File This Under "Things You Should Never, Ever Do To Your Husband"....

A few nights ago, in the midst of complete and agonizing boredom, immaturity reared it's hysterically funny, little head around here at roughly 3am. After being on forced medical purgatory for what already seems like an eternity and the older four kids being severely off schedule due to summer vacation, the five of us sat up really late watching old reruns of Cops, easily amused by toothless crackheads getting tasered in the balls by the wonderful men and women of law enforcement. MFH didn't find our company, or our completely tasteless and off colored jokes, laughable. His forty year old ass declined our invitation at a night of reckless debauchery, and retired to bed like a senior citizen a few hours earlier.

Before I go any further, I'd like to take this moment to acknowledge that yes, I realize I am a bad influence on my kids. And yes, I admit, our behavior left something to be desired, like quite possibly an evolutionary link or two. Still, I can't help but giggle as I type this all out. Just reliving it in my head makes me crack the fuck up. You really, really had to be here...

Me: "#3, I'll give you five bucks if you run upstairs, bust thru my bedroom door, and scare the shit out of Dad."

#3: "Show me the money first..."

I slipped a crisp Abe Lincoln out of my wallet and snapped it in front of him, asking him how fast he thought he could run. 

#1: "Oh man, he is gonna beat you like a red headed step child if he catches you!"


#3: "He won't catch me. I'm too fast for him. He's old now."


Me: "There's five dollars in it for youuuuuuu......"


#3: "Give me the money."


#1: "No, you have to do it first. Then it's all yours."


#3 got up and handed me his eyeglasses. We all followed him into the foyer. As we watched him ascend the staircase like a blind ninja, the rest of us anxiously stood at the bottom, clutching our crotches in a desperate attempt to not piss our pants. By the time he disappeared around the first corner, we were biting our hands, trying to stifle the excitable laughter that sounded more like grunting from the short bus. This was gonna be sooooo goood.

Seconds later, we heard the bedroom door being rushed. #3 exploded into the master bedroom with the fury of ten thousand starving zombies, screaming like a lunatic on the top of his lungs. In all fairness, I assumed the odds were high that MFH was actually still awake and watching something more dignified than white trash, nineties reality television. But, we all know what happens when one assumes....

He wasn't still awake, and he wasn't watching t.v. And in hindsight, it made the whole scenario that much more entertaining. MFH was asleep. Fast asleep. Peacefully dreaming of Metamucil and winter green, minty fresh, anti inflammatory arthritis ointment. In the instant that #3 came bursting thru that door screaming like a rabid gorilla, I can only imagine that the next and only thought that probably came to my husband's mind was Depends.


The words that came to his lips were priceless. Sounding like Joe Pesci trying to shake off anesthesia, he automatically spouted of a slew of profanity that would have made Andrew Dice Clay blush with embarrassment. In true, pissed off, MFH style, every other word out of his mouth rhymed with duck. Normally, one of us would have made a conscious tally for future reference, but we kind of didn't have the time. #3 came barreling down the steps so furiously that I'm almost positive his feet didn't even touch more than two or three of them. The kid literally hail Mary'd most of them with the facial expression of one of those overused and overproduced Scream movie masks. The rest of us struggled to rise from rolling around on the floor, and make our way back to the living room before MFH could catch us on our hands and knees, completely consumed with maniacal cackles. If ever there was a time to be grateful for having to wear a super duper overnight maxi pad with wings, that was it.


#3 quickly hid behind the love seat. Smart boy. #1 and #2 assumed the position, jumping in front of their computers, trying to make it look like they'd been there all along. #4 and I hid under blankets on the sofa, struggling to regain some sense of composure while we epically failed at faking slumber. And MFH came storming downstairs in a Terminatoresque like rage, looking to avenge his mini stroke. By the time he finished ripping us each an individually new asshole, we were so grounded. #3 was five beans richer. And we all gained a treasured and cherished memory of the Summer of 2011. Well, not all of us. The next morning, MFH began serving up some serious silent treatment, but we had a plan. When he finally got over his disappointment in us, we collectively banned together and blamed it on #2, our resident fall guy. Still, there is a very important lesson to be learned in all of this. When contemplating scaring the living shit out of your spouse in the middle of the night and a moment of sheer and utter monotony, make sure he isn't asleep before you do it. And, make sure you're totally prepared to make your own coffee first thing in the morning for at least the next five days.

share on: facebook