Let me first say that I am not opposed to personalized ringtones unless they’re stupid or they annoy me.

I, in fact, have a few special ringtones because how can you NOT have the Partridge Family’s I Think I Love You as a ringtone if such an option exists in the Universe??

But, let us set the scene, shall we?

The Hubs loves Becca, our wire-haired pointing griffon (Who’s the most beautiful girl? Who is!? Who is?! Guess who used to be before we got the dog…).

However, we can’t all be perfect like moi just like he doesn’t especially care for my crunching, the Hubs doesn’t like her barking.

A dog? Barking?? What the what?! Color me outraged.

Against my protests, he got her this evil torture device!

A Bark Collar!

Shock treatment on the World’s Most Beautiful Girl??!

By now, you’re probably ahead of me, but imagine my shock when I heard the Hub’s new cell phone ringtone for all incoming calls:

A BARKING DOG.

Pardon me?!

(If the neighbor’s dog isn’t enough, You can go listen here — Barking Dog Ringtone ( Mobile4arab.com ).mp3)

Why would he voluntarily do such a thing?!

His answer?

…because he loves her!

Un-freakin-believable!

Am I missing something here?! Somebody needs to explain this to me…

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Whereas, yours truly grew up in residential Dallas, Texas, with curbs and sidewalks, roaming the suburban jungle of malls and movie theaters, eating cookie dough, hiding from the heat, eating cookie dough, and attending every touring band’s a few rock concerts.

So I shouldn’t be surprised that the Hubs has more sensitive hearing than I.

But this last time when he stopped making tuna salad and abruptly left the kitchen as I started to eat potato chips that he bought hello, WHO did WHAT?, I busted him on it.

Oh, sure he claimed he suddenly felt a need to pick up crap in the living major tip-off, but I knew. Oh, I knew.

He walked out because of my eating.

He claims it’s just like my claustrophobia or aerophobia, but given the calm, anxiety-free look in his eyes, I called bullshit politely disagreed.

Then I had a consult with Dr. Google, and together we have now accurately diagnosed the issue as misophonia, or more commonly known as, “Mr. Fussypants.”

Misophonia, literally “hatred of sound”, is a form of decreased sound tolerance, also known as Selective Sound Sensitivity Syndrome or 4S.

Notice dear readers, wiki, master of the universe, does not define it as a phobia, so that settles that, now doesn’t it? Being annoyed does not count, does it anxiety-sufferers??

Sadly, they have found no cure, or even mildly helpful treatments for 4S. Perhaps a telethon with subtitles only?

In the Hubs’ case, the hated sound in question is food crunching.

Which is yet another cruel joke from God unfortunate for him since he married a crunchoholic (how is there no wiki page on that?) who is not afraid to use sex as a weapon.

Yes, my love of crunchy food is only topped by my love of foods you can eat with your hands, preferably in a tortilla-shaped object. Best of all, crunchy food you eat with your hands.

All of which discovery leads us (and by “us,” I mean me and Dr. Google) to conclude that a) the Hubs is a sick puppy with problems untreatable by Dr. Google (gasp!) and b) …okay, I have no “b.” Mainly, sick puppy.

See how self-enlightening it is to be in a longterm relationship? And isn’t it nice to have a label to put on your significant other? I know I feel better.

Now, excuse me because I just found out about a great new Sun Chips flavor, Peppercorn Ranch!

Are you sound sensitive in any way? Or is someone you live with? And are you torturing helping them with their issues?

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It only takes a few years or months, or days of commingling and canoodling with the opposite sex for it to become incredibly clear that this man-woman stuff involves some emotional juggling of Ringling Brothers proportions.

Women, have you noticed how totally unmatched we are to men when it comes to our needs in the intimacy department?

God, I love You, but you are one twisted mofo. Pardon my French.

I’m not the first to mention this issue, but let’s compare a woman’s needs for intimacy to a man’s needs:

1. Women: talk to me, listen to me, communicate, understand my point of view on everything from children’s shampoo to abortion laws, and then I will feel tingling inside.

Men: uh, you could grab my balls.

2. Women: forget perfume and flowers, do something for me that I truly need and will feel grateful for, like empty the dishwasher and put it all back where it belongs, pick up your inside-out socks, or put away the laundry, then I will start feeling hot.

Men: well, you could always grab my balls…

3. Women: notice when I make an effort to look good, genuinely compliment me and not in a lewd, chee-chee-chee, construction guy way, and make me feel appreciated during the daytime.

Men: did I mention my balls?

Such amazing aggravating adventures in mating! Maybe some day, I’ll join a vodka-of-the-month club figure it all out…

Have you and your mate figured a mutual language?

Disclaimer: You, readers, are hereby put on notice that this post in no way, shape or form, in any past, current or future version, whether intended or otherwise, refers to any person or person(s) in a current, marital relationship, whether legally valid in the U.S., in which the author may or may not be presently entered.

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The Hubs: Isn’t this awesome?! Don’t you wanna go to Base Camp some day??

Me: What is it about giant high altitude latrines mountains that attract complete nutjobs?

The Hubs: You’re kidding, right?

Me: You’re kidding, right??

You understand, readers, don’t you? I mean, I’ve been freezing in my own living room this Aprilary on Bainbridge Island, and he thinks I’d pay a buttload of money to snow camp in minus 3?

And I only feel this strongly because now I’ve seen the video of what happens up there, all kajillion episodes.

High altitude sickness, tent cities, pulmonary adema, cerebral adema, headaches, nausea, frostbite, snow blindess & dying — this is not a list to tempt me for a vacation.

This is an Afghani’s torture options list.

My vacation list goes more like this — oxygen, warmth (but not hot), sun, large bodies of water, boating, outdoor music, cocktails, oxygen, hammocks, Paolo the cabana boy servants, wildlife, fresh food fed to me by Paolo, hikes, kayaks, peace and oxygen.

What does your vacation list look like?

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It can be hard to identify them outside the Chinese food sector. The non-sharers behave practically like everyone else. The shock of discovery can be kinda like finding out your best friend loves lima beans or hates Modern Family.

You what?!

Illustrating the usual sick, twisted sense of humor that God has, these two types often marry each other.

*Ahem*

Girls, learn from my mistake. Add this to your list of Man Requirements and ask, preferably before that first wowser of a kiss so you’re still thinking clearly.

For you non-sharers out there (Hi HUBS!), let me tell you how dining at a Chinese place is supposed to go:
1. Everyone at the table reads the menu.
2. Everyone then discusses the pros and cons, the best combinations, their current hankerings, their arguments for their faves.
3. One person orders while everyone else mentally checks their correctness.
4. When food arrives, everyone shares, plates are passed around, and everyone gets a bit of everything (I’ve even cut egg rolls in half!). You in effect create your own Chinese buffet, custom-ordered.

Voila! Joy! Perfectamundo!

This is how Chinese food dining with non-sharers goes:
1. They silently read the menu.
2. If you’re lucky before the waiter arrives, they ask “What are you having?”
3. You file for divorce.

Yes, God, you are hilarious!

But non-sharers beware! Married to a sharer means that someone will probably be quietly stealing bites from your plate! We sharers have our ways of making you share….

So, confess, my child. Are you a sharer or a non-sharer?

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Which made sense when we met and he lived on a big, old wooden boat. That made sense.

But what that 65ft boat hid was the fact that the Hubs would be a gearhead without any reason at all. You can take the work project away from the gearhead but you can’t take the gear….oh, whatever. You know what I’m going for here.

So, he’s transferred his gear curiosity to other venues, such as creme brulee (Yes, an early and obvious choice for a culinary gearhead. Who could resist a tiny torch?!) and later, as we discussed, the electric eraser for his artistic gearhead side.

Now comes a new, albeit unplugged, tool – the chasen!

Isn’t it cute? Who could find a use for resist a tiny, bamboo whisk?

Yes, you common, green-tea-drinking losers out there might be plopping a bag (gasp!) in your cup or dodging loose tea leaves as you sip, but here we whisk our tea.

You have to be drunk shopping online buy a special, fine, powder tea called macha, a special whisk and a bowl (Please don’t tell the Hubs there are actually “tea bowls” out there he could buy!).

You can even go nuts online learning the “right” directions to whisk your tea. Am I right, you tea geeks? Some say a “W” shape but an unconventional “U” shape pattern with wrist flick makes certain rebels happy…

And, omg, after living 10 years with this gearhead, I believe our healthy green tea could be made even better swirled in a spiral pattern while adding cold vodka.

Have you tried macha tea?

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All I want for Christmas is….

my side of the garage back!!

Let’s start from the very beginning a very good place to start if you’ve been watching Sound of Music like me.

The Beginning.
My mom met my dad at church. Not that beginning.

Over eight years ago, the Hubs and I looked at houses on Bainbridge Island.

Not those kinda houses.

Yeah, that’s more like it.

But besides Fenced Yard For Dog, we wanted a Two-Car Garage.

Now, marriage is a crazy house institution, what with two adults trying to cohabitate contentedly f-o-r-e-v-e-r. Even given all that time together, many things are never said.

Many things are assumed, many basic things…

For instance, I thought that these common desires meant we were aligned in thought — the dog would go in the yard and the cars, or at least MY car, would go in the garage.

And it did. At first except the dog went in the bed, but that has been pointed out as my fault.

But a couple or twelve house projects later, next thing I knew my car had been evicted, in broad daylight, without a hint of due process.

Nay, without a single word.

The Hubs has since tried to convince me, using his best teenager tone, that no one else we know uses their garage for cars.

Let’s remember this for when the Kid wants to stay out past midnight or buy a BMW or summer in France with the tres chic island kids…

But, this story is gonna end well. Why? Because yours truly is a saint for Christmas the Hubs is clearing out my side of the garage! Yahooooo!

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Yes, Wendy, there is a Santa Claus.

And from all of us at Let the dog in!, here’s wishing you a Happy Christmas filled with joy, love and your very, own parking space!

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And right off the bat, with loads of energy, the Hubs brightly declares, “I’d buy a jet! Know what’s the first thing I’d do with that jet?”

“No, what?” I asked, mentally juggling Belize, New Zealand, or the Greek Isles.

“I’d go get Tom (my mother’s spouse) and go to that Ferrari car show in Italy!!”

*crickets*

“Oh? Is that right? And what about you sleeping on the couch forever your loving wife?!”

“Well,” he laughed, “Of course you could come, too!”

*blink*

*imagining all the extra drawers and closet space I could have*

Julianne Moore had it right in The Kids Are Alright. Marriage IS a f*cking maration!

Or, perhaps worse, a f*cking car show.

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The bad news is that as practice, he’s been in the kitchen.

Now that he’s canned beef, beans, bacon and all other non-vegetable or fruit items he can YouTube, he’s moved on to burning baking bread.

As with many mad scientists, that First Generation product was not quite up to snuff. It probably didn’t help that he “experimented” with the recipe as he went along, adding different ingredients in different proportions.

In baking, you MUST follow zee recipe! I shouted in my best German accent. He ignored me. As usual.

So, now I am experimenting with that First Generation brick bread…with the birds.

The Nuthatches didn’t know what to make of it.

Even the Steller’s Jay looked away.

But perhaps most telling of all was the Dog who snatched a giant chunk of bread off the deck railing and then 6 hours later appeared at the back door with that same chunk of bread, uneaten.

This from the Dog who eats used Kleenexes, sticks, and ear plugs. That hurt.

The Hubs does, however, learn from his mistakes, and he has gone on to bake loads (literally) of exquisite cinnamon raisin bread.

Be sure to tune in next week to see me shopping for elastic pants.

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Now that he doesn’t have an old lady wooden boat he has found other reasons to throw away money invest in power tools. Naturally, there’s the house project. That’s a given.

But being the Renaissance-y guy he is, he has broadened his interests to include watercolor painting. Which means he is drawing.

Which means his raison d’etre in the power tools world has a new angle.

I give you,
Exhibit A:

Did you even know they make battery-powered erasers?? They are not on the school supply list for Bainbridge Island (amazingly enough!).

(By the way, there is no fan attachment here; you still have to blow the eraser crumbs away when you’re done erasing. Can you say, “hassle?”)

What are these for? When you need to get rid of that drawing STAT!!?! Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t art supposed be done in a relaxed state, a pondering-of-life moment?

Where does hyper-erasing come in?

If you are an old artist who can no longer make that flick-flick motion?

If you are so disgusted and can’t stand to look at your work for one more second?

Or maybe you’re just a nut who is enamored with items functioning without you moving a muscle?

Stay tuned next week when we will review battery-powered paintbrushes, friend or foe, and electric brush cleaners, a new era in clean?

What do you think–is an electric eraser cool or dumb? I’d like to hear your opinions.

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