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Saint G. with Pierce

Greg thinks that I like to paint him as the inept, jerk, dad and husband.  I can’t help it if he can’t wield a drill or screwdriver with my finesse, or that he’s constantly rubbing in my face how great his Ipad is compared to any of my electronics.  None-the-less, I guess it’s time to show another side of my trophy, inept, jerk husband!

Here’s the thing—he’s an awesome teacher!  I will be trying to teach Pierce how to do something–or Mikey—and they aren’t really getting it.  Daddy will come in and back my tutorial up a couple of  steps (dumb-it-down) and I will see the light bulb go on above my boys’ heads.  What’s even crazier is the “Ah- Ha” moment that I have at exactly that same time.  He will describe the objective in such simple abbreviated terms that it’s almost stupid that I didn’t think of it myself.  He knows how to break everything down into the most basic steps, and he’s NEVER obnoxious about it.  He seems to be able to figure out how much knowledge of the subject the person has, and start explaining from there.  If they have none, it’s as though he remembers back to when he was learning the basics and has managed to break the steps down in a way a newbie could grasp.

He has a crazy amount of patience, and a wicked sense-of-humor that takes over when he’s getting to the end of his tether with people.  As an IT guy, he needs it—there is nothing more aggravating than the majority of the population knowing just enough to be dangerous with computers.  He tells me I have the brown finger with electronics—pretty much whatever I touch turns to shit.  Sadly, he’s right…His Ipad is probably no better than my HP, except that I don’t use it, so it can’t get messed up.  I imagine if that happened I would find the limit or his patience and sense-of-humor in record time!

When we watch movies or the news, and there is something that I am just not making sense of, I can ask him what is likely the dumbest question (and there are dumb ones—anyone who has children knows that) and he answers it matter-of-factly instead of giving me an incredulous look like “how could I have married such an idiot—can’t she follow anything?”  Don’t get me wrong, he does his fair share of running dialogue in a voice that is supposed to sound like the one in my head talking to me, that isn’t terribly flattering, but it’s hilarious, none-the-less.  I almost look forward to his one man rants where he pretends he’s me.  Funny, though, when I try to do that to him, he says “Is your version of my voice?”  It really takes the wind out of my sails.  I get him back by switching over to the running-peanut-gallery-dialogue while he is watching his ridiculously melodramatic reruns of “Next Generation” or “Voyager.”  Unfortunately, this opens me up for his idiotic comments while I am trying to watch Ghost Hunters.  It’s hard to hear spirits from the other side when I have someone next to me distracting me with his own interpretation of what is going on in the show.  And so on and so forth goes the instigating.

Greg loves reading directions, too.  How weird is that?  I hate, and I mean HATE reading directions—pictures are fine, but not written directions.  One Christmas morning, before we were headed out to his sister’s house for the family gathering, we decided to put together this little trampoline with a handle for toddlers.  How hard could it be?  I jumped right in, knowing what it was supposed to look like when it was assembled.  I started to put the frame together; then on to the elastic cord that wrapped the mesh  fabric to the frame; wait—something’s not right.  In the meantime, Greg is trying to read the directions, but I’m ten steps ahead of him.  It all looks right, an hour later, until we realize that we wrapped the cord and fabric upside down on the wrong side of the frame.  This was one of those moments where we had to abandon ship because we needed to be somewhere.  With an hour wasted, I think G. managed to laugh, but I knew he wanted to strangle me, because “If we had just followed the directions to begin with…”  He’s learned now, that I will only read directions if there is risk of death, otherwise, I’m flying by the seat of my pants!  He’ll even make the stupid error of asking me how long a pizza is supposed to be in the oven.  Really?  I don’t know—18 minutes or something?  The guy is pretty much a saint—especially in our early years of marriage when I was a whole lot more neurotic and moody.  I had a running joke that if we divorced, my parents would keep Greg and disown me.  It may still be true!

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