My little dreamer

I will start this post by noting that in publishing this I know to expect a lot of trouble from the Mr. That being said, I am going to do it anyway because that is what I do best.  Harass.  Envelope. Push.  So.

The whole point of this post will be to note that I don’t need my own children (yet) because I already have three at home to tend to.  Two are four-legged special cases that surely somehow make my house qualify as an assisted living residence and then the third, being my Mr. H, is similar to what I imagine having a six-year-old is like.  And really not for any huge reason, but I think a description of what our mornings are like should do it.

7am: Standard time of waking up.  Doesn’t change.  Ever. 

7:15am: Three times of hitting the snooze button, I usually roll over and slap my Mr. H and tell him to get up and get in the shower.  He is always the first to shower because:

Just the sight of one makes me furious.

1. He takes a 28 minute shower every fucking day.  Every day.  I don’t even see how this is possible, considering the shower is about 3 feet by 3 feet, we have nothing fun in it and he walks straight from bed to the shower, all in his naked ass glory, not covered in mud and (probably) not sweaty.

2. I do not understand people who have no sense of urgency in the morning or have not established the quickest, most efficient shower routine possible.  Soap, shave, rinse.  Half the time, I don’t shave and neither does he so what is the fucking hold up.  But then I asked and I knew I shouldn’t have because the response,

“Sometimes I like to just sit down and relax.”  HA.  Sit down and relax.  This  is 1. comical because my husband is 6’3″ and the shower is the same height and I already told you how small around it is.  I’m not sure how he fits at the bottom and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to walk in and see him “relaxing” mid stream in some pretty little yoga pose.  And mornings are not supposed to be relaxing.  Get the hell out the door by 8am has never been relaxing for me but I have issues with being late anywhere so I guess don’t ask me about these things.

Wait. I know some of you (the ones with a penis) are thinking, yeah, he’s “relaxing” in the shower.  Whatever.  That should be down to a science too.  That’s no fucking excuse for 28 minutes, even if it was the reason. And if you were thinking that’s the reason, stop acting like such an animal.

Back to my little dreamer.

While he’s in the shower, I haul ass out of bed and accomplish the following.

1. Let out and feed the dogs.

2. Make the coffee for the day and put it in cups.  I wait on the ice because that should be done on the way out the door.  Ice needs to stay cold.

3. Leave a note or money for anyone that may be coming that day such as the Germans that help keep our lives together by cleaning and walking the dogs because we are lazy.

Then I run back upstairs and sure enough, my Mr. H is usually in the shower still, whistling away and probably sitting on the floor.  About five minutes later, the shower goes off.

7:43am:  He gets out, I hop in, usually with a, “We have to hurry because I REALLY need to be in by 0830, which means we have 17 minutes.” 

This is where he sometimes turns to me and shoots guns at me, while making the shooting noise, pew, pew, pew, clothed or not clothed. 

You know the, "I'm shooting two guns at you from my fake hip holsters" trick? Yeah, that one.

 That OR he does that helicopter dance, while nodding seriously at me, like he’s NOT FUCKING NOTING THAT HE’S DOING THE MALE VERSION OF HULA HOOPING.  All are forms of mockery used to make my head explode.

7:48am:  I am washed, conditioned and rinsed and in my bathrobe.

7:52 am: I am fully dressed, hoping the Mr. has put ice in the mugs and walked the dogs and is waiting for me with his shoes on by the door.

7:55 am: Professional face paint on, spritzed with the perfume, hair de-frizzed, I am heading down the stairs to get my coat and head out the door.

And here is the latest example of what I usually find.  This happened sometime earlier this week.

8am:  “OHMYGOODFUCKINGLORD WHAT.ARE.YOU.DOING????  WHY ARE YOU NOT REAAAAAADY?”  I’m shrieking and it’s really clear why he’s not ready.  He’s not ready because:

He’s standing in the kitchen with just his shirt on, pantless, shoeless, casually eating a yogurt while staring out the window dreamily like there’s a FUCKING UNICORN leading a parade of GODDAMNED LEPRECHAUNS in my FRONT YARD. 

I'd understand if they were in my yard but THEY WEREN'T.

The dogs are sitting at his feet, staring from me, back to his bare bottom, back to me, waiting to see who is going to take them out.

The iced coffee STILL LACKS ICE.  AND I DON’T SEE HIS SHOES.

“OHMYGODPLEEEEEEEEASE?  What are you staring at?  Can you PLEASE stop getting distracted by sun monkeys and reflections or airplanes passing by?”

“You want some?”  He puts his spoon out and offers me his yogurt.  He knows I do not want his goddamned yogurt and he’s smiling because he knows in my head I AM NOT SMILING.  Actually in real life I’m not smiling and I begin to wonder why he doesn’t support FINDING ME SOME FUCKING SEDATIVES.

“I am going to walk the dogs.  I hope you are ready when I get back.”

8:12am:  We’re back from our walk.  He’s putting one sock on at a time, while downloading movies on the laptop.  I am now shrieking his name.

8:16am:  We get in the car and he shuts his door.  He is pretending that he has no idea that I’m losingmyshit.

8:16:12am: He flings open the door and bolts into the street.  I can’t wait to hear what he forgot this time. 

8:18am:  He gets back in the car (which he is driving because at this point, I can just hear him saying, Because I WAS DRIVING YOU.  Don’t make them all think you were driving.  You never drive. blahblahblah)  He flashes his badge that he just ran inside to get.

“Great.  Can we go now?” I huff. 

“Yes, sweetheart,” he coos.  “Whenever you’re finally ready.”

Whenever.I.AM.REAAAADDDDYY?????  I’m surprised I haven’t smashed my fucking dashboard in yet.