The Playground Police

Now that Memorial Day is behind us, it's the "unofficial start of summer!" as the media likes to scream repeatedly. Which means barbecues, swimsuits and park pricks. You heard me, park pricks. You know, those wankers (I wish I were British!) at the playground that you hate seeing every day but are forced because you hate sitting in your house with your kids even more.  I thought when I left corporate America the days of daily annoying people were long gone. No, it's just instead of the Printer Jammer who walks away without alerting anybody or the Lunch Stealer who sniffs through brown bags in the fridge until he finds something that appeals to him or the E-mail "cc" Zealot who copies everyone and their second-cousin once removed on every e-mail including her intention to use the restroom, I now deal with the following culprits:

The Swing Hog: Hi there.  Your kid has been in the swing for 30 minutes and that's 15 minutes too long when there are other kids waiting. You are raising a brat who will someday be that guy in the office who takes the last cup of coffee, leaving just a little drizzle so he doesn't have to make the next pot. You suck.

The Snack Stealers: Gee, had you called me this morning and asked that I packed snacks for 25 kids instead of just my two, I would have happily obliged. I'm not stingy, it's just my diaper bag can only hold so many Cheerios at one time.  Here's a hint: Kids get hungry. They like a nibble or two at the park. PACK SOME FOOD.  But please don't allow your child to dig around in my bag like a crazed, starved wolf looking for nourishment.  It's simple. You say, "Chester, mommy is an asshole who doesn't have the foresight to bring snacks to the park. But let's go home and get some so this nice lady doesn't have your slimy hands plunged wrist deep into her tupperware filled with treats so your drool infects her kids with your germs." Luckily, my kids are getting over hand, foot, mouth disease so now I can say, "Oh, Chester is welcome to a graham cracker but did I mention the inside of my kids' mouths are covered in pulsating ulcers and pus-filled sores?"

The Gossip: "Psst. Did you hear the Robertsons are trying to sell their place for more than they bought if for just last year because (in hushed tone) it looks like they are headed for D-I-V-O-R-C-E and well, I wish them luck getting their asking price -- it would be good for a comp when we all want to sell -- but I think they are delusional thinking it will sell at that price...." Umm, who are the Robertsons, who are you and please stop talking to me.  If I wanted to keep up with the Joneses and discuss housing prices I wouldn't be wearing a ratty old sweatshirt and sneakers from the late 90s, capiche?  Speaking of which, who wears Prada boots to the park? Also speaking of which, I owned a pair of Prada sandals once which were really just glorified, uncomfortable flip-flops that repeatedly broke, gave me blisters and generally sucked. So your ugly-ass boots don't impress me. Much. (Please note Shania Twain reference.)

The Split Personality Nanny:  Sybil had more coherent personalities. This is the woman who is the incarnate of Mary Poppins when the parents are around and the sitter version of Mommy Dearest when they aren't.  I keep hoping the kids will learn to talk early so they can scream "OUR NANNY IS MEAN AS A SNAKE!! HEEEELLLLPPPP US!!!!!"  Listen, Peyton, I don't like to get involved in other people's affairs, mainly because I don't like people. But if you don't get off your goddamn cell phone and stop hollering like a deranged lunatic at these children, I will turn your ass in. But please don't make me do it. I don't like confrontation.

If I seem a little grouchier than normal, it's because I've gotten no sleep, my babies are miserable from being sick and I just had a large growth cut out of my eye.  If you see me, shoot me.  And perhaps if I'm not shot in the meantime, I will get a sense of humor back by next week.

Two Sick Calves

To say this has been a bad week would be an understatement on par with saying Kate Gosselin has an interesting haircut.  (My husband, master of the obvious, noted: "Her hair would look normal if she just grew the back pieces to match the rest of it..."  Someone offer this man a scholarship to beauty school.)

The girls have hand, foot, mouth disease, which I mistakenly thought was reserved just for cattle. Apparently there is a human version. Before you quarantine us for life, we were told by the ER doctor it's quite common.  My girls don't come down with illnesses during normal working hours mind you. Or even on nights when the pediatrician will be open first thing in the morning. No, why get hand, foot, mouth disease on say, a Thursday, when you can come down with a nasty case the Saturday night of Memorial Weekend? When we have guests in town. 

Speaking of the ER, is there a special emergency medical facility which only allows the upper 1 percent of wealthy white people with last names like Rockefeller and first names like Thurston and suffixes like IV? Because there wasn't a blue blood Caucasian type to be found among the thousands of us lumbering around listlessly like night of the living dead. Which leads me to believe either their children don't get sick in the manner of requiring emergency medical intervention, they ignore their sick children because their caviar might spoil or there is a super secret locale with no lines that the rest of us aren't privy to.

Regardless, if you're into the train wreck that is Jon and Kate Plus Eight (and God help you if you are), you can read my season premiere review here.  

Mel Gibson Still Fertile, Still Drunk

Listen, I don't mean to question The Universe. It's bad karma. But is it possible there was a slight glitch when reproductive longevity was being decided?  Why, at age 53, is Mel "Sugar Tits" Gibson adding an infant to his brood of five children and two grandchildren when women in their 30s often have to go through invasive procedures to bear one? The lucky mother-to-be is not Gibson's wife, but his girlfriend (above) who looks like a spawn of Octomom and a young Mick Jagger. Wouldn't it make more sense if BOTH sexes' fertility plummeted in their 30s? It would certainly save a lot of marriages I would imagine... Or how about if the fertility range is upped from it current 13 to 40-ish to 25 to 50-ish? I mean, nobody under 25 has any business having kids anyway, do they?  They're all morons.

Alas, I'm sure there is some biological reason for this. Like the caveman needed to have offspring in every village so his male heirs could help him go club whatever it is they ate for dinner in the Paleozoic Era and he got too old to do the clubbing himself.

In other dumb ass celebrity news, Jessica Biel to Allure magazine:

Is being too good-looking really a problem for an actress?
"Yeah, it really is a problem."

Umm, right-o. Blame your good looks, not your acting, sweetheart. Because God knows Angelina Jolie is really struggling to get cast...

In dumb non-celebrity news: Woman gives birth to twins by TWO DIFFERENT FATHERS. Now there's a Fertile Myrtle.  I would have paid good money to hear her explain that to her husband... I smell a reality tv series deal.  

If you want my take on Dancing with the Stars finale, kindly go here.

Who's Older?

I don't tend to ask strangers questions. It's just not in my nature. At least not since I was single and would sometimes ask a hot guy at a bar if anyone's ever told him he looked like George Costanza just to bring him down a few notches.  

In Chicago, I get some twin questions but nothing like I received recently in Alabama. Everywhere we went first I got asked: "Are they twins?" Then "Who's older?"  Then I would point to LuLu and they'd ask how much older.  "Umm, one minute," I'd reply, and they'd shake their heads while they pondered what to ask next.  Is the "how much older" an odd question or is it me? Does a stranger really care who was born first? I think next time someone asks if they're twins I'll try "Nope, I cloned that one" and point to Moxley. I mean, they're identical. YES THEY'RE TWINS.  Another big one is once they hear the girls are identical is "My sister's best friend's brother growing up was an identical twin" or similar.  "Oh..." I usually reply. WHY WOULD I GIVE A RAT'S ASS THAT YOUR SISTER'S BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER WAS A TWIN??? I am aware other twins exist ya know...

There was a set of identical twins in my sorority. Very nice girls but I never wanted them to talk to me because I couldn't keep them straight so I avoided them at all costs.  I figured ignoring them was better than offending them by mixing them up. As usual, my instincts in college were way off... They probably just thought I was always bombed. And, well, they'd be right.

I guess infertility doesn't run rampant in the south like it does here.  We have four sets of twins on our block alone. So it's really no big whoop in these parts. I didn't like the attention.  It didn't piss me off like it does some twin moms (there's one mom in Moms of Multiples who GOES BALLISTIC over the questions.  Take a valium...) but I just don't like making small talk with strangers.  I wonder at what age the girls will realize people are curious about them, especially being identical.  Perhaps if they get a big head over it, thinking they're special, I can always ask them, "Has anyone ever told you you look like George Costanza?"

The Sippy Cup Shuffle

Dear God, these children are easy to please.  Sometimes anyway. You'd think Elmo himself had just appeared on our deck... Nope, they just got some new sippy cups.  WARNING: ABBA music accompanies this video. ABBA may cause severe neurological damage in certain individuals.  If you suspect you are allergic to ABBA, or the 70s in general, click your mute button before viewing.

They Think His Tractor's Sexy

Holy cannoli!  The women were going ballistic last night when Kenny Chesney hit the stage here in Alabama, where in case you forgot, I am vacationing.  Keep up, people, I can't remind you about my whereabouts every two seconds.  

I mean, I love Kenny's music as much as the next guy, but it would never occur to me to throw my panties on stage, like say, at a Chucks Wicks concert. Not that Kenny or Chuck or anyone else really would find the panties of a 41-year-old mother of twins overly enticing anyway... So my husband and I went to the concert to celebrate our anniversary. Six long
glorious years.  Other observations about last night:

• There seems to be a new hairdo among the younger female set here in the south that appears to be the anti-mullet. It's essentially business in the back and party in the front, where the back is super short and then the sides are really long.  It makes Kate of Jon and Kate Plus Eight's hair look mainstream. It's sort of like an inverted bob on crack, where the front few pieces are past shoulder length and the back is practically shaved.  I wish I had a photo to share of this phenomenon but my husband feared I'd get a beer poured on my head if I started taking photos of stranger's hair.  It would have been worth it. Isn't beer is good for hair anyway?  Speaking of which, whatever happened to Body on Tap shampoo?
• Where have all the cowboys gone?  When I saw Kenny in Chicago last summer, it looked like a rodeo convention. So I expected my husband to be the only hatless guy in the place for a country concert in Alabama. Practically the only one wearing a cowboy hat was Kenny.  And an unfortunate-looking group of college girls who didn't get the memo that halter dresses paired with cowboy boots looks at best silly and at worst slutty.
• Before Kenny even came on, during the opening band whose name escapes me but featured a heavily perspiring blond chick, some guy puked all over some girl a few rows up from us.  The cops intervened, which caused a big brouhaha and they took him away, presumably to arrest him for unlawful regurgitation or similar. It sounds less exciting in print than it actually was.
• Directly in front of us was a couple who should be eternally thankful they found each other. Because if not for finding each other, they would die alone, drooling into their applesauce at a nursing home where nobody would visit them.  They were probably in their 40s but could have been in their 30s and not aging well.  They proceeded to molest each other and make out (that man's tongue is forever sealed in my memory bank) for THE ENTIRE SHOW. They were either getting engaged that night or just met tailgating in the parking lot. Finally, about half-way through the show, they left together and I'd hoped they went to have sex in the bathroom to get it out of their systems so we could all enjoy the rest of the show. But, no, they were back with more drinks and proceeded to heavily pet the rest of the night.  I wanted the cops to come back and arrest them for unlawful second-basing or similar. They could have saved themselves about $200 and just had sex on a couch at home while playing Kenny Chesney's Greatest Hits.
• Kenny played "Me and You," one of my all-time favorite songs which makes me cry. Which he said he hasn't played in concert for over five years.  At exactly that moment, a gal in back of us decided to start catcalling with a noise I will try to describe but is difficult to translate into letters:  YEEWAHHAWWWWWAAAAAHAAAHHHHHH WOOOOOO!  Only during THIS song did this noise occur.  Did she love this song too? Hate it perhaps? Did Kenny write this song for her years ago and she wanted him to know she was in Section 201 last evening?  
• Kenny only did one encore song ("Don't Blink") and really didn't play that long. Which was a bit disappointing because when I saw him in Chicago he and Keith Urban came out at the end and played some cover songs (like "Take it to the Limit" by the Eagles). So I was expecting more. But then I realized when he toured with Keith Urban, Keith probably begged Kenny to stay on stage half the night so Keith wasn't forced to go home and make conversation with the most boring woman alive, who was out on tour with him, presumably just to make sure he didn't have a lick of fun.

Regardless, I'm not angry with Kenny for high-tailing it off stage early. He is indirectly responsible for the birth of my two girls. During IVF, because I am deathly afraid of needles, before my nightly shots we'd play Kenny Chesney to calm me down and help me relax (unfortunately wine wasn't allowed...)  So for that I'll always love you Kenny! Not in a pantie-throwing way, mind you.

PS: DWTS update here.

"Vacation" Update

Thus far, in less than 24 hours mind you, we've experienced the following:

• Two simultaneous tantrums because the girls wanted to sit down on the moving walkway.
• One screaming fit when I ran out of Strawberry Yogurt Melts before we even boarded. Note to self: the Peach Yogurt Melts are apparently not as tasty.  Although in a random taste test, I concluded they both taste exactly the same: like Elmer's glue doused with powder.
• One bloody nose when LuLu fell while running after an Elmo lawnmower thingy on my parents' driveway.
• One possible concussion when Moxley slipped after her bath.
• One sweatshirt covered in vomit.  (Mine. Moxley threw up after falling. Nothing says "Happy Mother's Day!" quite like the feel of warm, regurgitated food running down your neck and seeping into your bra.)
• Two scheduled middle-of-the-night wake-ups to ensure Moxley didn't need to go to the hospital.

Having a blast! Wish you were here!

Christmas in Springtime

This is what happens when I sleep in (and by "sleeping in" I mean 8:30 am) on the weekends. My husband dresses the girls in their Christmas Eve outfits to go to the park.  Is this some clever scheme to make sure I get up with the girls every weekend morning or is he THAT CLUELESS?  Given the choice, I hope the former as I'd rather have a manipulative husband rather than a downright stupid one.

We are leaving to go to Birmingham, Alabama for a week. When one's annual spring vacation spot changes from St. John in the Virgin Islands to Birmingham, Alabama, one knows one's hit on hard times.  No offense to Courteney Cox who originates from Birmingham. Oh, and my parents and sister who live there... (Of course I'm more concerned with not pissing off Courteney.)

So the girls are napping and I'm packing a "bribe bag" full of stuff they don't normally get to eat for the plane ride. Every time they fuss, I will stick a Gerber Strawberry Yogurt Melt in their mouth. I'm quite certain there's no strawberry or yogurt in this product. I think it's sugar, glue and red dye. My rewarding the girls with food for bad behavior will undoubtedly come back to bite me in the ass when they seek counseling for an eating disorder in their teens and their therapist traces it back to this habit of mine wherein they whine and I shove a graham cracker into their open mouth.  Therapists always blame the mothers... So on that note, here's to making our kids as crazy as we are. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

I'll write from Alabama, y'all!

PS -- If you're on the Southwest direct flight from Chicago to Birmingham tomorrow, might I suggest you re-book?  Being on our flights is never pleasant.

PSS -- And listen to me rag on Jenny McCarthy here.

Hello Fetus!

At my last ultrasound, about two weeks before the girls were born, they were estimated to weigh 5 pounds, 4 ounces each. So when I gave birth at 36-1/2 weeks I was shocked when the doctor called out their weights at 4 pounds, 12 ounces and 4 pounds, 13 ounces.  Unless they went on the motherlode of all fetus diets, the prenatal estimates of their weights were off. (Being my fetuses, the diet theory is not all that far-fetched.  "What??? We're going to be BORN and have PHOTOS TAKEN?  Keep that placenta the hell away from me!")

A few minutes later the nurse comforted me by announcing that each of their APGAR scores were 8.  "Eight out of ten?" I asked.  "You're saying my babies are only an EIGHT OUT OF TEN?" 

"Oh, nobody ever gets a 10..." the nurse assured me, backing up a little. 

I was a little drugged and must have thought the APGAR was some kind of hospital-sponsored beauty pageant and the judges were on crack. Because even in their ultrasound photos, my girls were a 10.  "Don't they look like they have Angelina's lips?" I asked my husband as I gazed at one of their photos.  (I actually said this. I'm not saying I'm proud of it...)

"They?  I can only see one of their faces in this photo," my husband replied.

"THEY ARE IDENTICAL DUMB ASS."

I should probably mention here that I am not the type of person who went around showing the ultrasound photos except to family and close friends. (Okay, and a few strangers here and there on the street, and now to all 10 people who read my blog.)  I always found it a bit creepy when people showed me their fetuses. What do you say? "Well, glad to see he has a nose! Not having a nose is tough on children these days..."

I would look at my ultrasound photos for hours, amazed that I was getting exactly what I wanted. Identical twin girls. Could I be any luckier? I actually tried not to draw too much attention to the fact this is what I wanted more than anything in the world, afraid the universe would take notice and take it away because I didn't deserve it. "THAT ASSHOLE IS GETTING EXACTLY WHAT SHE WANTS??? NEVER!" I still think that sometimes, when I read or hear about others who weren't as fortunate, giving birth to babies who didn't survive or babies not born at all. People for whom babies born at nearly 5 pounds with an 8 on the APGAR scale -- beauty pageant score or not -- would have been the best news in the world.  And it makes you wonder, why me?  So when my girls are whiny or crying or just plain high maintenance, I just try to be thankful they are here, period.

BTW, I am keenly aware that all mothers think their children are beautiful.  It must be nature's way of making sure we don't abandon our young.  I'm also aware my kids may look like this, but I'm too blinded by love to notice. If so, don't burst my bubble.

Naked Hang Gliding and Other Dumb Ideas

I have a nasty habit of agreeing way in advance to doing things that I have no interest whatsoever in doing.  Like right now, if you said to me, "Hey, in four months a bunch of us are going to hang glide naked into shark-infested waters with chum shoved into every orifice of our body and it will only set you back $2000 -- are you in?"  I'd totally be like, "Oh my God! I've always wanted to hang glide naked into shark-infested waters with chum shoved into every orifice of my body! I would have gladly paid THREE thousand dollars! Of course I am SO IN!"  Usually on these occasions, at the time I agree to a certain activity, I genuinely think it's a good idea. And, hey, even if it's not IT'S MONTHS AWAY.  I could have moved, be maimed, be in the witness protection program by then.

I once jumped off a moving bus that was headed to a Dave Matthews concert.  Granted, the bus was moving slowly. The concert was something I agreed to months before and it suddenly occurred to me as we were about to get on the highway and there was no turning back: "I HATE Dave Matthews. I don't CARE I paid $100 for the ticket.  I'd rather submerge my head into a vat of boiling vomit than listen to Dave Matthews." So I jumped.  (Perhaps we'll save the reaction of my then-boyfriend who I was accompanying for another post, shall we?)

So months ago I agreed to teach a classroom full of adults about how to get into public relations. I'm still trying to figure out how to GET OUT of public relations, so why anyone would want to listen to me on this topic is particularly perplexing.  I figured out (after signing the contract of course) that by the time I'm done designing the lecture, doing the handouts and actually teaching the course, the pay works out to be about $1.33 per hour.  I'm not up on labor law but I'm guessing the minimum wage is higher than that. 

And it's not even something I can cancel. So barring someone in my immediate family dying I'm stuck.  (Hey, immediate family members who read this -- anyone willing to die, or maybe just go into a really deep coma so I can get out of this? Anyone? Bueller?) 

PS -- Read my Dancing With the Stars update here.  Viewer warning: For mature audiences only.  Adult language, graphic lyrics and a whole paragraph on Lisa Rinna. 

Take Me Out ... To the Garbage

I can't believe Denise Richards was in town to SING at the Cubs game and didn't give me a holler.  Thing is, I live near Wrigley Field so I'm surprised the abomination that is her voice didn't permeate into my living room on Monday. I did feel decidedly ill mid-evening but attributed it to my first DWTS episode without the loveliness that is Chuck Wicks. Now I see it was probably that Denise had invaded my hood.

Also, and I can't decide if this is good new or bad news, Denise's bomb of a reality show It's Complicated will be back for a second season starting in June. (I previously reported it was canceled. Which is perhaps why a career in journalism didn't work out for me.) I'm thinking after seeing this clip from the show that it's GREAT news.  (It's kind of bleeped out but did she call this woman the c-word???)  Yes, there are minor children involved, Denise, so let's parade the embarrassment that is your life on a reality show! Yay, let's do that!

What is this creature above and where can you get one?

Sharks Long Island Style

My Uncle Mike lives on Long Island in New York. If you live in the area you may know him as the guy who would blaze out onto the ice during Islander hockey games dressed as the Stanley Cup back when the Islanders were the best team in the NHL.  Despite good intentions, his actions were not sanctioned by the Islander franchise.  I even remember some noise about an arrest warrant.  Who knew the NYPD were such party poopers?

Similarly, I vividly recall being used as a decoy as a young child while he and his friends tried to sneak into the Knicks locker room.  I should probably have Uncle Mike billed directly for at least half of my therapy fees.

I've written about him before.  He had a few shark-jumpers to add. Normally I would just plagarize and pretend they were my own but he reads this blog and probably wouldn't sit by quietly.  Here are some of his...

Marriage: Heterosexual, homosexual, polysexual ... the whole retched institution has definitely jumped the shark.  (Ed. note: Yes, Uncle Mike is married.  We can only hope his wife, like my husband, does not read this blog.)

Girls Gone Wild: Mark Foley's text messages to those Congressional pages were hotter. Enough already.

Celebrity Apprentice: Donald, you thought Andrew Dice Clay was a good choice because???  (Ed. note: Oh, Uncle Mike, I don't mean to disrespect my elders but HOW WRONG YOU ARE.)

Grown Men in Cowboy Hats: Unless they're gonna wear the little plastic belt, holster and water gun that comes with it, it doesn't work.  (Ed. note: Are grown men in short order cook hats okay one wonders?)

He had a whole host of ones involving politics as well.  However, if my husband finds my blog and sees I want to sleep with Chuck Wicks, Daniel Craig, Vince Vaughn, the guy down the street, the guy who mows our yard (well, you get the idea), he'll get over it. If he sees I published that Fox News, Ann Coulter, Bobby Jindal and the entire GOP jumped the shark, HELLO DIVORCE.  So if you see a list of anti-Republican shark jumpers, read here that I am passively aggressively trying to get my husband to leave me. Which is exactly how I'd probably go about it.

Interested in how I'm coping after the most beautiful man on Earth got unceremoniously tossed from DWTS and who will get the boot tonight (pun intended as I think it will be Ty)? Look no further than here.

 

Sweet Dreams

I have never in my life had a good dream. That I can remember anyway. So if you have a good dream but can't remember it, what's the point really?  My dreams are all god-awful. Even if it starts out good, I know something shitty is about to happen. Like if I was just about to start having sex with Daniel Craig -- BAM! -- he'd suddenly turn into Godzilla or Joey Buttafuoco or something and shred my head to pieces.

My assumption is my subconscious is trying to tell me I suck and should start doing charity work to heal my soul or something.  (Picture LuLu and Moxley's mom with her hand over her ears singing "Lalalalalalalalalaala! I can't hear you!") Who has time for such selfless acts? I've got two babies and two blogs for crying out loud. I donated our old baby clothes to the church down the street -- what more do you want from me?

Teeth are always a big theme. I recently dreamt I had absolutely perfect, Hollywood teeth and I was gazing at my own loveliness when they started to crumble.  Leaving me looking like some kind of horror show. I woke up in a cold sweat and started running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they were still there.  Apparently teeth-related dreams are common and mean you fear you are not being heard.  Listen, f@#!ers, start commenting here so I know I'm being heard and leave my damn teeth alone...  

Before the girls were born I dreamt we brought home babies and they immediately started riding tricycles. I said to my husband that I didn't think newborns could ride tricycles and didn't they seem kind of big? He said since we didn't really have experience with babies we couldn't possibly know they didn't ride tricycles and basically told me to shut it, he didn't feel like going back to the hospital to check if we got the wrong ones. WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT MEANS???  I looked that one up and apparently that's not a common one like teeth...

If you're looking for Opes stuff, here's today's post.  I am going to spend my day preparing for the sorrow that will be mine when Chuck Wicks is not on Dancing with the Stars tonight. I'm trying to develop a crush on Ty Murray instead (this will also help me work on my superficial issues) so my interest stays piqued.

How Much Would You Have to Hate Your Husband...

To divorce him while you were pregnant?  I mean, who has the energy?  Plus, if you despise him, what better way to torture him than making him stay up all night feeding and changing a baby?  I don't know who Kelis and Nas are -- as is becoming increasingly more common at my advanced age -- but one of them sings a song called Milkshake. Something tells me it has nothing to do with a wholesome concoction featuring ice cream.  (Please wait while I consult my best friend Google.) Oh, and right I am.  Here are the lyrics and let's just say I wouldn't want to drink the euphemism that is her "milkshake."

Hell, if I decide I want to get a divorce I'll wait until the kids turn 18. Not in deference to their mental well-being, mind you, but doesn't arranging weekend visits sound like a lot of work? I'm tired by the time the weekend rolls around. I can't be shuttling kids back and forth and worrying about whose weekend it is.  

Things That Are Annoying About Husbands

Disclaimer: I am not saying my husband, but rather husbands in general. 

• They come home every night. At least mine does. I suppose having a husband who doesn't come home every night poses its own challenges but I'm not here to bitch about your problems, just mine.
• They move in slow motion.  Since when does "Can you heat up some milk?" mean "Can you stick another potato chip in your mouth, take a swig of Coke, pick your nose and then go heat up some milk?"  I'm reminded daily about that quote from The Devil Wears Prada (movie not book) when Meryl Streep says: "By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me."
• They dawdle. Get up, make my coffee, take your shower and get your ass off to work. Yes, in that order. Sheesh, is that asking too much?
• They want to show you how shit works. Here's the thing: I eat steak but that doesn't mean I want to know how to slaughter a cow. Similarly, just fix the f$@%ing  TIVO and leave me and Chuck Wicks alone.
• They keep track of how money is spent:  Have you heard of Quicken? Well, I hadn't until I got married. It's an intrusive program that allows husbands to categorize the spending habits of their wives so they can show in a very methodical way where the household funds are going.  Who really needs to know they spent $880 in manicures and pedicures in 2008?  ("Not including tip!")
• They expect physical gratification. Hey, listen, you pump out two kids simultaneously and tell me how randy you're feeling two years later.  There should be some kind of marital clause that sex is optional post-children.  This point is so important it should be (delicately) weaved into one's vows.

I'm sure my husband will do something to annoy me this weekend which will jog my memory so to be continued...

Disclaimer #2: I'm not sure this photo fits exactly but it made me laugh. Thank God I wasn't a wife in this era. I'd be returned to sender.

PS -- I wrote about Opes today here.  I have been struggling all day with the profound question of who is worse: Jenny McCarthy or Ali Wentworth?