A Little Too Much Rhett . . .

Anyone who knows my husband knows that he loves being socially quirky. You may not know, however, that he is, quite frankly, bizarre. Let me give you just one example:

One night, Rhett and I were driving to visit his parents who lived about an hour away from where we lived. For some reason, which I don't recall, I was driving, which is extremely unusual, as Rhett usually drives everywhere we go, as he cannot stand my driving, which, by the way, is uncommonly good.

We were driving on a dark mini-highway, when I reached over to give Rhett's leg a little love pat. Strangely, instead of denim, my hand met with his bare skin. Somehow, without me knowing it, he had stripped completely, shirt, pants, and everything underneath.

I believe my reaction was a mortified shriek, which I think is what he was going for. (Well, he probably had something different in mind, but I have my standards!) I'm pretty sure that my mind wasn't on my driving at that point.

I had more important things to worry about, like how did he get those pants off without me noticing? And more importantly, what did I get myself into in this marriage? And even more importantly, will the trucker we are going to pass be able to see him nude from his elevated cab? I'm sure I don't need to tell you what I did next. I sped up, just to find out.

And then it was Rhett's turn to shriek. . .

Hey, look at me!

At my church, I'm in charge of leading the littlest ones in songs of praise. It's really a fun job most of the time, and I really enjoy it. However, today was our "program" meaning that we took the entire first hour and the little kids had the spotlight, singing and reading their parts.

Or rather my rear end had the spotlight. Because the little ones are so little, the ones behind the piano had a hard time seeing my hands (Although they're not missing much, as I just wave my hands however I want. I rarely am on the beat, and I don't care. And neither do they. They are, after all, just little ones.), so I ended up standing up on a chair in the middle of the front row, with my backside directly to the entire congregation. Do you blame me for wearing Support Everything (hosiery, bra, girdle, etc.)?

There's nothing worse than having your bootie (why, oh why, does my spell checker not recognize "bootie"? I must have an uptight spell checker . . .) upstage 100 beautiful children from the ages of three to twelve. But I believe I accomplished it. Lucky, lucky congregation. Oh, there's more where that came from. Just let me take off my Support Everything, and you'll see exactly what I mean.

My dear friend said, "Don't worry, I made sure we're sitting right behind you." Well she didn't, but her husband did. "Tim's making sure no one gets a good peek," she assured me.

"Oh, honey," I replied, "you better be careful because I think Tim's sitting there so he'll have the best show in the house."

My husband was a little sad not to be in Tim's spot. He tells me he wanted to reach up and give me little pats throughout the program. I told him I think I already stole the show enough. But hey, there's always next year!

The Pantless Wise Man

This is Rhett and Spe (pronounced SPEE; we're not very picky nicknamers, obviously) being The Wise Men in our family nativity pageant. I'm not quite certain why one of the wise men doesn't wear pants, but Rhett assures me it has its root in Bibilical tradition (Haven't you heard of the pantless wise man? Yeah, me neither). I'm also not certain why I ever let Rhett be in charge of the kids' costumes, but that's neither here nor there.

Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!

We're not nice people. I'm just forewarning you so you won't be too surprised when I tell you this next weird, quirky thing that we do. Just keep in mind, I already know we're not nice, so don't pepper me with comments about how mean we are. I already know!

In the course of our married life, Rhett and I have had the opportunity to move around a little bit, and every time we do we have to meet a whole new group of people at church. But sometimes we're a little bit lazy about learning names at first. But we still like to talk about people (especially crazy comments that they might make in church, etc.), so we have our own system of describing people to each other. And it's kind of mean.

We nickname people. Here are some of the nicknames we have used over the years to help each other understand who we are talking about: Man-Talker (obviously a woman with a very, very deep voice), The Giants (This whole family was over six feet tall! They were huge!), Big Hair Lady (I think this one speaks for itself), The Weasleys (a family of redheads), and my favorite, Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! (let's simply say that there was a very . . . um . . . interesting sense of style associated with this one).

The problem is sometimes (like in Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!'s case) occasionally we would get to know these people and really like them. But still, we called them by their nickname in private because as I think I've mentioned before, we're just not that nice. But we did feel a little bit of guilt . . . but not enough to make us stop nicknaming. Another drawback was that Ivy picked up on the Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! nickname and she started saying it whenever she saw that lady too. She was two years old, so we really should have been teaching her to be nice. But whatever.

One time my brother Josh (you know, the famous organist power player) came to church with us. Rhett was pointing out all the people whom we had nicknamed. He looked at us like we were crazy mean (which we are), and then he pointed to a woman in a wheelchair. "So, what do you call her? Hot Wheels?"

"That is SO mean!" I protested. But I have to admit, that's what we called her from then on. I just recently thought that maybe other people do this too, and I wonder what they would nickname me. A few thoughts: "Lady who can't dress her kids in matching clothes," or "Horsey" (since I rarely am seen these days without an accompanying ponytail . . .) or maybe "Pauncho" (since I haven't quite lost the belly from my three children).

What nicknames have you had for people? (And don't pretend you're all better than me, you know you do this, too!) What do you think people would nickname you?

Belly Up . . .

This is a picture Rhett took of my sister Linz and her husband Jordy. I think they thought he was taking a nice portrait of their faces, but Rhett's like that. I can't tell you how many pictures I have of my pregnant belly. I wish he would tell me, so I could at least drop the smiling act and look miserable, like I tend to do through all my pregnancies. I bet when Linz sees this, she'll think that too.

Ingrates in my House

Is it too much to ask for my family to respect my phobia? I mean, really. If one of my kids were agoraphobic, I would hardly drag them kicking and screaming outdoors every day. If my husband were an arachnaphobe (I think I made this word up) I wouldn't ask him to kill every spider in the house (just the really big ones, because hey, I have my limits).

So what's up with my family watching the PBS special on giant killer crocodiles tonight? Honestly. The worst part is this: THEY'VE SEEN IT BEFORE! My four-year old keeps running in to tell me that they're watching the crocodile show. She can't keep the glee out of her voice. Gee, thanks. I will continue to barricade myself in my room until further updates. I feel quite confident that she and her father have pacted to drive me absolutely nuts (got news for you, though, that happened long, long ago).

So here I am in my bedroom, trying to block out the giant killer crocodile facts that filter through to me. For example, did you know that giant killer crocodiles don't need to breathe for up to two hours? So don't bother looking at the water to spot their eyes, because it won't work! They will still ambush you at the water hole (or at your friendly neighborhood pool, I would imagine). Also, they can grow to be twenty or more feet long. Yes, I KNOW! They are HUGE! (And I am using caps, because I really am screaming on the inside.)

And what's up with my Veevs deciding that her whole life would be a waste if she doesn't become an alligator scientist? Ingratitude, that's what it is! I'm going to refuse to cook or clean until a) I receive an apology for this blatant disregard of my phobia, and b) Veevs changes her mind about the future and decides to become something more useful when she grows up. Like a pirate. Or a mermaid. (These are past favorites, but have fallen on hard times as the alligator scientist has gained momentum.) Now I'm just worried that no one will notice my cooking and cleaning strike.

All these years I've been lied to . . .

Okay, I finally figured it out. All these years people have been lying to me. First my mom, and now Rhett. You know how when you get your house perfectly spotless, people say things like, "Doesn't it feel great to have a clean house?" or "This is the way a house should look!" But you know what? Those are lies.

First, it doesn't feel great to have a clean house, because you know the second (and I really mean nanosecond) that you have to actually live in your house, it will suddenly be filthy again. Like in twenty minutes! So when you have a clean house, it's actually the worst position to be in, because there's nowhere to go but down from there. And what a depressing downward spiral it is.

Second, a house shouldn't look that way. A HOTEL should look that way because no one lives in it for real. A MODEL HOME should look that way because no one is actually blow-drying their hair in it, or spraying hairspray on the mirror. But a real house, honestly, just likes to be dirty. So I've been expending all this energy and time trying to make my house be something it's not (hmmm, there's an interesting parallel here, and perhaps connection, between this and my mom and my husband trying to get me to be more tidy).

I'm not filthy by nature. I'll clean it up at some point. I don't like to live in squalor and I don't like my toilets to be dirty. But, I don't put everything I touch away immediately (this is where Rhett and I differ). I have piles (of clothes, of paperwork, of stuff to take downstairs, of stuff to take upstairs). But my piles aren't like the ones you see on Oprah where you only have little paths that lead from room to room surrounded by giant piles of who knows what. My piles are little. Really. And they get taken care of eventually. Usually.

I try really hard to overcome my natural untidiness. I even have a laminated chore chart that I'm supposed to cross off each day, wipe it clean it that night, and then recross off the same chores the next day. Here's the daily list: Help Veevs with her chores (she also has a laminated chore chart), Help Spe with his chores (again, another laminated chore chart), Dress and feed Wristy (I DO remember to feed him, but I like to be able to cross things off the list), Read scriptures, Make bed, Tidy up my room, Tidy up Wristy's room, Tidy up the living rooms (of which there are three!), Unload the dishwasher, Load the dishwasher, Clean the kitchen, Do a load of laundry, Tidy up the bathrooms (again, three!), Tidy up the toy room, and Make Dinner. Don't even get me started on the chores I do once a week. Today I had to dust the house and vacuum the downstairs. I'm making a good effort, right?

But, I realized today as I was cleaning that I was fighting the Vietnam War of house cleaning. Because no matter how many times I tidy up the living room, my kids will drag more toys into it. And there we are, back at the 16th Parallel North. So for the rest of the afternoon, I'm going to grab a book, sit on my couch, and let my house enjoy itself. And you know what? I'm not even going to put the book away when I'm done.

10 Things I Love About Rhett

For those of you who hang out with us a lot, you may find it hard to believe that Rhett and I really do like each other. The best part is that we really like each other despite, and because of, all the quirky things we do. So just to give you a glimpse into the weirdness that is my husband: here's ten reasons why I really find him fascinating.

1) He loves to watch "The Bachelor." Seriously--it's his dirty little secret. He can't get enough of the "hi-jinks" (his words not mine) that they get up to. You should've heard how excited he was when they pulled a twin switcheroo in this season's third episode. He loves Monday nights just because "The Bachelor" is on. We have to put the kids to bed early and everything.

2) He loves my mom. Really, they could go on vacation together without me or my dad and have a much better time than if we were there. He calls her "Mare-mares" (her name is Marilyn) to her face. He's tried to get our kids to call her "Maa-maw Memma". Fortunately, they have resisted this.

3) He hid the fact that he bought a Dodge Caravan from his father for almost four months. He knew that it didn't get the best Consumer Reports ratings, and his dad loves Consumer Reports, so voila! He avoided the topic completely.

4) To him, social awkwardness is comfy. He loves breaking social rules. I thought this was funny when we were dating, but now it's just embarrassing. He always asks our waiters and waitresses personal questions. And he LOVES to embarrass me. Like how he always tells everyone that our first kiss was on our mission--totally not true, but still embarrassing.

5) He's one of the tightest people with money I know. He hates the word tight: he prefers frugal or careful. But, he's tight. When we were first married, he used to work at the credit union where we banked (or credit unioned, I suppose) and he would call me ten minutes after every purchase I made questioning it's necessity or cost. He and one of my brother-in-laws have formed a club called "Financial Fascists" because they are both like money Nazis. Really.

6) He's extremely careful about keeping things nice. When we were engaged, I got in the car in the autumn and he had cut out cardboard to lay down over all the carpet in his car so that no one could ruin his carpet with their wet feet.

7) He's pretty confident. He's not ashamed of much about himself. He'll tell anyone who will listen about how he got ringworm from StyleAmerica, yet he goes and gets his hair cut there every time, even after they gave him ringworm.

8) He's a little bit zany. I went into a place where he worked about five years ago and the receptionist (who was pushing 70) said, "Oh, we just love your husband. When it's a slow work day, he and I will pretend we're ice figure skaters and we skate all around the lobby floor." Hmmmm . . .

9) He's a fabulous dad, but sometimes he forgets all his kids are four and under. For example, Ivy's favorite show to watch with her dad is Nacho Libre. And both of my kids think "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen is about the best song ever. This morning, I took the kids to preschool and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" was on when I turned on the car. To my surprise, they sang along and requested to hear it again, and again, and again. One guess about who introduced them to that!

10) He has the biggest appetite of anyone I've ever met. His parents call him "Garbage Gut" and I understand why. The man can pack it down. His favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, and not for the company--he really just loves the food!

Bookstore Encounters

It was my birthday last week, and after dinner Rhett took me to a bookstore so I could choose out some birthday books (and thanks to my mom who gave me a gift card!) I went and asked a guy who worked there if he could help me find a book that I was looking for. My first clue that this chance meeting would become an "encounter" was the fact that he called me "hon'", despite us being relatively similar in age, as in, "Well, hon, this book isn't for the faint in heart."

They didn't have the book I wanted in, so he special-ordered it for me ("Hon, do you want to special order this?"). Then, with no invitation, he orders my husband to show him the other books that I've selected so that he can judge my taste in books and recommend other books that I'm sure to love. Right. So, he sees that I have the book The Lovely Bones, which I was unsure about getting because it's kind of violently graphic, and I'm not so good with that. Immediately he leads me over to the YA section (which I love) for a book with "the most evocative cover" he's ever seen.

Unfortunately, there is a group of teenagers standing in front of the bookshelf where the most evocative book ever is. He makes a hand motion that seems to say, "Teens, remove yourself. You are dust, and I am dusting." So, they move, and he pulls out the book, all the while lecturing me on the benefits of this beautiful, thoughtful, moving book, which focuses on pain, healing, and redemption.

The teens whom he dusted away are a little bit loud at one point, and so he says, "GIRLS! If you need a book I WILL HELP YOU find it, but if you are not going to purchase anything, you need to remove yourself IMMEDIATELY from MY store." I'm a little bit uncomfortable because, a) these are teenaged GIRLS, b) these are teenaged GIRLS who are at a BOOKSTORE, C) these are teenaged GIRLS who are at a BOOKSTORE on a FRIDAY NIGHT.

Do you see my point? These aren't exactly hooligans from The Outsiders here, and he's treating them like dirt. As a former high school English teacher, I actually have a vested interest in teenagers reading. However, I simply continue to listen to him expound on the virtues of the book. Then, the girls move to a different aisle, and he waves down a colleague and says, "Breeanne! Can you please either help these girls find a book or escort them to the exit?!" He's not one bit nice about it. He says the word "girls" like he might say "dirt" or "worms" or "prostitutes". But he's made one big mistake. Because D) these are teenaged GIRLS who are at a BOOKSTORE on a FRIDAY NIGHT with their PARENTS!

"Excuse me, but that's what we'd like to talk to you about," a perfectly-coiffed, icy-toned woman says, "When you're finished here, of course." I took the book, said, "I'll take it." And then, Rhett and I turned to go. I have to admit that I bit back a smile and the desire to say, "We'll just leave you to that, hon!"