Archive for the ‘Attempted Humor’ Category

A guest post by Courtney Chaffee

This Christmas season has once again brought insight into my life with my husband Scott.

A wise woman once said to me, “Most men are a handful, Scott is two handfuls.”He is proving this to be true.

Last weekend, we set out to get the “Chaffee Family Christmas Tree.” We drove straight into the woods — past the boy scout tree lot, Safeway, and any option of getting an artificial tree. See, Scott insists that we “hunt” our tree. This is similar to hunting an animal, except the tree does not leave tracks, so he says it is more difficult.

When we walked into the office, Scott proudly stated “One tree permit please, and how big of a tree can I cut down with that permit?”

Miss Ranger saw him coming from a mile away. She told him, “Well, for $10 you can get a 12-foot tree, but for $20 you can cut down a 20-foot tree!”

His eyes lit up like the LED lights he insists on putting on the house. I honestly could have killed her. If only she knew how much I would now have to give up to bargain with Scott not to buy the 20-foot tree.

She had her sales pitch all lined up. “Well, if it is too tall, or wide, you can cut off part and make wreathes or garland.”

Scott said, “Ohhhhh, Court, you love to make crap like that.”

Five minutes, two life threats, and a promise to go hiking in the south back country at Crystal Mountain a number of times, Griswold gave up the dream of a 20-foot tree for this year.

We parked and hiked into the woods where his tracking abilities told him there would be a large herd of defenseless trees. I followed the trail, but Scott turned into a gazelle and ran up the hillside, saw in hand, to the “mother-load” of Christmas trees. After I found him, we found a tree.

Scott would not settle for anything less than 12 feet, so once he cut the tree down, he physically laid down twice in the snow to measure it out. He figured he is 6’2,” so this is a fool-proof way to measure the tree. Who looked like the fool though? I’m sure this is how Sacajawea measured things, because she must have forgotten her tape measure while tracking and leading Lewis and Clark like Scott did.

Once we got the monster-of-a-tree home, we put it up in the living room in corner by the windows so everyone could see it. We could barely get the tree topper on. The branches were crashing into the blinds and one branch was sitting completely on the couch like it was relaxing from a hard day’s work. The tree was “a little full, lot of sap.”It took me a good amount of time to craft the old growth into something we could put into a home. I felt like Michelangelo sculpting The David out of pine.

Of course, Scott was not around for anything of this. He pretty much dumped it off in the stand and ran out the door. He left me with pruners, lights, and a ladder. It was my version of “Survivor: A Christmas Edition.” I put on some Christmas music to set the mood and started the one thing I wait all year to do. I was feeling happy, and for a moment was excited that Scott talked me into this huge tree.

The moment was short-lived. All 12 feet of the tree came crashing down on me. I can guarantee you this did not happen to Michelangelo with The David. I somewhat caught it, but a better term would be that I just broke the tree’s fall.

Where was Mr. Griswold who decided that we had to have this tree? I had no idea, and I didn’t even have my phone on me to call him to save me from being swallowed whole by the tree.

This is where I took a moment of reflection on my life. As I was pinned under a HUGE Christmas tree, I had nothing other to do than reflect. This really had turned into “Survivor: A Christmas Edition” and so had my life: “Survivor: You Married Scott Chaffee.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything is just a little harder with my husband. Examples:

SCOTT: “Hey Court, here are your skis. I grabbed them out of the garage for you this morning.”
ME: “Thanks, but why are they so slick?”
SCOTT: “Oh, I spilled a little oil on them, but I think they will be fine”
ME: [Going down the hill] “AHHHHHHHHHHH”

SCOTT: “Look! I got new shoes!”
ME: “Finally, thank you”
ME: “What is on the heel???”
SCOTT: “Oh they are Heelys. Wanna go to the mall and race?”

SCOTT: “Hey, I want to take you to a movie tonight.”
ME: “Oh great, I’ve been dying to see that new one with Jennifer Aniston.”
SCOTT: “Oh, um, I meant something at the $2 cinema. The Jennifer Aniston movie is brand new”

I stick it out because, in the end, I get everything I want: A Christmas tree, my skis carried for me, Scott buying new shoes, and a movie. It’s just an exciting ride to get there. It’s just a curvy road, and a little uphill.

“Surprises” are the fun part of adopting an adult dog. I’m not talking about the “surprises” it might leave on your carpet while you’re at work (hasn’t happened to us yet, knock on wood). I mean trying to figure out the dog’s past and why it behaves the way it does.

We sometimes ask our dog, “Did you have babies?” or “What food did you eat?” or “Why do you stand on your hind legs when we say ‘sit’?”

The only detail we really know about Gianna’s past is that she came from the Wenatchee Humane Society by way of Twisp, a tiny town tucked behind the North Cascades.

Last night, I randomly said something in Spanish and noticed the dog’s ears perk up. It struck me then that a Hispanic family might have raised her, which would explain why she doesn’t respond to some basic commands despite her clearly good training.

Right then, I rattled off a lot of Spanglish: “por favor,” “taco,” “gato,” “Mexi fries,” “qual es tu numero de telefono,” “pero,” etc. Her ears continued to perk up either because she understood me or was confused by what I was saying. That’s one more option than I usually get.

After the reaction ramble, I focused, got her attention and commanded “sientate” (sit), which I recalled Moos saying when she was about to serve dinner or I was blocking the TV. I responded well to the command myself, after some repetition.

Immediately, Gianna sat. I have a Spanish-speaking (or understanding) dog! Bueno! No wonder she wasn’t listening to me before, she didn’t understand English!

It’s a good thing we named her with a romantic-language name otherwise she might have denied it! All this time, I’ve left the TV on ABC or NBC during the day when she’d rather preferred Telemundo!

She reconfirmed the discovery later when I let her out the front door. Usually, I let her out and she just sits on the porch and waits because, like most women, she likes to take a friend along with her to the bathroom.  This time, I commanded, “baño” (bathroom) and she popped a squat right then and there!

Now, this could all be coincidence. She really pays attention to everything I say, even if she doesn’t adhere to a command. She hadn’t been outside for several hours and drank a gallon of water before she went to the bathroom. Also, tone is everything in a command and I’m sure I could say “Lady Gaga” in the same tone and she’d sit and shake.

Still, given her reactions last night, she understood something. Or at least she’s bilingual. Collies are smart like that.

I wrote before about issues with excess hair – creating drain rats, breaking my vacuum. Although I’ve traded in The Wives (nickname for my old roommates) for a genuine wife, the recent acquisition of pets has led to an escalated state of loose hair in the house.

Amanda alone sheds a lot of hair. I encounter the occasional drain hat and hair in the sink. She grows it back, so it’s all good.

When we adopted the cat, Fabrizio, I didn’t notice much of a hair accumulation because his hair is so light and short. I’ll see it stack up like snow drifts at his favorite sleeping spots, but otherwise it’s not a problem.

Gianna is one hairy puppy and inspired this post. I grew up with a Sheltie, Maxamillion, so I knew our new Collie would leave a trace of hair in her wake. I didn’t anticipate the daily carpet she could produce on our hardwood floors.

Sometimes I wish this blog would get a sponsor like GoPro or Canon that would give me cameras and goodies to use and giveaway. No longer the case. Now I want a sponsorship from Swiffer. I use those little Swiffer sheets every damn day to lift the hair – Amanda’s, Fabrizio’s and Gianna’s. I’m sure Sergio and I contribute to the mix, but only minority shares. I love Swiffer. I need Swiffer. Sponsor me, Swiffer!

I won’t even talk about our bedroom, the only room in the house with carpet. I wish I could leave the vacuum on 24/7. The first item on my Christmas list this year is the Roomba, so that I can just leave that on when I’m away at work. Forty hours a week of vacuuming might take care of all the hair the dog deposits in our room during the same time period. Hell, while I’m asking, sponsor me, Roomba!

The hair problem led me to decide to install hardwood floors upstairs instead of replacing the carpets. I know I did myself a favor going with hardwoods for a number of reasons, but the only immediate benefit I saw was the ability to Swiffer upstairs and have brief confidence that there is no hair on the floor until animals or wife reenter the room.

Now that I have a beard, I always find hair in it – not my hair, but the animals’ or the wife’s. It’s an intrusion of my own hair space. It’s hair on hair violence.

We’ve all adapted, and the hair is fairly under control, but say Sergio or I – the resident Italians – start shedding body hair, we’re screwed.