Cross Purposes

Starting tomorrow afternoon, you will find me practically attached to my sewing machine via umbilical cord.  No plans (except possibly a stop at a local quilt shop) and no sick kids or calls from the principal (I've already issued threats...to the kids not the principal).

Enter Himself followed closely by his sidekick, Idea.

Bad things happen when Himself and Idea team up.

There was that year I got a wet/dry shop vac and set of drill bits for Christmas.

Then there was the time the shrubbery magically disappeared from round the old homestead.  Naturally, I wasn't around to supervise.  I believe I described the results as 'like a brazilian wax gone bad'.

Now, he's taking off a few days to be with me.  A boy and all that icky testosterone as I try to be creative with fabric and thread and watch Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia?  Oh, the horrors!  It'll be my luck if there's a Barrett Jackson car auction going on.  Karma, you bitch!  Before you get all gushy and go 'awwww' at the prospect of Himself wanting to spend time with the most fabulous woman in the world (that'd be me, not Gisele), let me remind you, this is a man we're talking about here.  Wait for it...

I've about decided that not only do vacation plans require utter secrecy from the Co-Defendants (I swear they can get strep throat on command), but Himself as well.  My mistake opening my mouth.  Which brings me to the next phase of his E-veeel Plahn (sorry, going for a European accent here): apparently my help is required for two of my precious sewing days to clean out our storage building we had built back in the summer.

I use the word 'our' loosely here because the majority of the crap contained therein is his.  Women, after all, have treasures; men have crap.  I suggested, nay nagged, that we weed out the detritus that no longer suited our needs rather than storing it up for auld lang syne when, according to Himself's psychic abilities, it would be worth something.  Damn you, eBay!  I swear, the man would save navel lint if he thought it'd fetch a pretty penny.

Anyway, I had a plan, a vision.  This is, after all, what women do...we plan plot strategize.  I wait until he's left the vicinity, then scurry to my little car and stuff it full of crapola for donation and he's none the wiser.  For me, it's a place for everything and everything in its place.  Do you think I got my way? 

That's a negative, Ghost Rider!  And now, on my vacation, he wants me to help him clean that out?!  Actually, that's not quite right.  I got told I was going to help him. 

Oh, realllllly?!

Funny, but in my alternate reality the word 'vacation' implies the conspicuous absence of a boss.  Hmmm....

I know now why women tend to outlive men.  It's because men get ideas and do stupid shit...like getting between a girl and her fabric...and they wind up taking a dirt nap.  Wish him luck.

Pass the Xanax.