Last Thursday evening The Wife™ was attempting to help me hang the new chandelier in the dining room. The entire thing was a giant debacle that resulted in much cursing and yelling at one another. You might know this conversation, normal husband and wife talk such as:
The Wife™: “Well the directions say…”
Me: “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT THE FRIGGIN’ DIRECTIONS SAY, THAT WIRE IS NOT GOING IN THAT HOLE. PERIOD!”
The Wife™: “Well it says here…”
Me: “Don’t you even…”
The Wife™: “Hun, just look at this diagram, see…”
Me: “Woman, you better put down that sheet of paper before I set it on fire.”
The Wife™: “Fine! Burn the house down! You’re not allowed to re-purchase any audio equipment with the insurance money though, just so you’re aware!”
Clearly, you can see the level of incompetence that I’m working with. Directions? That’s hilarious. Apparently she hasn’t learned that those papers are mere suggestions.
Anyway, the entire time we’re bonding arguing, Jonas decides that his contribution would be to play the Crop Dusting Game, which involves him clandestinely swooping through the dining room on a routine circuit, dropping the most foul-smelling farts you’ve ever encountered. They were the kind that make your eyes water and activate the gag reflex simultaneously. The first pass, The Wife™ blamed me (what the hell?). But after the third, fourth and eleventybillionth time, we had caught on to his game, as the only time the dog could be bothered to not be in the same room as us, eating or messing with whatever we were trying to do, was when he had intestinal problems that even HE couldn’t stand to be around. And you know they must have been rank if the one who eats deer poop like they’re Andes Mints was running for shelter.
So there we were, me trapped on a ladder trying not to electrocute myself, The Wife™ franticly waving directions like she’s trying to fly away and Jonas slinking around the room with an unmistakable look of guilt on his face. All of us engulfed in a cloud of dog farts that smelled of rotten vegetables and wet donkeys.
Normal Rockwell would be so proud of this modern American family.
