Remote control

Cro Magnon loves his big screen tv. He loves his chair (that I bought – Pottery Barn Basic – worn and permanently darkened because that’s where Cro Magnon likes to rest his paws at the end of the day. Or in the beginning of the day. Whatever.)

He loves his big screen so much, he’s got three remotes for it.

Three.

One goes to the big screen itself. One goes to the dvd player connected to the big screen. A third goes to the sound bar connected to the big screen. 

It’s gotta be a guy thing. Because I don’t know any woman who would waste her time or money on three remotes. Maybe I’m wrong.

I don’t think so.

We just don’t have time for all that. There’s tinkering. Turn-ons. All that button pushing. He loves it. Gives him something to do, I guess.

So, the other night, we settle in to watch a movie. The kids are sleeping over at their aunt’s, so we have a night to ourselves. So we put in the movie Skyfall. Cro Magnon is very excited. He loves James Bond. He loves James Bond gadgets.  He gets his “home theater” ready. “Watch this,” he says. He clicks at the screen. Widescreen. Super wide. Regular. Wide. Super wide. Regular. Wide. Super wide. Regular. Sorry to repeat. But he did this. Nine times. Because he likes pushing buttons. He thinks he’s James Bond with a gadget. He finally settles on widescreen.  So when Daniel Craig enters Shanghai on his gondola, I can see half his head. Cro Magnon likes this. Because it’s big. And to Cro Magnon, it is good. Whatever.

Then, Cro Magnon says again, “Watch this.”

This time he has to get up. To turn on the sound bar. But he can’t figure it out. He’s got the sound coming from another channel. Fox News, I think. And I have to tell him four times that, no, that’s not the movie.

This occupies Cro Magnon/James Bond for a good 20 minutes.

“WTF,” he howls.

I just smile.

Because I don’t bother with that shit. Life is complicated enough. And I like shit to be as simple as possible. So we watch Skyfall. Sans soundbar. Poor Cro Magnon.

Skyfaaaaaaall.

Dirty laundry

I’ve written before about how Cro Magnon likes to do laundry.

He brings the laundry basket from upstairs and leaves it on the dining room table.

Done.

He did it again. Even after I posted about it. Even after I told him I posted about it.

He just wants to be a star. Of this blog.

Sooo.

Here we go again.

“Drives me nuts,” I tell my little sister one day over the phone. “He still does it. Even after I told him he’s not really doing laundry. He’s just dropping it. On the table.”

“I know,” Little sister replies. “Mine brings it up from the dryer, then dumps the pile on the bed. That’s his done.”

Well at least he gets that far. Cro Magnon doesn’t do that. In fact, Cro Magnon is so bad at doing laundry he leaves his dirty piles of man-ness all over the house. Jeans in a wad at the top of the stairs where the cat likes to curl up – and I don’t want to know why. Boxer shorts twisted up inside the jeans, so they stay stuck inside them while they’re whirling about in the washer. Because I’m not sticking my hand in his pants.  Wet towels folded and left. On my side of the bed.

Clueless. Absolutely clueless.

“Oh. The sockballs,” Little sister says. “He likes to pull his socks off so they wind up in  little balls. I kick them all over the house. The kids do the same thing. Only their balls are smaller.”

Heh.

I don’t mind untangling the kids underwear from their pants. (Could this family be any lazier?) Somehow, because they’re still relatively little, it doesn’t bother me to separate their undergarments from their pants. But Cro Magnon’s. Ew.

Maybe it’s because he never wants to throw anything out. He’s got a pair of shorts that should be on The Walking Dead. He’s got golf caps from the 2006 U.S. Open that have bite marks where the dog chewed. And a faint scent of head cheese.

“I need those. I still wear those,” Cro Magnon wails when he pulls them out of the trash.

Sigh.

So does it really matter if I wash them?

He won’t know the difference.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day

I wish I had a picture.

At the office, I refer to Valentine’s Day as “War of the Roses.” Bunches and bunches arrive      at the front desk, one after the other. Some are red, some are pink, some are yellow. Some are a variety of shades. Long stemmed. And perfectly formed.

It’s a big contest. Because the ones who get them set them high on their cubicle shelves.

Not that I care.

So one Valentine’s Day a few years ago, I come home. After witnessing “War.”

I open the door to the kitchen and there’s Cro Magnon standing there in front of the stove.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. Look what I made you.”

I don’t even bother to take my coat off. Because I’m totally intrigued. Cro Magnon in front of a project on the stove.

I walk over and look at it. It’s a heart-shaped meatloaf with my initials spelled in bacon on top.

True story.

Beat that, you rose people.

Loving his Carharts

Cro Magnon is standing in the kitchen in his winter Cro Magnon uniform.

Fleece sweatshirt. Wool cap. And black Carhart overalls.

“I love these,” he says, spinning (for reals) around in the kitchen. With his hands out. “It’s like walking around in a snug and comfy (yes, he said comfy) blanket.”

Hmm.

It must’ve been the look on my face. Because then he says to me, “I’m gonna get you a pair.”

Me: “No.”

Cro Magnon: “They come in pink.”

Me in my black Etienne Aigner boots from TJ Maxx: “No.”

Cro Magnon: “I’m gonna get you a pair. Put you on the fast track. Wear ’em to work and start a trend.”

Tsk.

Once he told he to wear my duck hunting boots to the office. And my camouflage duck hunting jacket. I didn’t do it. Another time he told me to wear his big Buffalo plaid hunting jacket to work. So I did. Just to see. Nobody said a word.

So, yeah. No. I’m not wearing pink Carharts. And I’m not going to twirl around in public talking about what it’s like to walk around in a man-Snuggie.

But I bet he would.