Smug Marrieds: The Mouse

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This morning started out productive enough. I woke up early, at 4:30 am, in full domestic mode. By 5:30 I had chicken baking in the oven and stuffed peppers simmering in the crock pot, the dishwasher was loaded and running, and I was working on a second load of laundry. Satisfied that I was using enough electricity to power a small orbiting space station, I headed into the bathroom to get my shower. And that's when I saw it. 

"BLAIR!" I screamed, my emergency broadcast system in full mode. "BLAIR! BLAIR! BLAIR!"

He came bursting into the bathroom, sure someone was murdering me. "WHAT?! WHAT?!"

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Smug Marrieds: Coupon King

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I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but I married Coupon King.

Maybe it's the CPA in him or maybe it's just the instinctual male urge to hunt and conquer, but Blair can track down a bargain like nobody's business. He'll leave the house at 8 am on a Sunday to get to CVS when it opens so he can swoop up armfuls of Kleenex tissue or Maxwell House Coffee on sale. Going through the aisles of the grocery store, I stand and watch him perform Nobel Peace prize worthy mathematical computations to figure out whether the canned peas on sale are a deal or a dud. And always the southern gentleman, bargain hunting mode is one of the few times Blair will knock old ladies aside to get to what he wants. 

I'm always in favor of a bargain but not willing to put in the work Blair does. If it's there in front of me and it's a decent enough price, I buy it.

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I Love Skiing

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Three words I never expected to write in sequence: I. Love. Skiing. 

As you may recall, Blair decided--on a whim--to take us skiing. Our private ski lesson was this morning at 8 am. "Ralph" was replaced with "Jim," an infinitely patient and capable instructor. The lift didn't open until 9 so our timing was perfect--we got in and got our equipment and had our practice session before any real crowds showed up. 

This was a good thing as "I love skiing" does not necessarily equate to "I am good at skiing."

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"Men Don't Share Clothes"

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As we saw in yesterday's post, Facebook friends have been generous with hooking me up with attire for the rapidly approaching Smug Married Ski-athon. Yesterday, my friend Christie's husband asked her, "What about Blair?"

"What about him?" she said. 

"Dena's got ski clothes now. What's Blair going to wear?"

"I have no idea," said Christie. "All I'm concerned with is that my girl is going to look hot enough to melt snow." (Perhaps you can see why we're friends.) 

"We men have to stick together," said Mike. "Blair can borrow my ski jacket." 

How nice is that? I made arrangements to pick the jacket up this weekend. However, when I mentioned the jacket to Blair last night, he shook his head. 

"Men don't share clothes."

"You're kidding me, right?" I asked. "This isn't sharing clothes. It's a jacket. You wear your own clothes underneath it."

"Men don't share clothes." 

"Are you telling me you'd rather spend a bunch of money on a new ski jacket that's probably only going to be worn this one time? That makes no sense."

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," said Blair. "And you know why?"

"Don't even," I warned. 

"Because. Men. Don't. Share. Clothes." 

I'm going with Blair tomorrow to look at--and most likely purchase--ski attire from Sports Authority. However, I'm also bringing home Mike's jacket on Sunday for Blair to try on. That's when the real battle of wits will begin. 

If we don't settle it here, we'll battle it out on the slopes. 

Cheers,

Dena