Getting pumped up with Husband-Head |

Getting pumped up with Husband-Head

Heidi Rice
Post Independent
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
Fried Rice

“The pool is evil,” Husband-Head announced, coming in from the backyard. “I don’t know why you insist on having it because it’s a bad, bad thing.”

I just rolled my eyes because I hear the same complaint year after year when it comes time to get the pool ready for summer.

It was about 15 years ago when I decided I needed a pool and we started with a small, wading pool from Wal-Mart. From there, it continued to grow. It went from a wading pool, to a children’s pool, to one of those pools that you actually had to erect and take down at the end of the summer.

And then have to put back up again the next year.

But not this pool. No, this big above-ground baby stays up all year. We put a cover on it over the winter and then the unveiling ceremony is held on Memorial Day weekend.

Along with Husband-Head’s string of potty-mouth words …

“I hate this pool!” he says every year as he fights with the cover and has to drain the pool, clean the liner and fill the pool with water again. “Anything that has to do with water is a bad, bad thing!”

So it didn’t help this year when he started up the pump, only to find it began to leak.

A lot.

Husband-Head put silicone on it. Again. And again. Then he duct-taped it. Let’s just say, the thing didn’t even look like a pool pump by the time he was finished.

And still, it leaked.

“That’s it!” Husband-Head declared in frustration, raising up his grease-covered hands. “You are not going to have a pool this year. And I am not paying $300 for a new pump for this monstrosity.”

Oh, yes you are, honey. Or you are not going to have NFL Ticket in your mancave.

We continued to fight over the pool for the entire weekend.

At one point, I was wondering whether you could write “pool pump” in the section asking for the reason for the divorce, instead of “irreconcilable differences.”

On the other hand, it would be sad to end nearly 17 years of marriage over a pool pump.

Instead, Husband-Head decided to warn his online football buddies about the dangers of having a pool. Apparently his online buddies thought “Vince,” as Husband-Head is known online, and his pool were pretty funny.

“They all laugh at me and the friggin’ pool,” Husband-Head admitted. “And anytime anyone mentions anything about getting a pool, I always talk them out of it. I think they think all I do is go to yard sales and clean the pool.”

But Husband-Head has never really understood my attraction to having a pool.

“Women your age should be re-arranging their cabinets or getting corns removed from their feet or something,” Husband-Head pointed out. “They should not be splashing around in a pool like a little kid. What’s all this fascination with water, anyway?”

“I grew up in a beach town in southern California and I happen to be a Pisces,” I said defensively. “I come by it honestly, and I think that completely explains why I like water so much.”

Husband-Head just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Why couldn’t you be, like, into football? Or wearing cheerleading outfits?” he asked. “That would be cool.”

Just like the beer that I’m going to pour over your head in a minute.

In the end, Husband-Head ended up having to buy a new pump for the pool.

“This is your Christmas present!” he shouted out from the yard as he installed it. “And it also takes care of your birthday, Easter, our anniversary, St. Patrick’s Day and Groundhog Day!”

Groundhog Day?

But after putting in the pump, I still wasn’t done with him.

“What about the floats?” I wanted to know. ” You can’t have a pool without something to float on.”

Then I backed off because Husband-Head looked as if he was about to blow a gasket.

However, in the end, the pool was sparkling clean with a new pump and a bunch of fun colored floats swimming around.

It was the following weekend when I was standing at the chop block in the kitchen, when I noticed a weird feeling in my legs that felt like water splashes.

At first I thought I had some weird varicose disease or something. Until I looked up.

“Honey,” I said, peeking my head into the upstairs bathroom where Husband-Head was taking a shower. “You might want to cut it short because the water from your shower is leaking through the ceiling in the kitchen.”

Then I quickly closed the door before I could hear the string of potty mouth words coming from his mouth.

“Fried Rice” appears every Friday. Heidi Rice is a freelance writer who lives in Rifle. Visit her website, for more columns and her book. Contact Heidi at

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