Do you ever find yourself amused (and amazed) by peoples' white trash antics?
Sure you do.
Southern Fried White Trash takes a humorous look at the unbelievable mindset of the national subculture (and Southern specialty) we affectionately refer to as "white trash."

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Husbands. Ya gotta love 'em.

Oh man. There are days when my patience is stretched to (and past) its limits. Let me just say at the outset that it’s my fault. It has to be. My husband is a great guy – sweet, kind, generous, thoughtful and very much a man’s man – so how could it possibly be his fault?
It’d probably be best to give you a little background here so you’re not lost while I rant. Last year, on Labor Day to be exact, we had satellite TV installed. We did this because our cable company had become absolutely unbearable. Now the little dude who installed the dish and various little black boxes had no idea what he was doing. In fact, after 9 hours of wandering around our house hammering holes in walls and giving my husband reasons that various TVs wouldn’t work properly, my husband threw him out of the house. Literally.

That episode left one TV – ONE, mind you – dark and dead, with no signal or box or anything. It was the TV in my office. Sounds silly, I know, but I have to have background noise while I write, and even when I read. Otherwise, I hear bothersome things that distract me, like my breathing or a clock ticking. I have issues, I know.

Now I know that I am ignorant in the ways of technology, electronics and basic household maintenance. I thought that we’d simply have to plug something from the TV into some magic box somewhere and voila! - my TV would work. Six months later, I realize that that is not the case. My husband is a very busy man, so he finally hired a man to come to our house to get the wiring in order to make my TV work. He is tired of seeing me spread my papers all over the kitchen table to work, just so I can hear the family room TV. The man he hired is my daughter’s boyfriend’s dad, a very nice guy.

Last night, I asked my husband where this man would need to be working in our house. In my neurotic mind, I planned to go to that area and dust, vacuum, just clean in general. I am not the world’s best housekeeper, I admit, but I don’t want people we know to know that! So I did, in fact, I asked him twice where this man would be working. He said, and I quote, “in the office and in the attic.” OK cool. I never feel compelled to clean the attic, and my office would be no big deal.

When I got back home from the gym this morning, I showered, then settled myself and my stuff on the bed to do my makeup, lotions, etc. I have done this every morning for the past 12 years. My phone rang, and it was Marc, my husband. He and this gentleman were on the way to the house; Marc was just giving me a heads-up so I could put the dogs outside. I asked again, “what areas will he be working in?” Answer: “The attic, your office and the bedroom.” Huh? “What bedroom, ours?” Answer: “Yeah.”

And about 15 seconds later, Marc lightly knocks on our bedroom door and opens it. He and the man walk through. Now, let me set the scene for you. Wet and without makeup, I look Jabba the Hut in a steam sauna. With socks on. I am sitting in the middle of an un-made bed (I always make it after I’m done with my routine). I smiled brightly, cringing inside and trying not to look as shocked as I was. Embarrassed? Mortified. The two men went about busily setting up ladders, banging on walls, talking guy stuff and pretending that I am not there. I slink into the bathroom to finish my morning routine.

As it turned out, the electrician had to work all over the house (weird, I don’t understand things like this). He had to pull out the dryer to do something. I was horrified. He had to work behind the refrigerator. I was horrified. I was waiting for one of them to tell me he had to pull wire up through the toilets. At that point, I would have simply broken down and cried.

Now, I know that guys don’t get stuff like this. They don’t understand that having a stranger walk into your bedroom WHILE YOU’RE IN IT AND GETTING READY is like walking through the supermarket with no clothes on. I mean, it’s that traumatic.

Oh well, supposedly I will have TV today. Goodness. I’m going to take deep breaths and try to put this morning into perspective. Oh, and I’m going to look for a cleaning lady. I just can’t take this stress.

1 comment:

  1. Oh they have seen worse messes. These are workmen guys, what do they care how neat your house is?


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