I really have nothing interesting to say. Which, I know: Typical.

My sister was lamenting the other day about how good my blog used to be before I got knocked up and spawned.  Apparently, back then I had interesting things to say.

(Thanks, Amy.)

So, I am going to post something different in an attempt to "be interesting" again.

And by "different" I only mean "not involving a single picture of Banner".

I know.  Brutal.  I am nothing without my Banner photo arsenal.

But don't get your hopes up too much.  The following post still involves my husband.  And, well, it really isn't all that interesting at all.  Just another story about what goes on at our house.  I have very limited material now that I'm busy chasing a toddler who is only still when he is sleeping.

(Just wanted to make sure your standards were set appropriately low from the get-go.)

Anyhoo…

Yesterday, I devoted ten minutes to the biannual task of walking around the house and resetting all the clocks.  All except the one next to Trevor's side of the bed because THAT CLOCK HATES ME and I've decided the only way for us to continue living under the same roof is if I pretend it doesn't exist.

Seriously.  It only works for Trevor.  If I have to deal with it (WHEN IT RANDOMLY GOES OFF WITHOUT WARNING AND BLARES AT ME), I simply unplug it.  Problem solved.

But because I never change the time on Trevor's clock (and because I'm pretty sure Trevor thinks the other clocks in the house are changed by magical, invisible fairies), I also have the biannual task of reminding Trevor to change his clock before we go to bed after Daylight Savings either begins or ends.

And, well, I had sherry last night so I could deal with yet another episode of The Walking Dead.  It made me all warm and sleepy (the sherry, not the zombies), which was great because the spring ahead thing always turns me into a wee bit of an insomniac around bedtime.  But then Trevor told me it was my turn on Dice With Buddies, and well - long story short - I forgot all about his bedside clock.

Which, of course, made for a rather chaotic 7 AM.  One in which Trevor INSISTED that every other clock in the house was wrong (because, obviously) before jumping out of bed, swearing and stomping around the room like a crazed elephant.

The baby was still asleep, so I asked him to try and keep it down before getting up to feed the dogs.  But it was like he was trying to be extra-special loud because - from the other end of the house - all I could hear was a lot of crashing and banging from back in the bedroom.  He even ran into the baby gate, which I intentionally left AJAR when I left the room so he wouldn't run into it.

Trevor later claimed he only ran into it because I opened it.  Because, of course.

So, walking back down the hall, I again asked Trevor - in a whisper – to please try and keep it down.  To which he responded in an annoyed and very loud tone, "I AM" before stomping away towards the kitchen.

In related news, the baby was up before Trevor left the house or even started his car.

The funny thing is that Trevor is under the impression that he is quiet in the mornings.  But he isn’t.  Not even on the best of mornings.  I actually don’t think it is possible for him to be quiet.  It isn’t in his nature.  Kind of like when you think you are passing gas discretely in a crowd, but you miscalculated The Urge and the entire room hears?  And then you are all like, “It was my shoe, I swear!”  But it wasn’t your shoe at all?

Yeah, living with Trevor is a lot like that.