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I sent Matt to the grocery store last night to buy 5 things. 5, count them FIVE, things. He had a list. A very specific list. This should not have been difficult. It should have taken him 10 minutes, tops. What started as a treasure hunt quickly deteriorated into a Seek-and-Destroy mission. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that he called home 7 times in order to purchase those 5 items.

SEVEN times. For Real.

I was in the middle of bath, book, bed with the kids. I had to keep answering the phone. The kids were not pleased. They kept sighing and rolling their eyes just like their mother.

Phone Call #1:

Matt: They don’t have the animal crackers in the red bag. They’re in a white bag.
Delia: Are they the same thing that usually comes in the red bag?
Matt: Yes
Delia: Then buy the white bag.

The white bag now sports a great big ole yellow sticker on it that says ‘Same great taste, different package’. S’rsly. For Real.
Phone Call #2:

Matt: I can’t find the coffee creamer.
Delia: Are you kidding me? It’s in the dairy section, right next to the milk. You know, that cold area on the side of the store.
Matt: I’ll go look again.
Delia: You do that.

He found it. $10 says he asked some poor worker who had the misfortune of asking Mr.McHunky if he needed help.
Phone Call #3:

Matt: Do you want the hard taco kit or the soft taco kit? Does it come with refried beans or do I have to buy them separately?
Delia: What kind of tacos do we normally eat?
Matt: The hard shell ones.
Delia: Then what do you think you should buy? And yes, you need to buy the refried beans separately.
Matt: Okay.

I couldn’t make these up if I tried.
Phone Call #4:

Matt: Where do I find the refried beans?
Delia: Directly underneath the Taco kit, on the left, bottom shelf.

Can you guess what the next phone call was about?
Phone Call #5:

Matt: Do you want Fat Free or Regular Refried beans?
Delia: Fat Free.

For Real.
Phone Call #6:

Matt: Should I get the already shredded lettuce in the bag or the whole head of lettuce?
Delia: Are you going to shred the lettuce for the tacos?
Matt: I’ll get the bag.
Delia: Alrighty then.

Phone Call #7:

Matt: Iceberg or Romaine?
Matt: Ok. No need to get testy.
Delia: If you call me again, I will murder you in your sleep. I swear it.

He bought the iceberg.

I don’t understand. It should not be that hard. I think he fakes being confused so I won’t send him back to the grocery store. I’ve got his number. Never going to happen, my poor delusional hubby.

Never. Going. To. Happen.

If he tries my patience like that again, I will be sending him to The Walmart with a list of feminine products to purchase. Oh yes I will. Then I will turn my phone off and leave him in the very pit of hell in the feminine product aisle.

It’s genius. An Evil Genius but Genius nonetheless. Let’s not split hairs.

The Lesson Matt Had To Learn

Awhile back, I had a comment that addressed the fact that Matt had tossed a credit card at me on his way out the door. The commenter was surprised that I didn’t have my own credit card. I actually do have my own, it was more of a symbolic credit card toss- sort of like throwing in the towel or waving the white flag. But it did make me reflect on marriage and money and the perceptions of a stay home mom.

Back when I worked full time, I had my own paycheck coming into the house every month. We only had one joint checking and savings account. We spent money liberally without checking with each other, we both knew that there was plenty of money in the account to cover our purchases. We didn’t fight about money, we didn’t have his and hers accounts. It was our money. When I decided to become a stay home mom, things changed. All of a sudden, our income was cut significantly. It became imperative to make and stick to a budget. Let’s just say, that’s not my strong point. Matt is the anal retentive, Excel spreadsheet using, budget maker. It took a lot of trials and tribulations to get to the point we are at now with our finances. And by trials and tribulations- what I really mean is fighting, screeching, yelling, hair pulling, and no sex having. I don’t do change very well. One of the biggest issues for me was feeling like I had to ask for money, or ask for permission to buy something. I am not a 10 year old. I am his wife, not his child. My inner diva, Buffy, just wouldn’t allow me to roll over and let Matt control the money and dictate my spending. Have you ever seen a grown woman bitch slap herself? It’s not pretty. For about a year after I left my job I let the resentment grow and build up. It was just festering under the surface waiting to blow. One day- BOOM. Mount Buffy’s-a-Bitch blew and the resentment overflowed like hot, molten lava. Poor Matt was right in the path with no escape. We had the mother of all fights. We have had relatively few real fights in our almost 13 years of marriage. We learned a long time ago that picking our battles is a lot more preferable than fighting over every single thing. We formed a somewhat tentative peace treaty after the big explosion. But I still felt like I had to ask for permission to buy things and to make it worse, Matt and I had very different ideas of a want vs a need. Yet we continued to live in relative harmony, occasionally arguing about money and bills that I forgot to pay on time. We went on this way for a couple of years. Then it happened.

The Incident.

It started out as a seemingly normal morning. Until I mentioned that I had found this great little dress for an upcoming wedding we were attending. It was ridiculously expensive, even on sale, but I loved it. I had planned to go back to buy it later that day. Matt said no. Oh yes he did. He actually forbid me to buy the dress. Forbid me. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. It was time for drastic measures. I did what any self respecting Southern woman would do. I called my mama. She gave me some sage advice that made me spring into action. The following days in the Semi-Domesticated House were part of a lesson that Matt just had to learn. It had to be done. No way around it. You know all those little things that women do to make life easier for their husbands? All the thankless little jobs that he doesn’t really notice? I stopped doing them. Then I watched with glee as he wandered around confused for days. Poor thing. It was as if someone moved his food dish.

I did the laundry, minus his clothes. I didn’t match up his suits, shirts and ties for him when I put away the laundry because they were all still dirty. I didn’t take his suits to the dry cleaners or pick up the already cleaned ones. I didn’t cook dinner. I didn’t make him up a separate container of leftovers to take for lunch the next day. I didn’t pick up all the toys lying around the house before he got home. I didn’t have the kids fed, bathed, changed and ready for bed when he came home. I didn’t check the voice mail and write down his messages for him. I didn’t remind him to sign his mother’s birthday card because I didn’t buy one like I normally do. I didn’t replace the toilet paper when it ran out in his preferred bathroom. I didn’t run interference when the neighbor asked for Matt’s help moving that weekend. I didn’t set the DVR to record his favorite basketball team’s game.

By the end of the week he was rumpled with no clean dress shirts or suits, wearing mismatching outfits, eating PB&J sandwiches for lunch, nursing a broken big toe from tripping on a toy, exhausted from wrestling the kids in their nighttime routine. He missed out on a great guy’s trip because he didn’t check his messages, he had to apologize four million times to his offended mother and he got stranded high and dry in the bathroom with no TP. That weekend he wondered where it all went wrong as he helped the neighbor move heavy furniture down two flights of stairs, only to come home and realize that he missed the game that I neglected to DVR for him.

The Lesson?

Just because I don’t work outside the house does not mean that I am not contributing to the household.

Lesson Learned.

The End.


The heat fixer dude finally got the heat running around 5:30pm yesterday. I was so excited. Until he explained the problem. Apparently the teeny tiny vent opening got frozen shut and therefore, the fan could not work. Now, when I say teeny tiny- I mean teeny tiny. It is literally the size of a pin head. I needed granny bifocals just to locate this teeny tiny speck that caused us so much inconvenience. Then the dude laughed as he explained how he fixed the problem. Are you ready for this?? Really? He poured hot water over the vent to defrost the opening.


Are you kidding me? Then he handed me a bill and I laughed. Out Loud. $335. To pour hot water on a vent opening. He even used MY hot water. For Real. I cannot discuss the outcome of this little debacle due to probable legal proceedings. Sufficed to say, I did not pay $335 for him to pour hot water on a vent opening. After the initial shock wore off, words were exchanged and it was not pretty.

I went about my business of feeding, watering, and walking the children. Errr, I mean dinnertime, bathtime and bedtime. Everything was running smoothly until Matt and I got ready to go to bed. No heat. Again. There were lots of naughty words said. Good thing the kids were asleep or we’d be getting phone calls from a teacher today talking about Cam’s new vocabulary words. Just because he has a speech delay doesn’t mean he can’t manage to pronounce the dirty words with alarming clarity. I consider that one of God’s little jokes. Matt and I were already in our pajamas. We threw on big coats, some snow boots and caps. We searched for a flashlight, which was nowhere to be found. Matt gave up and grabbed the next best thing. Tyler’s Star Wars lightsaber. We both took cups of hot water out to the Godforsaken monstrosity of a heating unit. More naughty words were said and there might or might not have been a few kicks aimed at the heater. I can neither confirm or deny that at this time. We hadn’t been outside more than 5 minutes when we heard:

‘Freeze. Hands in the air. Turn around slowly.’

We froze and stared at each other in horror. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. We turned around.

‘Hands in the air. Drop the weapon.’

Matt stared at the cop blankly while I convulsed in laughter and wheezed out ‘He means the lightsaber. Drop the TOY lightsaber.’

I know, I know. Not the most opportune time to have a laugh attack but really? I got frisked. I kind of liked it. Matt…not so much. The cop was really nice and seriously amused when he heard the story. He came inside with us so we could show him our ID’s and we gave him a big cup of coffee to go. I’m sure we’re the talk of the cop shop today. It’s not every day that they get to stop a homeowner from robbing their own home with a toy lightsaber. Turns out, our neighbor saw the green glow from the lightsaber and heard the freaky noises that it makes and called the cops. She thought someone was breaking in to our house and panicked. I took her over a basket of muffins this morning to say thank you. She was really embarrassed about what happened but her husband laughed his butt off. I hope nobody does ever break into our house because she will never call the cops again. Ever. A thief could walk right out with our flat screen TV and she’d be in the window, just a watchin’.

And the heater? Turned off again at 3am and again at 6am. This time, there were definitely some kicks involved. The heater fixer dude is coming out to fix it this morning. Not the same dude though….I think he’s already filed for a restraining order.




I would everyone to take a moment of silence right now……

What are we mourning, you ask? The passing of Matt’s good sense. It has apparently flown the coop for good, as evidenced by this morning’s heated discussion. I should preface the story by admitting that I had not yet consumed my normal large quantities of coffee and therefore was a total bitch cranky. It’s understandable though when you take into account that Mase was up half the night with teething pain. Which means I was also up half the night with him. While Matt slept peacefully. Bastard. It all started with such an innocent comment. I merely mentioned that I had to go to Target today. Words that obviously strike fear into the very heart of Matt. I say I’m going to Target and his brain is flooded with images of poverty, foreclosure and standing in line for government cheese. You’re shaking your heads, aren’t you? I know, I don’t get it either. It’s not like I had the intentions to go on a shopping spree at the ole Tar-jay. If I’m going on a spree, rest assured I’m heading over to the swanky mall where I can hit up Nordie’s and Coach. I just need 3 things. THREE things, people. And 2 of them are necessary. Cam has a birthday party this afternoon at 4pm and I assume that he is expected to bring a gift…and who the hell schedules a birthday party on a Friday afternoon at 4pm? School doesn’t even get out until 3:30pm.

Anyhoo. Matt screwed the pooch big time. He said and I quote ‘I don’t have that in the budget right now.’ And I was all like ‘I’m sorry, what? Did you make the mistake of thinking that I was asking you for permission to go to Target?

The tone should have tipped him off. The tone was not good. It was the tone that wives use right before they rip your head off and shove it up your ass. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m not one to condone violence. Stop laughing. And if the tone didn’t clue him in, then ‘The Look‘ certainly should have. Now I might have mentioned that Matt is a bigwig in the financial industry. Fortunately, he does not work for one of the unstable, always in the news, banks. If he did, I would understand his panic and fear. But he is blessed to have relatively firm job security. Thank God because I won’t do poverty very well. But because he is in the financial world, he is anal about our finances. A-N-A-L. He has this entire spreadsheet budget thing saved on his computer that makes my eyes cross when he tries to show it to me. It’s ridiculously complicated and he loves it. I think he might love it more than me. Certainly more than the kids. He took over all the scheduling of bill paying long ago because I am more of a ‘They’ll get it when they get it and they’d better be damn happy that I’m paying it at all’ kind of a gal. Due date, schmue date. This drives Matt to the point of alcoholism. So in order to save our marriage and his sanity, I graciously allowed him to take over paying the bills and doing the budget. Now, not one time during the transition period did I, in any way, shape or form, give him even the slightest hint that I was abdicating my throne and allowing him dictatorship over our finances. This is not the 1950’s and obviously, I am not a 50’s housewife- as evidenced by the enormous bouncy house living in my playroom. I will not be reduced to asking for permission to go shopping. I will shoot him dead and hide the body first. I digress….

Back to the tone. You ladies will know the tone and ‘The Look‘ of which I speak. My male readers have probably already curled up into the fetal position and are knocking on the door of PTSD at the mere mention of ‘The Look‘. I understand. That is Matt’s normal reaction to ‘The Look‘ also. I think it’s in the Handbook. Today he must have been feeling brave. Perhaps he ate his Wheaties for breakfast. Whatever the reason, he had the gall to sigh at me. He Sighed At Me. The sigh was followed by the eye roll. He rolled his eyes at me. Oh yes, he did. So I had to jack it up a notch in order to get my point across. ‘The Look‘ became ‘The Death Glare‘ and the tone became the ‘Whisper of Satan‘. Now that got his attention. He knows when I go all Exorcist on his ass that it’s only a matter of time before blood is shed. His blood. All of a sudden, he had to dash off to work in a great hurry while tossing a credit card behind him on the way out the door. Obviously his body finally caught up the flashing warning signals that his brain was throwing out.

Smart Man.


I had a lot of pent up anger that had no direction last night. Otherwise known as PMS. I was a power keg, just waiting to blow. My kids were smart enough to become engaged in a quiet game of “put on a helmet and hide from the mother“. They should have clued in poor Matt.

Matt had the misfortune to ask me about a charge on the credit card from that super expensive super chic hair salon. Hello! Haircuts, highlights and lowlights are not cheap around here. It was the first time that I’ve gone to have my hair done at the super expensive super chic salon since I got pregnant with Mase. I am long overdue a couple of hours of pampering. I realize that the three hours spent in the salon was expensive. It was also necessary. I will not look like one of those unfortunate trailer park moms with the 3 different colored stripes through her hair. It’s not a good look. Okay so perhaps the 2 White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha’s that they served were probably unnecessary. Details. Matt knew he made a rookie mistake an error in judgment when my eyebrows shot up so far that they were partially hidden by my hair. That, my dear friends, is a bad sign. That is akin to the Grim Reaper knocking on your door and pointing at you. Bad. It was too late to take it back. There was no getting out of it. Until…
The doorbell ding-donged. Our neighbor had come to borrow something from Matt. Of course, Matt took this opportunity to run like his pants were on fire accompany our neighbor back home to hide from me assist him. Which left me with even more pent up anger. What to do, what to do…. First, I sat on the couch and plotted waited. When Matt didn’t return after an hour, I got tired of waiting. It was time to put some of that passive aggressivity that my mama taught me into play. Now I’m a passive aggressivity virgin. If I’m mad, rest assured that it will apparent. There’s no tip-toeing around here trying to figure out if mama is mad. If mama is mad, you know. A brilliant but borderline evil thought blossomed. I headed for Matt’s side of the master closet. I should mention that Matt is anally organized and fanatical about his closet. It’s borderline insane. Think Sleeping with the Enemy organized minus all the wife beating. For Real. He’s also red/green colorblind….I think he’s totally colorblind, honestly. So it takes him a long time to pair up and coordinate his dress clothes for work. He has all his dress shirts lined up in the order in which he will wear them, complete with the tie already picked out and hung over the shirt. His suits are hung paired up and in the order to match the shirts and ties. He spends at least an hour doing this every Sunday night while I
watch Desperate Housewives prepare for the next day. I spent 30 minutes rearranging his closet for him. Shirts are now out of order, the matching ties were swapped for ties that most definitely do not match. I also un-paired his suits and hung the jackets up with different mis-matching pants. I’m such a bitch. This is Matt’s one Saturday a month that he works. I went to bed early, secretly giggling inside. I could feel Matt’s relief when he came home and saw that I was already asleep and the fight was not going to happen. Insert evil giggle here. This morning, I made sure that I was awake and downstairs when Matt left for work. I had to witness my passive aggressivity in action. He grabbed his coffee, kissed us good-bye and headed off….

Wearing a chocolate brown pinstripe jacket, a white and navy striped dress shirt with a red, black and gray striped tie and charcoal gray pinstripe suit pants.

I feel better now. This passive aggressivity shit is fun.