Conversations between a Husband and Wife

Admittedly my goal each day is to have the house in pretty fantastic shape when my husband walks through the door each day.  Sometimes I succeed, but most days he walks into complete chaos.  As evidenced by Monday afternoon. 

Mondays are no good anyway, because Mondays are laundry day and I despise laundry day.  Always have, always will.  I look forward to the day when Ava and Brielle can do their own laundry.  I'm already training Ava and I've fooled her into thinking it's "fun."  Sucker. 

I was in between folding batches when Brigham walked through the door.  I was sitting in the recliner surfing the internet for pictures of haircuts for my husband.  Really important stuff.  His first words were, "What the?"  Oh, did I mention I was holding a bag of frozen rhubarb to my left breast?  Any guesses why?  It might have something to do with this person...

Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen.  Look at those choppers.  Talk about gnashing of teeth.  I'm in nursing Hell.  In fact I bought $25 worth of formula and a few more bottles.  I guess that's what happens when you bite the hand...er, boob, that feeds you.  Meanwhile Ava pops up next to me and asks if she can have some.  "Have some what?" I ask her. 

"Some of what's in the bag, Mom." 

"As you can see, the bag is in use.  No you may not."

"But mom!" 

Brigham takes in the state of the living room which is in full rumpus room mode.  It's like a few rockstars decided to trash the place.  Ava is an old pro, and Brielle can create a lot of damage for a 9 month old.  I start out fighting the good fight, but eventually I threw in the towel.  Like I said, Mondays.   I'm not good at being vigilant about making Ava put away toys when you get out new ones which all moms know is the secret to the universe.  Anyway, Brig refrains from saying a word about the state of the house and instead says, "Looks like you've had a rough day."  Which is essentially code for Good Grief, woman you're a mess!  The bags under your eyes have bags, and your hair rivals Medusa's thrashing snake dreads.  Aren't you in the same clothes you were in when I left this morning?  There is something to be said for restraint.  I thank you, husband.

"What are you looking at?" He asked after changing into basketball shorts and one of his collection of forty t-shirts. 

"Hair styles for you.  It's about that time," I say glancing up to his thick locks that have become more and more wild with length. 

"I was thinking I'd just shave it all off." 

For the record, I'd like to state, and this is not to brag but to merely point out the truth...my husband has great hair.  He's shaved his head before and he looks pretty good.  No sharp pointy angles on his skull or inexplicable soft spots like those mushy bruises on apples.  Still, I like it a bit longer.  The problem is his hair has some curl to it and some body.  So it can start to look a bit, dare I say mullet-like if left to it's own devices.  So I thought I'd help him with his communication skills when he goes to get his hair cut.  I thought, let's start with some visual aides. 

I know, terrible picture.  It was quite small though and I had to make it bigger.  This is Roger Federer, world renown tennis player.  Confession: I only ever watch tennis when this guy is playing.  And I don't watch it for the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.  I watch it for this reason:

Look at the height on that hair!  I'm mesmerized by it.  When he and Nadal play against each other it's epic.  Battle of the flowing locks.  Who cares who wins the match, we're all winners just for having watched all that hair.  Anyway when I showed Brig this picture he just rolled his eyes.  I guess my crush is more obvious than I thought. 

Next I showed him this picture.  This man is named Nacho.  Yes, Nacho.  I usually steer clear of nachos because the goop you put on top seems faker than velveeta...if that is even possible.  Velveeta is like the Frankenstein of cheese product.  A unholy union of chemically altered ingredients forged in the depths of Mordor.  Lord of the Rings, anyone?  No?  I guess I'm the only nerd in the room.  I digress.  Let's just say I like my cheese the way I like my men...real and stinky.  As evidenced by my fragrant list of ex-boyfriends.  Just kidding.  Kind of.   I like my cheese the way I like my religious leaders...aged and holy.  Bu-dum-bum.  I've got more but I'll spare you. 

Nacho Figueras is an Argentinian Polo Player and model of some note.  He calls this look "latin Manhatten".  It's his go-to facial pose, just like Zoolander's "blue steel".  All kidding aside, look at that hair.  It's long, sure, but still structured.  When I show this picture to Brig he says, "I can't have a hair cut like that because I have a big forehead."  I've never thought he had a big forehead.  Maybe love is blind, but I'm pretty sure that he is way off on this forehead notion.  So I start combing the internet for people who really do have big foreheads.  Who knows how many of the photos that popped up had been doctored, but man, there are some big foreheads out there.  I came across this picture and it made me laugh and laugh. 

Apparently someone thinks she has a big forehead.  I don't see it.  But I'll tell you one thing, and I've expressed my feelings on this before in a previous post...I don't trust skinny cooks.  Give me Paula Deen.  You know she's been sampling some of what she's been fixin' to make, ya'll.  She's been sampling, because it's darn good.  Giada on the other hand, well, who knows.  I've never tried one of her recipes yet.  It's the principle of the thing. 

We never did come to a consensus on a hair cut.  But we laughed and laughed while discussing it.  Maybe you had to be there.