The Blonde Leading the Blind

I spent nearly ten minutes this morning with my jaw between my knees in absolute awe of Spider-Husband using the vacuum cleaner.  It wasn’t because he was vacuuming.  He actually does that all the time.  

No, I was left speechless when I turned around while I was making breakfast and discovered my superhero husband actually lifting the vacuum cleaner up on to our couch to run it over the seat cushions which were covered in hair o’ Disaster Twin.  I don’t know if I was more mystified by the actual sight of him pushing the vacuum along the couch or by the realization that he believes this is a more effective technique than using the upholstery attachments that were designed for this very purpose.

In my momentarily stunned state, I had serious flashbacks to his bachelor days when I discovered that he used his then vacuum cleaner to clean all the surfaces in his apartment.  And, I mean ALL of the surfaces - dirt on the living room floor to crumbs on the kitchen counter to toilet paper crumbles in the bathroom - if it could be suctioned up, it was fair game.  

I nearly had some type of OCD-induced seizure.  Fortunately, that was still back in the early stages of our budding romance.  Back when you’re both so enamored that he pretends not to notice that you’re constantly smelling things to determine if they are, in fact, dirty, even when you’re pretty sure they are, and you can overlook that possibility that the meal he’s just prepared most likely touched the same surface as the vacuum brush that he uses to clean the floor of the john.

And, really, how could I complain?  He did keep that place tidy.

Now, here’s a man who knows how to handle his rig.

Roll on, Spider-Husband, roll on.

SpiderHusband:  ”Do you want to snog?”

Me:  ”Do you even know what snogging is?”

SpiderHusband: “It’s a kiss and a cuddle.”

I stand corrected.

SpiderHusband surprised me Sunday with this sparkly frog box before dropping me off at the Indianapolis airport for my business trip to Sarasota.

I am not a frog collector, and neither is my Aunt Donna.  But, that didn’t stop her older brother, my Dad, from buying her countless frogs in their younger days.  It seems he somehow got the impression that she had a thing for amphibians, so birthdays, Christmas, you name it, frogs were his gifts of choice.

So, frogs have sort of become an inside family joke, especially since my Dad passed away several years ago.  Every now and then, I’ll see a frog that catches my eye and makes me giggle thinking about him.

I spotted this one while waiting to be seated at Cracker Barrel for breakfast, but decided I was too cheap to shell out the $20 listed on the price tag.  In a rare instance of reckless abandon, my ordinarily very economical SpiderHusband indulged and managed to snag the final frog on the shelf before leaving.

What a prince.

I’m happy to report that SpiderHusband survived his first Mini Marathon with only minor wear and tear.

He ran the majority of the course - around 11 of the 13+ miles - with a time of just over 2 hours and 40 minutes.

Well played, SpiderHusband.

The hounds and I are aglow with pride.  You rock.

SpiderHusband left at 5:30 a.m. bound for his first Mini-Marathon.

It’s about an hour into the race, and I’ve been awake since 6 a.m. wondering if he made it to his gate OK and was able to find the friend he’s running with and had any trouble finding a close parking spot and his knee is holding out and…on and on.

The Disaster Twins and I turned on the local news to see if we might be able to catch a glimpse of him on the race coverage because out of over 40K runners, the girls and I are just positive that the camera will be following their Doggy Daddy.

So far, we’ve been wrong.

I have to leave the house or I’m going to drive myself crazy thinking about him.

Good luck, hon’!  The hounds and I are cheering you on… and your black water-wicking socks, too.