems as though you aren’t going to let me get away with just showing you the aftermath, and have also demanded asked that I explain myself.

So I will, but no judgment, ok?

Last March, when I was pregnant and admittedly hormonal, I stood at the back door and watched my husband tending to our dogs.

Two of the dogs were playing with a toy, and decided they no longer wanted to share, so they snarked at each other.

My husband got in the middle of them, but they were being total assholes that day and didn’t want to let it go, so they continued to bicker around him.

Now, a few months earlier, we had gotten burglarized and I had insisted on the purchase of two kick bars that we could use to block the doors from being opened. Eventually, my fear of getting robbed again was overtaken by my laziness in setting the bars in place, so they’d taken up residence on the floor next to the kitchen wall.

Worried that my husband was going to get bitten by these rotten dogs growling “Come at me, bro,” while they darted in and around his legs, locked in a bitchy slap fight over a freaking $2 piece of rubber, I picked up a metal bar and headed outside.

I fully intended to poke at the moronic mongrels until they came to their senses, but I didn’t need to, as my husband had collared them both and was griping at them as they sat shamefacedly before him.

As he lectured them about how they’d embarrassed and disappointed him, I began to get bored. (In my defense, he’s rather long winded when he’s delivering an ass chewing, and it tends to become tedious.)

So, I began to swing the pole around like a ninja with a…oh hell, what are those things called?

Yeah, so anyway, I’m a ninja with a pole, and I’m swinging it around super skillfully. I turn around in an awesome move, surprisingly agile what with my big belly, and I feel the pole connect with something.

Something taller than me.

“Oh shit,” I remember thinking. “I’ve knocked out his teeth. He’s going to kill me.”

Terrified, I whirl around to see what I hit.

My husband is standing there and his face is missing, completely obscured by a fast-flowing red waterfall.

I began to freak out while he’s just standing there quietly wondering why his hands are all bloody, and drag him inside to put a wet towel on his face so we can investigate the source of the, um, leak.

I was picturing hours of painful dental work, thinking that I may have earned myself a place out back in the doghouse next to our pissy pups, so I was kind of relieved to see that I’d only cut his eyebrow.

Only, as in it was hanging over his eye.

The circular edge of the metal pole had left a crescent moon cut that created a fallen flap of skin, revealing some pretty gross stuff up in there. (On the plus side, at least I know my husband is not an android. So there’s that.)

I tried to push the skin back up, but it was obvious he was going to need stitches. Which is awesome, since he hates needles.

Anyway, I put him in the car and we head over to the ER, which is five minutes down the road, and embarrassingly enough, a place we tend to frequent.

We walk in, tell them about his injury, and they call him back. But they won’t let me go with him.

I’m confused at this point. I always go back with him. That time with the chest pains? I went back. That time he slipped and fell and hit his head on the concrete beside the house? I went back.

Why wouldn’t they let me go back?

My question was answered about five minutes later when my husband stepped back out into the lobby to get me.

He confessed that as the nurses were taking his vitals, they had questioned him about the injury.

“Did she hit you?” they asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But it was an accident.”

“Do you have these ‘accidents’ often?” they inquired.

You can imagine how mortified I was at this point. Ok, yes, I’d broken a few plates during this pregnancy, and ok, so the crack in the bathroom door was from where I kicked it, but c’mon, people! I’ve never hit my husband on purpose!

In a thankfully anticlimactic finish, we go on back and eventually they get him all stitched up (notice how I’m skipping the part about how he acted like a toddler getting immunizations here, that’s cause I’m a good wife) and send us home.

The funniest part of all of this, at least for me, was after I told my students what had happened, two of them got together and drew this for me as part of an assignment.

There were no funny parts for him. For the next few weeks, he got to sport a stylish black eye with his stitches.

Best Easter picture EVER.

See? You can’t even see the scar unless you’re really close.

Not that close. Back up off my husband. I have a pole…