Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The DNB does not tolerate junk emails.
When he receives them as part of a store "loyalty" program sign-up, or because he neglected to check an opt-out box as he placed an online order, he unsubscribes as quickly as possible. But some stores are making it more and more difficult to remove yourself from their lists.
The DNB tried and tried to get off the Dick's Sporting Goods email list, but no amount of Unsubscribe link-clicking was working. Last night, furious, he gave it a final go.
The Unsubscribe link took him to a page that requested to know why he would ever want to remove himself. He tried several times to fill out and submit the "Other" section, indicating that he had never knowingly signed up for emails to begin with. Apparently, expletives won't get past the Dick's Unsubscribe Censors, which repeatedly disallowed his goshdarn submission.
Unconcerned by this development, my resourceful husband found another way to express himself:
"Remove me from your email list, you BIG GIANT DICK'S."
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Via Google Talk...
Me: "OMG are there a bunch of toenails on the end table by where you sit?"
DNB: "Oh, maybe."
I'll just let that part sink in.
Are you ready? Because then he says this.
DNB: "They should go behind the couch."
Me: "I'm never moving that thing."
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
This is one of those posts that's going to make my mother call me clucking her tongue and muttering about my not being appropriate. And all I'm going to say is, TAKE IT UP WITH BETTY.
I was watching an episode of "Watch What Happens Live" with Andy Cohen, who in an interview with Amy Sedaris mentioned the Candle Salad. If you're a thousand years old you might remember this, because the recipe appeared in Betty Crocker's Cookbook for boys and girls, published in 1957. Oh yeah, it's a real salad.
Friday, October 29, 2010
"As not-compassionate as I usually am, I don't want to hurt people's feelings," I tell the DNB. I'm explaining why I always find it difficult to turn away all the pyramid sellers who come my way.
"I don't blame the people, but more the companies behind the products," the DNB replies. He's hardcore skeptical of all the "these statements have not been evaluated by the FDA" goods out there.
"Oh I just blame it on you," I confess. "Like oh my husband is concerned about FDA approval, blah blah blah. But then they just tell me everything is all-natural, so how could it be harmful?"
"UM, like cyanide? Some of the most toxic substances we know of are natural!" the DNB shouts.
Yeah, buddy, I'm on your side. Take it down a notch.
"Plants make this horrible stuff because, I don't know, they DON'T WANT TO BE EATEN," he continues.
I nod. "Man, plants are bastards."
"They TOTALLY are."
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The DNB looks at my locked Blackberry!
"Wait, your locked screen says that your emergency contact is DR. DNB?"
"Well, before it just said DNB," I explain.
"So who added the Dr. part?" he replies.
"You. YOU added the Dr. part," I remind him. Sometimes people with bad memories will be able to recollect really random things with incredible clarity, but no, the DNB pretty much forgets everything.
"Oh," he says. "Ha. I was thinking it was kind of a douchebag move."
"It was. You're that guy."
Friday, September 24, 2010
We try to go to sleep!
Until I smell...OH GOD. It is one of the worst, most putrid stank-nasty odors I have ever encountered. It practically knocks me over. "Did you do that?" I shout at the DNB as I plug my nose. "It's horrible!"
"It was like 2 minutes ago!" the DNB replies.
I wait half a minute then tentatively sniff the air. "How is it WORSE?" I try to screech, but the air is so thick I can barely catch my breath.
"I even did a test fart!" he yells after me as I head downstairs.
The smells seems to have settled down to the living room as well. THIS is why you don't get married, I tell myself. Because one day you will suffocate on fart, and all the women will be sad at your funeral and all the men will act sad but really they'll just be waiting till after the burial to high-five the DNB because DUDE, that thing must've been EPIC.
I flounce down on the sofa. I can hear the DNB upstairs moving around. Finally he comes marching down the stairs. "Ok, I sniffed around a lot, and I swear that smell is not me."
I roll my eyes. The smell seems to be getting worse in the living room. The DNB disappears into the basement for probably 30 seconds. Then he comes bounding back up.
"There is SEWAGE bubbling up THROUGH THE BASEMENT DRAIN," he announces, looking at me pointedly. He should be upset, and probably on the phone with our landlord, but instead he's completely triumphant. "Vindication is mine!!"
"Wow, are you serious? Fair enough, I apologize for accusing you," I reply.
"The world needs to know how wrong you were," the DNB tells me, as he turns off the A/C to try to contain the smell in the basement.
"You didn't even realize it wasn't you for like ten minutes!" But maybe he's right.
"You didn't even realize it wasn't you for like ten minutes!" But maybe he's right.
Which is how I've come to be writing this post while in my 5th hour of waiting for the city water & sewer workers, on a 90 degree day, with the A/C off, in a house that smells like poo.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
You may have noticed that Pittsburgh hasn't been treating us very well. Like, if I were dating Pittsburgh, I totally would have ended things this week. It's not me, it's you, because you suck.
We've been living in a temporary house, which lacks, I don't know, all my stuff but especially my cute fall boots. This week, our "sure thing" permanent housing option fell through after the landlord decided she didn't want to move out of her house. A week before she was supposed to move.
So it's not a little exciting to me that I'm about to travel back to the Great White North for business. It's too bad the DNB can't go with me; he's been pretty upset with this fair city as well, mostly because IT'S HIS FAULT WE'RE HERE.
"Do you want me to bring you anything from Minnesota?" I ask graciously.
"I don't know," he replies sadly. "Maybe just some... hope?"
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
We go to a Labor Day festival!
Or, we try to.
It's in a town about an hour away, so I get the address from the festival website and off we go.
"Are we going to be the only ones there?" the DNB says as we approach the festival grounds.
"Definitely not," I reply confidently. "I read an article that said yesterday's attendance was 20,000."
"Ok, because we're at the right address right now. And there's no festival."
I pull over. "Crap."
I look up the festival website on my phone. And realize that the address at the top of the page - the one I used - is the address of the county parks department, which is SPONSORING the festival. Which is in a completely different town. Let me draw you a picture.
We're not about to give up now, so we figure out a new correct address and continue driving. When we arrive at the right place, we know it's the right place because there are cars for miles in both directions. After we enter the park where the festival is being held, the DNB gets antsy with the traffic.
"Let's just park in that parking lot," he suggests, in what later I realize is the WORST IDEA EVER. "We can just walk up to wherever the festival is."
Let it me known that my consent was UNINFORMED. I park, and we start walking. It quickly becomes apparent that the whole thing would have been a much better idea HAD THE DNB EVER BEEN THERE BEFORE. Then he might have known that not only was our parking spot NOWHERE NEAR THE FESTIVAL, but the parking lot was at the bottom of a small mountain. The festival, of course, had to be at the top.
Our path pretty much becomes the Trail of Tears.
We finally, finally get to the top. It takes about 2 minutes to figure out that no way is this festival worth ANY of what we had been through to get there. First, I apparently missed the fact that the festival is called the "Laborers United Celebration" not because it's Labor Day, necessarily, but because it's a Union event. This is not, you might say, our "scene."
We walk by the main stage, where a Teamster/Union/Organized Person is telling the assembled crowd that "America is the only country with a middle class." The DNB and I glance at each other. "What about Canada?" I whisper. "They copy everything."
[Turns out, my good buddy Wikipedia tells me that "In February 2009, The Economist announced that over half the world's population now belongs to the middle class, as a result of rapid growth in emerging countries."]
Past the main stage, we find the "craft" portion. One enterprising woman has a whole booth of shadeless lamps she's made by shoving lamp sticks through stuffed animals. Look! It's a teddy bear lamp! And here's Mickey Mouse with a cord coming out of his butt!
There's also what appears to be a giant yard sale going on in one corner. If you need 10,000 VHS tapes, mismatched coffee cups, or baby clothes (one bag for $1.00), this place has got you covered.
"Yeah, I think I'm ready to leave," I tell the DNB.
"It's too bad we spent less time actually here than we did getting here," he says sadly as we begin our trek back down the mountain.