Life with Michael is never
dull. It's a roller-coaster ride. It wouldn't be so bad, but after all
of this time, I still haven't found the "off" switch.
My Husband Has Done To (Deliberately) Annoy Me:
will be updating this page often, as I have time.
He has continued to misspell
my name since 1985. It's "Deena" (pronounced Dee-nuh).
He knows it is not "Deanna", but he claims he may spell it any way he chooses
and says, "Your parents just didn't know how to spell it right." Which
brings me to the next number:
He always thinks he is right,
even when he is wrong. At one time, he was actually being so stubborn that
he bet me dinner that Portland International Airport couldn't possibly
have more than seven flights going in and out of it a day (I honestly thought
he was kidding at first. I really did.). Once I figured out he was seriously
convinced of his assumption, I called the airport. PDX had, at the time,
over seven HUNDRED daily flights. Dinner was excellent, thank you very
One day while I was busily
sorting through paperwork at the dining room table, the phone rang.
I casually said to my husband, "Would you grab that for me please?"
He did so, picking up the receiver and stating plainly to whomever was
on the other end, "You've been grabbed!" After a slight pause, he
replied that I was home and handed the cordless phone to me. Giggling
out of shock from his comment, I tried unsuccessfully to regain my composure.
It was at that point that I realized that the person on the other end of
the line was a woman whom I barely know. She was replying to an invitation
to her daughter for my daughter's upcoming birthday party. She is
also the wife of a minister.
He continually tells me things
I already know. He knows I already know a lot. He shouldn't have to tell
He walks around the house with
his coffee cup (full of coffee). I don't know why he does this. It's not
like he has a destination in mind where he plans to go and sit and sip
his beverage. Oh no. He just wanders aimlessly with the cup in hand and
five thousand dollars worth of carpeting cringing beneath his every step.
This brings me to number six:
Not only does he know it bothers
me when he carries his coffee cup all over the house (which is made worse
by the fact that he has hand tremors which can sometimes equal the magnitude
of a 7.8 quake), but when he stops somewhere, he will set his cup in the
nearest windowsill and forget about it. I find coffee cups spread throughout
the windowsills of the house. When I retrieve them, I find that they have
left little round circles in the wood stain of the sills because he doesn't
bother to carry around coasters while he carries around his coffee cup(s).
He will answer my questions
with another question. I might say, "What are you thinking?" and he will
say, "Where do you want to go on our next trip?" I know that wasn't what
he was thinking, and it throws the ball back into my side of the court,
which I don't like. Of course, I would probably like it less if he answered
truthfully about whatever he was thinking...but still, this does qualify
Once, while on a family vacation,
the wind kept blowing out the pilot light in the travel trailer in which
we were staying. At one point, my dad was trying to relight it and
I was holding the flashlights for him. He said, "The wasps seem to
be attracted to the propane." About that time we heard a buzzing
sound. He said, "I think there is one in there now." After
more tries at lighting the pilot light and more buzzing noises, the wasp
plopped out into plain sight. Dad flicked it with his lighter and
it flew into my hair. My hair is thin and long. It was also
covered in mosquito repellent and dust, which made it feel similar to sticky
artificial turf. I was batting at the thing, which was quite angry
at this point, and my dad was growling at me because I wasn't holding the
flashlights still for him. I ended up kind of throwing the flashlights
at Dad and calling for Michael to come help me. Michael's idea of
helping was to tell me that he couldn't see the wasp and that it must be
gone. I told him that it wasn't gone because I could hear it buzzing
near my ear. He still kept insisting it was no longer in my hair.
I kept insisting that it was. I'm really not one to panic over any
sort of insect, but the fact that wasps can sting repeatedly and this one
was quite unhappy at the moment had me a bit stressed. I finally
demanded that someone bring me a hairbrush as quickly as possible.
I cannot say for sure, but I think some expletives were involved.
After what seemed like an eternity, I was presented with two brushes from
two different directions and managed to brush the wasp out onto my leg.
Fortunately, I spotted it there and flicked it to the ground where I mercilessly
stepped on the wasp which Michael had insisted did not exist in the first
place. "I don't see a wasp. It's gone, Deena!" Yeah,
He's chopped meat on my wooden
vegetable cutting board in what I can only view as an attempt to bring
disease and death to the entire family.
He drives. Yes, he drives.
I'm not talking about him driving too fast or without his seat belt (which
both go without saying, actually) or that type of thing. I am just talking
about the fact, in general, that he drives. I've contemplated how much
worse it would be if he didn't drive and sat around the house all day,
but it's still a close call. Which brings me to the next point:
He ONLY likes to drive old
cars. I don't mean "slightly used" vehicles. We're not talking about justifying
not buying a new car because of immediate depreciation when it's driven
off the lot. Nope. I mean that he will not consider buying anything made
later than 1970. He currently drives a 1965 Ford Mustang with such sloppy
steering that one cannot sneeze without veering off the road. Not to mention
that the high point of veering off the road is that one might actually
be able to stop by colliding with a tree, which is much more likely than
ever getting the thing to stop using (gasp!) the brake pedal!
He goes into the bathroom (specifically
the one downstairs) and doesn't come out for hours. This is because he
has rigged up the computer server in our house in the downstairs laundry
room. There wasn't enough room for an additional chair, so he proceeded
to place it strategically in front of the toilet (this reminds me of another
point to which I will get next). He now calls the toilet "The UNIX Commander
2000". Now he can sit on the throne and play with his Linux configurations
or conquer the universe with Nethack, all while I stand outside of the
laundry room with my arms full of dirty clothes, knocking for him to please
let me in (repeatedly).
He names everything. See above
example. A coffee pot is not just a coffee pot. It will become the "Caffeine
Canister of Doom". Enough said.
He knows I like the pillows
arranged in a particular way on our bed. He, for whatever reason, cannot
memorize the simple pattern and follow it. Instead, he will try to stack
the pillows as high as possible against the wall. He says someday he will
hit the ceiling with them, but thus far he has only made it to within about
two-and-a-half feet of his goal. I don't think this is funny, but he seems
to consider it an ongoing joke.
He pets the cats backwards.
I hate that. I can't stand to watch it. I don't know why the cats don't
all run away from him in horror (come to think of it, some of them do)
when he walks in the door.
If I have just cleaned a glass
tabletop of fingerprints, he will decide it's time to empty his pockets
of change and will proceed to dump the coins onto whichever tabletop I
have just cleaned. This, of course, attracts all of the children in the
house, who seem to be instinctively drawn to the sound of money. What happens
to a glass topped coffee table when three children and one full grown adult
male surround it is not a pretty sight. I know any housewife who reads
this will cringe at the mere thought.
He doesn't go away. You see,
he's one of those engineers with "flexible hours". He admits that he tends
to take the "flexible hours" idea a little farther than it was intended,
but that's his "way", or so he claims. When we were married, we made a
deal. He was to be out of the house by ten and home by seven. I think it
took him about three-and-a-half years to make it out the door before ten,
and that was for a meeting. He says, "Morning is when you open your eyes."
Many times I have told him, "I cannot miss you until you are gone." and
"You cannot come home until after you leave." but he still doesn't seem
He took the kids out into the
backyard one fall the day after heavy rains had soaked our little section
of this universe. He proceeded to put them into their soccer cleats and
play soccer with them for almost two hours. What had once been a lovely,
green plot of grass in our backyard became a slimy, gooey, mud hole. This
was late October. I threw twenty-five dollars worth of grass seed down
and the birds just ate it for winter food. The following spring I had only a weed garden
where once that lawn flourished.
He once dressed my favorite
stuffed bear in my lingerie. I don't even want to know...
This same bear, he placed on
the bed with a pair of my nylons over its head, a small pot between its
legs, and a note which read: "Put all of the honey into the pot and nobody
Again, the bear (Getting the
stuffed bear torture idea?)...was missing. Where did I find the bear? In
the freezer! He later commented that he should have soaked the bear in
water before putting it in the freezer... *sigh*
He eats a LOT. I'm not talking
the amount the average male consumes. Michael stuns people with the amount
of food he eats. Once he was in a restaurant and ordered three main courses.
The waitress went back to tell the people working in the kitchen about
him. It so happened that a friend of one of my friends from high school
worked there too. I found out about this incident the long way around,
by the way.
He doesn't gain any weight
even though he consumes two-and-a-half times his body weight in food everyday.
This is very disturbing to me as a female. I just look at the food he eats
and my waistline expands. I swear, he must have worms or something...
He never knows the date. Once
he happened to know the year (this was around March, if I recall correctly).
It was in the year 2000. He was quoted saying this, "I only know the year
because they made such a big deal about it at the very beginning."
He never has a clue as to the
time. He doesn't wear a watch. He just doesn't care. The word "late" doesn't
mean anything to him. It's just something that uptight people dreamt up
to make their lives more miserable.
Once he offered to paint my
toenails and put electric blue "Cobra racing stripes" down the middle of
One day, Michael and I were
making our bed. I noticed he wasn't being too terribly careful about
the process and asked, "Did you just tuck in the dust ruffle?" He
replied, "Yes, I did, as a good Mech Warrior should!" (Note: A dust ruffle
is not supposed to be tucked in!)
Michael speaks Czech. I think
it is a very romantic sounding language, and at times I will ask him to
speak to me in Czech. It's very sexy. I asked him to do so on one particular
occasion. He said, "Ty mas cerveny nos." This is where I made my mistake.
I swooned and THEN I asked him what he had said. The translation turns
out to be: You have a red nose.
I wanted to get a third cat.
He said that I could get another one only if he got to name it. His
first suggestion was "Harbinger of Death Cat". I still had veto rights,
thank goodness. His second idea was "The Headless Kitty". Now
you see why the name "Dodo Dumpybug" didn't sound all that bad when it
He plays the same computer
game for extended periods of time. I am not talking about playing
for six hours at one sitting (though that will definitely have to come
up soon under another number), but I mean that he will glob onto one game
and play it for years. Never mind that the graphics are so outdated
that he has to reset the monitor to 256 colors everytime that he plays.
Nevermind that he BEAT the game in the first six hour session in which
he played it five years ago. I once asked him why he plays the same
games over and over. He said that he might (note the use of the word
MIGHT) find another, even better way in which to win the game. Puh-lease...
Two words - Taco Bell.
If you insist that I go on, might I just hint at the bodily function aftermath
to be experienced after a human being consumes a ten-pack of soft tacos
and a large order of Mexi-Nuggets on the side. Please do not make
me elaborate. My nostrils are burning at the thought.
Dressing our young daughter.
He is not allowed to do this anymore. One has never seen the likes
of such fashion horrors. Here's an example: Red, white and
blue polka-dotted shirt with large yellow buttons. Black tights.
Green and red Santa Claus socks with "Ho ho ho" written in white.
In June. Black Nike sandals. Hair that appears to have never
been touched by a hairbrush. Thank goodness the older two children
I am a woman. He is a
man. I am always cold. He is always hot. I have told
him that when he doesn't feel like he needs the comforter or the blanket
or the sheet anymore, he is more than welcome to pass them to my side of
the bed. Does he do this? No. He takes the whole kit
and kaboodle and throws them off his side of the bed, where I cannot reach
them. If I suddenly stop adding to this page, it means I have either
died of hypothermia or, less dramatically, my digits have just had to be
amputated from the prolonged effects of frost bite.
Michael used to throw our youngest
daughter in the air. This bothered me a lot. It bothered me
even more when he didn't catch her once and she fell on her head.
Fortunately, this only happened once. If he ever tried it again,
I told him that was going to drop him on his head, repeatedly. Yep,
Michael used to build fires
in the fireplace. This might be viewed by some as romantic and sweet.
However, with Michael it was just plain dangerous. Once he closed
the glass enclosure and it blew up because he'd built too big of a fire.
Fortunately there was nobody in the room at the time of the explosion.
Another time, he was charged his entire cleaning deposit plus several hundred
dollars because he had built a fire so big that it had caused smoke damage
to the whole (vaulted ceiling) wall of his apartment. Upon returning
one night to our current home, I found the entire house filled with smoke.
He'd had to remove the battery from the smoke detector to stop it from
going off. The children reported to me, "This isn't bad, Mom!
You should have seen it earlier before he started all of the fans and opened
all of the windows!" This episode caused a permanent domelike shape
of smoke remnants to be displayed along the outside of our upstairs fireplace.
It actually melted portions of the brass plated fireplace enclosure.
It also ensured that Michael permanently lost fire-building privileges.
All women like to be complimented
on certain types of changes - new make-up, a new hairstyle, etc.
One day, as Michael was heading off to work, he looked at me, as if he
were noticing something. Then he said, proudly, "You cut your hair
this morning!" Confused, I said, "No, I didn't." Then it hit
me. I said, "You saw the scissors in the main bathroom, and some
hair in that sink, didn't you? I cut Justeena's bangs this morning."
Moral: If you want to impress a woman with your powers of observation,
at least make sure there is something to observe in the first place.
Michael once changed the oil
in my lawnmower. He happily boasted, "You can mow the lawn again,
now. It's all ready." I then found out he had left the lawnmower
up on saw horses in the garage, and I had to figure out how to get it down
by myself while he was at work (this isn't the really annoying part, by
the way). Once I got it down and around back, I tried to start it.
In vain. For a long time. Finally, exhausted, I called him
at work. I said, "Is there something I need to know about how to
start the mower now that you have finally changed the oil?" He said,
"Um. Oh yeah. I bet I didn't plug in the spark plug in the
When the two oldest children
were very young, Michael was bouncing up and down with them in the dining
room while I was trying to prepare dinner. It was shaking the entire
house. I finally said, "You are going to go through the floor if
you don't stop that, Michael." This, apparently, caused him to decide
to move into the bonus room, which had a concrete pad for a floor.
It didn't, however, have a vaulted ceiling. The last thing I heard
was, "Hey kids! Can you do this?" before I heard the crunch of the
sheetrock as his head shot through it, leaving a head-sized hole in the
Sometimes Michael sings.
He shouldn't. He really just plain doesn't know how. The fact
that he cannot find the right notes is made even worse by the fact that
he doesn't remember the lyrics to ANY song. The closest I have ever
heard him come to making it through an entire song is when he was singing
"Happy Birthday To You".
Michael doesn't worry about
what other people think. Once, while doing a line dance called the
Electric Slide, he ripped his jeans. He proceeded to tell everyone
in the entire establishment, repeatedly, that he had ripped his pants.
Other members of our group would try to speak to one another throughout
the evening, but were unable to do so because Michael kept shouting, "I
ripped my pants!"
He nicknamed my truck the "Fruck"
(which is short for the f'ing truck). Try explaining to strangers
why your four-year-old refers to your vehicle as "Fruck". I got him
back though. His Mustang spends so much time in our garage that I
call it the "Freck" (short for the f'ing wreck). Now we have Freck
Everything is "super".
All names somehow acquire the prefix "Super". For example, I became
his "Super-wife", his "Super-hon", his "Super-hottie" and his "Super-Dean-Dean".
My Suburban became the "Super-Fruck". His underwear became his "Super..."...oh,
Michael once paid a waiter
twenty dollars to "sing and light things on fire", but he complained when
I wanted to spend a few dollars to buy tent stakes for a hundred and fifty
dollar tent which I had purchased (which, for some unexplained reason,
didn't come with stakes). It wasn't the original tent purchase that
bothered him, mind you. It was the extra few bucks to make the tent
functional which he opposed.
Michael once wanted to swap
out the engine in his '65 Mustang. I said, "We need to buy another
car for you in the meantime." He said, "No, we don't." I said,
"How are we going to get by for a month or two without another car?"
He said, "It will take four days." I said, "Sure." He said,
"No, I promise. Four days." Four weeks and two days later,
his Mustang finally started up again.
Michael doesn't drink beer.
However, I seem to have a gift for winning door prizes whenever we go out
for dinner and dancing. Generally, these "prizes" are T-shirts displaying
the beer of choice for that particular evening for the establishment we
were visiting. Michael likes to wear these T-shirts to work, to special
meetings with Xerox CEOs, to meet the United States President...
Michael once awakened screaming
due to a cramp in his leg. I wanted to try to help him and said,
"Which leg?" He yelled, "MY leg! I said, "Honey, let
me help you. Which leg?" He, again, just screamed, "MY leg!"
Michael watches the History
channel a lot. I will walk into the room and say, "Would you mind
turning off the World War Two channel and coming to help me?" He
will say, "I can't! I want to see how the war ends!"
He assigned me all kinds of
email aliases without bothering to clear them with me first. I can
receive mail addressed to everything from the politically incorrect (not
to mention technically incorrect) "drunken-midget" to "xena-goddess-of-fire".
We attended a posh gathering
at a local country club. It was an awards ceremony for those employees
of Xerox who had received patents and trade secret recognition over the
course of several years. On the invitation, ties were suggested and
it was explicitly stated that no denim was to be worn. My husband
donned his black Lee jeans, defending his choice by saying, "At least they're
not blue." As we approached the area where the dinner and ceremony
were to take place, he pulled out his tie and hooked it through his belt
loop on the left-hand side of his jeans. He said, "They suggested
that I wear a tie, but they didn't say that it had to be around my neck."
When his name was called to receive his award, his tie flew out behind
him like a tail as he approached the stage. Apparently news of this
rebellious move made it through the company quickly. The next day
a woman who wasn't even at the banquet commented, saying, "I heard you
One day I asked Michael to
help me make the bed. Unprovoked, he belted out at the top of his
lungs, "I shall help you! For I am Bed Man!" I ignored him,
choosing only to roll my eyes. He then proceeded to tell me throughout
the bed making procedure that I just had "pillow envy".
have come nowhere near completing it.
a "perpetually growing" type page, for which
am sure I am going to have to buy a
hard drive (this one is only 60 GB, you know...)
you thought this web page was horrible,
ignore this. However, if you enjoyed
about life with Michael,
can rate my page at:
Copyright - 2001 Deena D. Stevens. All rights reserved.
copy this stuff (though I'm not sure why anyone would want to)