Hints don't work. And now I realize links and "buy this for me NOW" doesn't work either.

My boss recently went to New York and came back with this really cool, teeny tiny, iPod speaker. It is only available in Korea and the MOMA in NY. They are I.dear Speakers, and they are awesome, and if you are like me, and have the first generation iPod touch, then you aren't blessed with the sorta okay speakers that come with the new fangled iPod touch, 2nd generation.

I often drag my laptop around with me just so I can listen to music on last.fm, my choice for an online "radio." Basically, you tell it what band you want to hear, and it picks similar bands and just plays them until it can't figure out any more similar artists. I usually do this when I'm cooking dinner or taking care of the dishes.

Sure, we have a nice Bose iPod player that I moved into the dining area, but when you have a bossy toddler on your hands who must watch TV after a hard day at daycare, then it's much easier to lug your laptop with you than try to listen to music in the Bose player. And earbuds are so not a good idea with a bossy toddler.

When my boss played the speaker for me, I was truly smitten. A smitten kitten, I was. I told my husband I had to have it, sent him the link, and I told him to buy it for me. I said how nice it would be if he would buy it and give it to me as a surprise. Wouldn't that be lovely? Yes. It would be. He even came over and listened to the speaker, and I think he was impressed, but what do I know.

I need this little speaker. I must have it.

So one day he tried to give me 20 bucks to deposit. I was like, "What? Why?" because he's very fond of his cash on hand and doesn't like to share.

"So I can buy something," he said.

Ah, how cute, I thought. He wants to use his 20 bucks to put towards my speaker!

"No...just keep it, that's silly," I said.

As an afterthought, I asked, "Where did you get this?"

"I was hoarding it," he told me.

(I'm now wondering if he meant the 20 bucks for my speaker or for shoes...darn my husband. I'll keep pretending it was for my speaker.)

So I waited, and waited, and waited. I finally had to go onto Mint.com and get our money straight again, and I realized there was no charge for the speaker.

Yes, my heart sank.

"I want this, here is the link, buy this for me!" doesn't seem to work. And if that doesn't work, then nothing will work.

So I had to ask.

"Did you order the speaker for me?"

"Um. Nooooooo. I didn't know where I should order it from," he said in a slight, I'm ready to get annoyed with you any second voice.

"I sent you the link," I told him.

"I know. But I thought I could get it at SFMOMA," he said. SFMOMA just happens to be right next to our work building.

"You can't. You can only get it at the NY MOMA! Never mind. I'll just order it myself," I said.

I grumbled some other stuff, he shot me a dirty look, that was the end of that.

Today I reminded him that Mother's day is May 10th and I expect that he and Mateo plan something fantastic for me.

He told me he needed to order the salt and pepper shakers then.

I asked what salt and pepper shakers. I don't know what you're talking about.

He said exactly.

So I had to politely remind him AGAIN that I wanted the speaker, not stupid salt and pepper shakers.

He said he made it up to get me in a tizzy.

I still don't believe him, and I already told him that if he gives me salt and pepper shakers, he's getting a napkin dispenser for Father's Day.

Yes, we all like to make our child happy. BUT.

My husband, the dear, sweet, wonderful man that he is (I know you're reading, so I have to fluff you up before I bring you down, Mister), still being on the high of watching Mateo's joy over his new big boy cars, decided to buy him this and this on Sunday:


Much to my horror, that is.

As soon as I saw it, I said very quietly so Mateo wouldn't see my horror and immediate fear of eyeballs being blinded by sharp, metal airplane wings, "It's got sharp corners. He shouldn't have that...."

My husband turned to me with that look of "but he's soooo happy, it'll be fine, just fine, you silly woman," but instead just said, "It'll be fiiiinnnnneeeee."

I gave him a death glare.

I said again that he really shouldn't have it. He still needs rounded corners, preferably of the plastic kind. He's not even two yet. And he still falls a lot. And puts stuff in his mouth. And has beaten me up good with just his body, so imagine what damage he can do with that death plane o' metal.

Plus, I really didn't want to spend my Sunday making sure Mateo wasn't doing some damage to himself, the cats, or our furniture with that thing.

"Look what he's doing," I said nonchalantly to my husband.

Mateo was sticking the wings in his mouth. Wait. Let me change that. Jamming the wings into his mouth. The sharp, metal wings.

"Mateo! No! Don't put that in your mouth!" my husband admonished.

And, as we all know, that just turned into, "Oh, Mateo! What a good boy putting that metal airplane wing into your mouth - you are soooo good. Do it more! More!" in Mateo's head.

I sent more death glares to my husband.

My husband finally realized that the airplane and helicopter probably weren't the best purchases he could have made for Mateo and said he'd take the plane away when Mateo napped.

The helicopter never made it out of the packaging, by the way.

I decided to feed Mateo, so I convinced him to put the plane on the table so he could see it as he ate. At one point, I told my husband to sneak over and make the airplane disappear. He wandered over, blocked Mateo's view, took the plane, and left the room.

Mateo had no clue.

Until he was done eating.

"Airplane? Airplane?" he said over and over while looking at the spot on the table where the airplane used to be.

I tried to give him one of his new cars to calm him down, but he wasn't having any of it and started a very immediate flip out.

"Ask Daddy for your airplane," I said to him. "He knows where it is."

We let him have it, which is easier than fighting him all afternoon about his airplane. Mateo took the plane and one of his cars and hid them - from us. Yes, that kid is smart. He put them behind a box in the living room. He was having problems with the box, so I went over to help him, which you'd think would freak him out, but since, like I mentioned before, he's not even two yet, it never crossed his mind that I would see the plane and the car.

After the box was nicely situated to hide the plane from our view, Mateo began to play with his other toys and act like there was never a plane to begin with.

He's good.

But I'm better.

I told him to go give his Daddy something, and while he was off doing that, I took the airplane, put it under my shirt, walked right by him and put it in our bathroom cabinet.

There was only one time Mateo got panicky about his missing airplane, but as far as I saw, he didn't even look behind the box to realize the plane was missing. I think he just remembered it and just forgot that he was being sneaky and was hiding it from us.

And never fear! He's getting this lovely rounded cornered, plastic beauty from his Aunt and family for Christmas:


And while it might not be as exciting as the little metal plane his daddy bought him, it's definitely not going to do any damage to anyone's eyes or mouth. The most he could do is chuck it at us, and I really don't put that past him as he's been known to chuck toys at us and the cats on occasion.

For reals?

This just happened.

Husband: Do you think you can clean the shower tomorrow or do you want me to do it tonight?

Me: I'll do it.

Husband: For reals - reals?

Me: No, in pretend land reals.

Souping up an iPod.

My husband won some money at work last week. I knew about this for some weeks now since my department runs the "win some money" recognition programs at work, but I managed, even though some people (my boss) (and her boss) (and my co-worker) thought I would spill the beans and tell him since, as my boss put it so eloquently, I have "some financial say in what happens to the money."

But nope, I never did tell him. And I managed to never really talk about the "win some money" award. And when he would bring it up, I would be all "Uh uh, yeah?" about it, and that was that.

So he won, and yes, since I do have say about how that money will be spent, I had already decided he was going to buy an iPod touch and then I would get the rest of the money and everyone would be happy. See how that works? Works just fine for me.

When he got home with his cash in hand, I asked him what he planned on doing with the money. He said he was giving it to me (correct), and I told him I knew what he was going to do with it, and he looked at me like how dare you tell me what to do with my money (even though he just said he was giving it to me, yes, I know, I too see the contradiction).

"You're going to buy an iPod!" I told him.

He looked at me like I was nuts.

And I am slightly nuts because this makes, like, the 100th iPod we've bought since they first came out. Contrary to popular belief, iPods do not last that long and tend to get corrupted and die (or is that just mine?). And come on, you can't own a click wheel iPod when there are fancy schmancy touch iPods out there with speakers. And, well, he just deserves it, and I know he wanted it, and so he got it, but with his own money and not our money, even though the money he won is really our money, but you get my point. I think.

Anyway. The reason I'm even writing all this is because now that he's got the biggest and best iPod out today, he seems to think he's got to soup it up with fancy covers (not one cover, but COVERS), and I just spied him looking at ear buds, and he's looking at all the apps he can put on it, and I know he has a list of games he wants to buy.

He even IMed me from the kitchen with his fancy new AIM app. While we IM at work all day long (shhhh), we never, ever, ever IM each other at home. Not unless we're sending each other links to look at. So IMing me out of the blue (when I wasn't even on IM, by the way) is just plain odd on his part.

Kid in a candy store, I tell you. Kid in candy store.

And then there was poop.

No, this isn't a post about poop per se, but more about how awesome my husband is.

Yesterday Mateo had a slight accident in the tub, and it surprised both him and me, but I think more me since he knows how he's feeling and I don't, and he really can't tell me unless I have an indication that something is going on and then ask, "Where does it hurt?"

After rushing Mateo out of the tub, cleaning him up and washing the towel I used to wrap him up and move him from the bathroom, I called my mom, who had a nice, big laugh about the whole thing and then told me not to write about it on my blog or Mateo's blog. Well, I am, but again, it's not so much about him pooping but about how great my husband is.

I have a horrible gag reflex. So much so that I was concerned, when I found out I was pregnant, about how I would be able to change super stinky diapers, deal with spit up and puke. Luckily it's turned out okay for everyone, except a few times when Mateo's thrown up and it smells like sour milk that has sat outside in the sun for a few days and has the consistency of cottage cheese.

Wait - don't leave just yet. I will get to how awesome a man my husband is, I promise.

When my husband finally came home (about 15 minutes after it happened, but I tell you, it felt like HOURS), I gave him the responsibility of watching the boy while I cleaned up the tub and the tub toys and everything else I felt was cootified.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked me.

"No. I don't. But I'm a mom, and it's my duty. You need to spend some time with your boy, so I'll do this," I said. Looky me being so responsible and nice.

Who was I kidding?

I grabbed a zip lock storage bag, a small garbage bag, a container for the toys, and sat on the toilet next to the tub, peaking in and see what was left for me.

And then gagged, and gagged again, and again, and then I heard my husband say, "Just come in here; I'll clean it!"

And clean it he did. He basically treated the bathroom like a toxic waste dump and cleaned it from head to toe including washing the rugs and toilet seat cover. He started it before dinner and finished after dinner while I worked on homework. I was even able to block out all swearing at inanimate objects, something that usually puts me on edge.

I don't think the bathroom was a toxic waste dump, and it probably didn't need to be cleaned that well, it certainly doesn't hurt to have a bathroom nice and shiny, like it was just taken out of a box.

Thank goodness for bad gag reflexes.

So here I sit.

I sit waiting for my husband to get to work so he'll answer my email about where the screwdriver is that I left on the nightstand because I need it to install my new refurbished laptop keyboard. (Thanks, Dell, you sneaky jerks!)

Without fail, my squirrelly husband swooped in and moved my stuff again. He decided he wanted to change a taillight in our car last night, and I'm thinking, but really hoping not, that the one screwdriver I need is in the car. It's 8:40 am and already hot as hades outside, and I don't want to have to walk out to the parking lot to retrieve the screwdriver that should have never left its spot.

Squirrelly husband strikes again.

When "I'll clean up our room" brings fear to my soul.

"I'll clean up the bedroom," my husband said.

Mateo just went down for a nap. I was settling in on the couch to catch up on recorded shows I never seem to find the time to watch (and when I do, I'm often just listening while milling around the internet).

I was playing with the idea of reconciling the last credit card bill since I was going to have the time to do so while Mateo slept. I had left the bill on our dresser, piled with a bunch of other paperwork I needed to attend to. I started thinking about what my husband just said - I'll clean up the bedroom - and I immediately got up and went in there.

The first thing I noticed was how clean the top of our dresser was. I looked around. I turned around while looking around. I didn't see anything resembling my pile of papers anywhere.

"Uh oh," I said.

"What?" my husband asked.

"Where did all the papers go that were on top of the dresser?"

"In a plastic bag, in the top drawer of the filing cabinet," he said matter-of-factly. Because isn't that the first place anyone would look for things that have gone missing?

"Why do you always do this to me?" I said.

He shot me death rays in response.

I opened the drawer, took the bag out, dumped all its contents onto our bed, and started rifling through it. It contained our new daycare agreement that I've yet to complete and turn in, although I had almost finished it, two bank statements, one credit card statement, a code I needed to sign up for online payments at Mateo's daycare, our Dyson instruction book, and a bunch of various things that could be recycled.

I disposed of the items that could be recycled, grabbed the credit card statement, and left everything else on the bed as my statement of displeasure.

Why does "cleaning up the bedroom" equate to squirrelling my stuff away? And why would I not be told this was occurring in the first place? Ah, my squirrely husband. I love him to death but he should learn to only squirrel away his stuff and leave my stuff alone. I don't know how many bags and boxes of stuff we have in our condo with random things in it, thanks to Mr. Squirrel. I'm the type of person who needs to see things in order to take care of them consistently. You squirrel it away, it's a guarantee I'll forget about it.

Poof, gone, just like that.

Later that day, my husband left with Mateo to go shopping. He called me from the car asking me to bring him a sippy cup of water to take with him. I said okay, went into our bedroom, looking for my sandals, the easiest thing to wear on my feet in a pinch. I looked. And looked. And looked some more. Under the bed, in the normal spots he puts my shoes, in the closet (the most obvious place, you'd think, but not in our household). I couldn't find them. I finally put on another pair of shoes and took the sippy cup out to him.

"Where are my sandals?" I asked him. Because if I couldn't find them now, I wasn't going to find them later. They were gone.

"Oh....," he said while thinking. "They're in the closet, on top of the green hamper."

"Oh, I see," I said. I handed him the cup, said goodbye to Mateo, and went back inside.

Please, for those of you out there who squirrel, if you're going to do so, at least be consistent with your squirrelly spots and don't go making new spots out of the blue. Those who are victims of your squirrelliness can't keep up with the madness.

For the record, my sandals have never been put on top of the green hamper in our closet. Ever.