Last Christmas, Santa brought my husband some silly putty, a simple gift reminiscent of his childhood. He did the usual things and made “copies” of the comics and then showed me how one can both stretch and break silly putty. It’s all in the technique.
I saw that silly putty all around the house and it always gave me pause because I’m telling you – shaped the right way, it looks like somebody’s finger. This was most disconcerting the day I found it next to the sink; you know, the side with the garbage disposal.
So last night, I was upstairs and he was downstairs, and I thought I would page him on our cool cordless phone paging system. As I am attempting mundane conversation about taking out the trash, I realize he is abnormally quiet. Much like young children too quiet in the next room, this was concerning. It’s also like a warning: to ask or not to ask….
You know I had to. And he says maybe he should be a bit more careful because when he put his silly putty on the remote control, it got stuck on all the rubber keys. He thinks he might have to put it in the freezer to get the silly putty off. He’s irritated because what do they make those remote control keys out of anyway?
Lesson #1 – Refrain from putting silly putty on the remote control.
You might think there is not much more to learn about plastic clothes hangers. They’re better than wire ones, they come ten for a buck in lots of colors, and you hang your clothes on them. They seem nearly indestructible.
In the past, I often asked my husband to do something else with the clothes hangers he left lying around, even in the living room. Somehow, I thought he could extrapolate the next logical step from that request, like, say…. hang them in the closet. One day I came home from work and noticed not one, but two, broken hangers lying about the bedroom. This was concerning. Not only were they not in the closet, they were now unusable.
I immediately asked how this happened, but in the course of the busy evening, he never answered. I think he thinks I don’t notice when he doesn’t answer. I notice. So do all women everywhere.
I ask again. With the most sheepish look I’ve ever seen on his face, he says he broke them. I press for details. He doesn’t want to answer. (We all know that’s not going to happen!) He finally ‘fesses up – he accidentally broke the hangers by putting them on his head and wiggling them down to headband level. Not one, but two.
Lesson #2 -Refrain from putting plastic hangers on your head.
My husband gets very excited about new ideas and new projects. Whenever he decides he wants to do something new, he moves forward full tilt. He can also be a great listener – ok, there is that never-pick-up-hangers thing – but he does actually listen to me most of the time.
One day I commented that it would be lovely to have some homemade root beer, and I wondered out loud how one goes about making such a divine beverage. This was apparently very exciting because he spent the next several days researching homemade root beer, and by that weekend, he was a root beer brewer. He bought all the ingredients, followed the directions he found online, put the root beer into a plastic pop bottle, and stored it in our utility closet.
Let me pause here and tell you two things: we had just had new carpet installed two weeks earlier; the utility closet was in the main hallway of our tiny condo.
This was on a Sunday. Monday morning before work, I did the admiring wife routine and oohed and aahed over his brewing root beer. It was merrily fizzing along in the plastic pop bottle, and he shook it a little just to show me how it was doing. He couldn’t wait to try it later that night and was proud that he found a way to make me homemade root beer.
I arrived home first that day. When I rounded the corner into the main hallway, I vaguely wondered why the closet door was open and standing askew. As I neared the area I realized that yes, the exploding pop bottle had blown the door off its hinges. And covered the door in root beer. And covered the wall next to the door in root beer. And the wall across from the door. And the ceiling. And the brand new cream-colored carpet, which was now a warm toasty brown – but only in huge spots. Not only that, it was mostly all dry which meant that the exploding root beer happened early in the day and sat there for hours. If it had exploded while I was oohing and aahing over it….
Lesson #3 – Never make your own homemade root beer. Just don’t do it.
That stain never could be removed, and we had to sell the condo with pristine carpet everywhere but one spot. But that’s ok. I love my husband, and at least his severe dorkiness makes life interesting. I guess I’ll keep him.