kris

Stuart Foreman

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At dinner tonight, Mark started telling one of his college stories (his story to tell, but the summary is: he and his friends killed a rabbit with a BB gun from the dorm balcony, cooked it at a barbeque (tastes like chicken!), was tattled on by the women downstairs, ordered to volunteer at the local Humane Society, tried to do said volunteering at the local Humane Society but were refused because of the reason why they had to volunteer, and ended up volunteering with the campus gardener, who offered them $1 for every rabbit they killed). At one point, Kris leaded over to Megan and asked, "Have you heard this story a million times before?" She laughed, then said yes, but it was okay, because she listened for differences in the stories, to see how they grow over time.

She asked me if I did the same with the stories from Kris that I hear over and over again. I laughed, and said, "No, I just pull out my phone and try to keep up with him while typing it in." I then asked, "Want to hear one?"

I figure Kris isn't going to blog his stories, but some of them are just so so funny. The best part is, of course, the fact that Kris just laughs when he tells the story, so, yes, a lot of it is in the delivery. If he starts typing up his own stories, I'll stop. Until then, I'll keep transcribing.

Megan said, yes, she'd like to hear the story, so, in his words, Kris' story of Stuart Foreman:

Stuart Foreman was the name of our catcher in high school.

We had a rule that a runner heading to home had to slide if there was going to be a play at home. They had no choice, they were rwquired to slide.

my junior year, we were playing our arch rival, James Wood H.S., In one play, the runner starts coming into home. Our catcher caught the ball, and turned to meet the runner. The runner was this 6" 200 (220 in one version of the story) pound guy. Our catcher was like 5'7", 170 (180 in a different telling) pounds, stocky and built like Eric Newman.

So this runner comes in, and our catcher is holding the ball (out in front of himself, both hands around the ball) when the runner keeps charging.

So our catcher goes HUNH! picks up the runner, body slams him to the ground, touches him with the ball, spikes the ball,and walks back to the dugout.

The guy immediately stands up, like he wants to fight. The whole bench is waiting at the end of the dugout, just waiting to rush the field, while the umpire is throwing warnings around.

Immediately warned both dugouts to stay in their dugouts.

Someone asked, What were you doing?

Me? Oh, I was laughing hysterically.

Click!

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Went running at the Stanford dish tonight. In my infinite wisdom, instead of running with my car key, I decided to throw all of my stuff into the car trunk, and run with my clicker. I convinced Kris to do the same, and off we went.

When we arrived back at the cars (one seriously cramped hamstring later), I pulled the clicker from out of my sportsbra (ah, yes, the perfect place to carry all your important items without worry of losing them as they bounce out of a pocket, or jostle out of a sock, only to be lost along your trail forever), and pressed the open-trunk button.

Nothing happened.

I pressed the open-door button.

Nothing happened.

I fiddled with the clicker with little success, then asked Kris for a nickel to open the back. When I opened the back of the clicker, I realized the folly of the sportsbra storage unit when used with small electronics.

The insides were all wet, and the battery connectors completely corroded.

Yay, sweat!

After unsuccessfully cleaning the connectors, but before everyone else in our group left, as the only working cell phone between Kris and me was safely locked in my car trunk, I asked him to call AAA, being once again thankful that he insists on being a AAA member for incidents just like this one. I have my Honda Roadside service, also, but its number was, once again, safely locked up in the car.

Kris called, and I gave up on the clicker, handing it to him.

True to the "five meeeenuts!" it takes him to solve any problem I have, he opened the clicker, dried off the rest of the electronics that I had managed to completely soak on my run, reassembled the clicker, and pressed the open-trunk button.

*clunk!*

The trunk opened, and I was once again able to get into my car. I told him next time, we should put the other's car key into our trunks. That way, if Kris is locked out of his car, I can open my trunk, get his key, which he can unlock his door, pop the trunk and get my key, and vice versa.

Unless both clickers die. Then we're in trouble.

Because you're supposed to be nice

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Today was supposed to be a vacation day for Kris.

Having worked ungodly hours for the last month and a half (the last three weeks where he went to work at 6:30 am and arrived home after 9 at night, usually 10), Kris was finally able to take a day off. Four in fact: the weekend, today as a floating holiday and tomorrow as a real holiday.

Didn't happen.

Someone from his work called my cell phone, Kris' not working yet, and left a message to the effect that there have been site errors, mostly memory problems, and that the head honchos were cancelling the holiday and asking everyone to return to work. I listened to the message, and, annoying, tragically, did the right thing: I called home, had Heather wake up Kris at 11 in the morning, and told him he had to go to work. I then played the voice message for him. His response was a muted, "You have to be kidding me."

At least he got 7 hours of sleep last night.

An hour later, I received another phone call from the same coworker. I answered, and he asked for Kris. I told him that Kris wasn't here, he was on his way into work.

Apparently this was the best news this guy could have ever heard. He went off on oh, how wonderful that is, and after a few minutes, started saying how sorry he was that he had to call everyone into work, there were such problems.

As he went off on his apologies, my anger started rising. My husband has been effectively working for less than minimum wages for this company, and they're calling him in on his day off, the first in six weeks. Kris has missed half the ultimate practices in the last month, hasn't spent a weekend with me for two, and I can count the number of times his hasn't been too exhausted in the last month for sex because of work on one hand.

Right, this guy is sorry. So sorry that the site that isn't making any money has to fix itself right now.

I hung up on the guy.

I have no desire to be nice to the person who is clearly not as sorry as he is claiming to be. If he were that sorry, he wouldn't have called in the first place.

Asshole.

In, Kris, IN!

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For the love of god, husband, put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, put them away, then put your dirty dish into the dishwasher.

If it's full of dirty dishes, start the wash cycle.

I don't think I quite understood the unbridled joy my mom experienced when she finally trained us kids to put our dishes in the dishwasher instead of just the sink.

That is, until now.

Almost had him convinced

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Several years ago, I bet Kris I could pee farther than he could. He told me he'd take that bet in a heartbeat. Tonight, once again, I bet him, given a full bladder and the right angle, I could pee farther than he could. To my surprise, I had intimidated him into saying, no, he wouldn't take that bet.

We were having dinner with Tyler and Heather at the newly opened, local Indian house (notes to self: veggie Korma delicious, chicken Korma sucky suck, garlic naan means no kisses, but is oh-so-very tasty!). I wish I could recall how the conversation went, but somehow we managed to arrive at the topic of peeing distances. Tyler expressed disbelief at my assertion.

I had once told Kris I could do 100 situps, no problem. He bet me $100 (our standard bet) I couldn't do 100 in an hour. I won, but only just barely. It's become our standard measure by which we gauge how likely some seemingly innocent statement is true ("Sure. And I can do 100 situps. In an hour.").

Update: Was talking to Roshan, and yes, we agreed that 100 situps in an hour is ridiculously easy. So, I'm clearly misremembering the incident. It must have been 100 situps in like 10 minutes, but Kris was gracious and gave me 15, or something like that.

So, sure, I can pee farther than you. And I can do 100 situps. In an hour. (Ignoring the fact that, yes, I really can do 100 situps in an hour, and in far, far less than than hour, but that's because I train.)

I had to describe to Tyler various requirements, then commented that my smaller bladder and higher pressure, compared to Kris's larger bladder and lower pressure, was guaranteed to win. He tried to counter with Kris' amazing stomach muscles being able to force the urine out more effectively, but was thwarted by my comment, "His abs are no match for my Kegel exercises. Which I'm doing. Right. Now."

I learned to pee standing up a long while ago, but the website I learned from has since been bought out and redirects to a sucky-suck site now. The best I could find was the recently discovered (for me) NSFW site, with her description of the process. It's as I recall, but without the pictures and helpful comments.

I'll need to wait until after Heather moves out before I practice in the shower hitting one wall with my back against the other wall.

Kris is a bloggin'

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I've been writing here for over two years. I've been trying to get Kris to start blogging for a long part of that time, even going so far as to buy several different domains hoping one would stick.

Well, he has finally started blogging. Today's story made me laugh. It's about the elevator incident.

The other end

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"Excuse me for my ignorance, it wasn't very smart. But if it came out the other end, it would have been a fart."

Blink.

Blink. Blink.

"I don't think I've said that since I was twelve."

Much hilarity ensues.

High cheese ball

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Baseball season has started again.

It started last Sunday. Each year I become a "baseball widow" around this time of the year, as Kris goes off to spend time with his mistress (her name is MLB).

I resist learning about baseball. I tolerate his watching so much because it means I can work on my own projects with little guilt about not spending the time with Kris. I'm sure Kris would love if I were an avid baseball fan, but I'm not, and don't plan on being so any time soon. I can count the number of live games I've been to in my lifetime on one hand, and the number of those I've enjoyed on the number of penises attached to my body.

I've learned more than I care to learn about baseball, but I still get many terms mixed up. Take, for example, the high cheese ball.

In reality, there's the high cheese, which is a pitched ball that blows right by the batter. Often said as, "Wow, that was some high cheese."

And there's the high fast ball, which is a pitched ball that comes in at the top of the strike zone, really really quickly.

Technically, there is no high cheese ball, but I use the term generously.

There's also home base. Or the in-field homerun. Close, but they make Kris cringe every time I use the terms.

Good thing I don't discuss the high cheese ball hit over home-base for the in-field homerun. I might become a divorcee instead of a widow.

20 wasted minutes

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How is it that I do laundry every day, yet every morning when I'm getting dressed, I can't find any clean underwear?

Kris has a billion pairs of clean underwear, and at least a kabillion pairs of clean socks. But I spend twenty minutes every morning trying to find a single pair of undies for myself.

Clearly, the dog has been feasting again.

26 times

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“I have missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. Lost more than 300 games. 26 times I was trusted to take the game winning shot and failed. I have failed over and over again and that is why I succeed.”

~ Michael Jordan, Nike Commercial

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