Boys Will Be Boys

My husband ordered a great new tool for saving us money on gasoline. Part of ordering this is having to buy a jacket, helmet, and gloves. If you need further explanation, please e-mail me.

While they had to order the rest, he got to take his jacket and gloves home. My, my, my, how he loves those things. They are the epitome of cool. He put them on and paraded around the house for an hour, punching walls and running into things, exclaiming about how he couldn't feel any of it. When I asked him to stop, he said he wasn't hurting himself. I think that explaining that I wasn't worried about him getting hurt, but him hurting the house made it worse. He would chase the kids around, playing "Power Daddy." The kids would giggle and run, and my son would imitate his superhero posture.

The jacket looks roughly like this: (Thank you joerocket.com)


When he's dressed in it, he looks like something from the future. Or off of that movie, Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over. And he thoroughly enjoys it.

He even made me put it on. And let me tell you, men's jackets are made completely different from women's. Everything except the hips and chest was okay. It made me look like Rambo on estrogen. No, thanks, I'll get a woman's jacket. But then he wanted me to play in it, too. So he made me run into the room weilding a toilet part as a weapon. I did so just to amuse him, giggling the whole time at how silly I must look. I ran into the room and did my best cop stance, shouting "Freeze!" in my deepest manly-man voice, wielding my toilet part like a deadly rifle. I was a rattler ready to strike. He burst out laughing. Gave me kudos for attempting to lower my voice, but all in all it was a pretty funny sight.

Yeah, that makes me want to do it again.

Not.