To the Moon, Alice!

Whenever Tim finds me particularly bothersome, his automatic response is to throw his fist up in the air and say, “To the moon, Alice!”  By which I assume he means that I have made him so upset, he would like nothing better than to send me to the moon.

This post may elicit the same response.

Tim says he is going to write a guest post for my blog in which he “sets the record straight” concerning all things I’ve ever said about him on here (look for it in the near future.  It’ll be titled Lies, Lies, All Lies or Life According to Tim).

In the interest of full disclosure (don’t you just love it when I use that phrase?), I’ve decided to give him some more fodder for his rant in today’s post.

See the thing is, Tim alternates between viewing my blog as a conspiracy theory created for the sole purpose of teasing him (thereby forcing him to yell “off the record” before saying anything too explicit) and intentionally offering me an endless variety of hilarious things to write about.  In fact, just the other day he said (and I quote), “I try really hard to give you stuff to blog about all day.”  I’m not lying; I wrote it down right after he said it.

So you can understand my confusion whenever I say, “Honey, you should read my blog this morning; it’s about you,” and he looks pained.  Let me just describe it for you: He stops, sighs, falls on the floor kicking and screaming, and yells, “WHYYYYYYY God?  Why me?”

(He really finds it endearing, actually.  Just ask him.)

Might as well get on with it.

We’ll just start with The Gift Thing.  Like so many guys (I’m sure), Tim is a pro at buying me gifts.  The first year after we got married, he forgot my birthday (which was just as well because I never can seem to  remember if his birthday is on the 7th, 9th, or 29th of September.  He has to remind me every year  So I consider us even).  The second year he gave me this tool for my car (or something he found under my car, on the driveway).  Lucky for him, he married a tomboy who thought it was hilarious.  (It actually proved to be the best thing he could ever give me, as it has since become one of my best anecdotes.)

After that, he started trying really hard to buy me things I’d like.  Just to give you one recent example, he bought me gloves because I told him my hands were cold.  Of course, they were black pleather.  It’s not his fault.  He couldn’t possibly have known that I swore off black pleather after age thirteen and The Infamous Plastic Jacket.  I like to think of it as the worst fashion statement I’ve ever made.  People should not squeak when they move; just saying.  

Plus, in all fairness, he has bought me several Perfect Gifts: the first six seasons of Gilmore Girls (I told him to buy them); my favorite perfume, on numerous occasions (I told him to buy it); and the Flavia de Luce novels (I told him to buy them).  He also bought me potted daisies, because he knows I dislike cut bouquets of any kind, and, as he is always telling me, “You prefer real plants so you can kill them.”  (Which I personally think was just plain mean, but true nonetheless.)  Also, I told him to buy them for me.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind.  In fact, if he is going to buy me a gift anyway, I rather prefer to just tell him what I want.  That way we’re both happy.   But, for some strange reason, he always thinks the gift is going to be a big surprise, even when I pick it out and he orders it while I am sitting next to him.  On Valentine’s Day this year, he sent me a CandyGram (himself, on our doorstep at 4 PM, with chocolate).  Then, later that day, he asked if it was a surprise.  And I said, “’No, I asked you to do that last night, remember?’ and you said, ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’”  Which isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy it; I did.  It was adorable.

(where the source link would go if i could remember where i found this photo)

At this point I am going to clumsily not-segue into a list of  

Other Things Regarding Tim:

•             He is forever nagging me about leaving spots on the dishes, yet he can’t ever seem to remember that he’s the one that washed them.

•            He hates how I open cartons and things, but he always forgets to open them first.  Instead, he says something like, “Come here and let me give you a new life skill.”  This is followed by what I like to call The Art of Opening Paper Milk Cartons, by Tim.  It’s rather short, actually: “The secret is,” (and I quote, again), “you have to pinch it.”  Did you know this?  Because, to be perfectly honest, no matter how many times I pinch the damn thing it still rips wide open.  I am reminded of that Friends episode were Joey gets a gig for a TV ad in which he opens a milk carton and says, “Now I can have milk every day!”  But the real question is: WHY CAN’T THE CARTON COMPANY MAKE THE CARTONS DIFFERENTLY?  That’s what I want to know.

•            He is extraordinarily particular about his food.  He is always telling me that “Food is an art, and what you just made is a mess.”  What can I say?  I am the Jackson Pollack of food.  I prefer to fling it on the plate, eat it whilst reading a book (and since I never actually see it, I don’t understand why it needs to look pretty), and wala!  I’m fed.  Tim, on the other hand, has to make it look like a masterpiece.  So there we are, in the kitchen, making sandwiches.  I’m finished; I’ve made mine and Isaac’s, eaten the chips, had a bottle of wine, read two novels, watched a movie, and went for a run, and he is finally finished making his sandwich.  Then we sit down to have lunch.  Either that or he just tells me to get out of the kitchen because he wouldn’t want to risk having me cut the cucumbers too thickly because that would be bad.  The End of the World As We Know It, even.

•            I’m going to stop now because there’s a good chance I’m already in big trouble.

•            Oh!  One more thing.  Once, he dropped a vacuum cleaner on my foot and then said it was my fault because I didn’t move.  (There, I said it.  Now I’m really in for it.  Me and my broken foot love you, honey!)

If Tim is reading this right now, I’m sure he’s shaking his head in protest and writing the first draft of his guest post response.  Since you’ll be seeing it soon, may I just remind you that it’s me you love; you’re following my blog after all. 

Also, be sure to notice the disclaimer at the foot of my blog layout.   

It says “Mostly True.”  Which, I think, covers a multitude of untruths.

{  ♥   }

Other Posts in Which I Mention Tim 

(and say very nice things):

Male Bravado

That's What He Said

Territorial Chin Jerking

The Graduate

Turning Not Thirty