Anyone who knows me (that’s approximately four people) knows that I used to be a fidgeter. I say used to be, because although I still on occasion twitch around a bit, I am WAY better than I was in the olden days. So the other day when the leg fell off the kitchen chair I’ve been using when I write, I was a tad bit surprised.
Hubby: Well if you wouldn’t hop around like you were jacked up on caffeine and meth, then this wouldn’t happen.
Me: Pardon? I do NOT hop around. I sit still. Demure. Almost ladylike to a fault.
Me: What? I do. I’ve given up my fidgety ways.
Me: Are you seriously trying to tell me that you think I still fidget?
Hubby: Let’s start by saying that legs don’t normally just fall off chairs. Then I want you to take a look at these wear marks on the wood. See, that don’t happen from no ladylike demure kinda shit. And lastly, we’ve never purchased furniture from Magic Fingers Inc., yet anytime you plant your ass on anything, the entire fucking house vibrates.
Me: I believe you’re exaggerating.
Hubby: Look, look at this leg! It looks like it’s been chewed on by muskrats.
Okay, so I can’t explain the whole, leg falling off the chair thing, and it does appear that the wood has a bit of wear, it’s probably a factory defect. But for sure I can say that the hubby is wrong. To begin with, he’s a guy, and as we are all aware, guys are usually wrong. And second, he’s always blaming me for everything. Unjustly, I might add. It’s my fault that his chainsaw is broken. It’s my fault that the battery on his impact is buggered. It’s my fault that the garage door fell onto the top of his truck and left a huge ding and a scratch. (Well, he might be onto something with that last one.)
The other day he came into the house raving that I had broken his buzzflitter. “What’s a buzzflitter,” I asked.
He huffed air from his nose like he was Smaug and had discovered that his mountain had a dwarf infestation. “It’s the tool I need to fix the barn-weevil on the tractor’s axel grinder,” he bellowed.
“Those words don’t even make sense. Why does the tractor’s axel grinder need a barn-weevil?”
Sometimes it’s amusing when he gets all red in the face and stomps his feet like a three year old. Although now that I think about it, I wonder if that has any correlation to the doctor putting a twenty-four hour blood pressure monitor on him?