Oh, is it January already?

I know, I’ve been bad and haven’t posted lately.  I could explain, but the honest truth is that I’ve been having trouble motivating myself to do much of anything lately, including the stuff that brings me much joy – like writing about myself (which is practically as good as talking about myself would be if people would stop interrupting).  If it makes you feel any better, I’ve sort of abandoned my super-impressive fitness record as well.  All progress has been lost and my weights are collecting dust because I’m not really cleaning either.

"work out"

I’ve been hitting the ice cream pretty hard, though, so it’s not like NOTHING is getting done.


Anyway, I was “organizing” some files on my computer (not gonna lie, I was clicking through random pics and debating whether I’d already posted them on Facebook, because checking would have been way too much work) and I came across something that reminded me that I need to post.  We’ll get to that in a moment, though, because first I need to share with you a recent conversation that will sort of balance out the other thing.

As happens from time to time, we were in bed.  Well, I was in bed; my husband was making some noise about joining me there, but when you come late to the party you can’t expect to find that anything’s been saved for you, right?


HIM:  Okay, you have to share some of the covers
ME:  Why?
HIM:  Because…. (tugs ineffectually at bedding)
ME:  I was perfectly happy with the previous arrangement (rolls off hoard of blankets, slightly)
HIM:  Yeah, but you weren’t sharing!
ME:  Like I said…


I’m not entirely perfect, is the point I’d like you to take away from this.  Because, you see, THIS is the thing I found just now:



That’s me making a note for myself to prove to you that my husband is insane.


Now, I could just leave that up there and I’m sure most of you would nod along, thinking that you can imagine what I’m talking about.  But you can’t, because you’re all normal and healthy and wonderful.  So I’ll narrow it down a bit and tell you that we are talking here about soft pretzels.

He just… bites them.

I heard your collective gasp of shock and disbelief, so I feel that you’re with me on this one.  RIGHT?!?!?  I mean, good lord, was there ever a food so clearly made to be dismantled – carefully – before eating?  EVERYONE KNOWS YOU BREAK OFF BITE-SIZED PIECES AND POP THOSE IN YOUR MOUTH.  It’s what separates us from the animals, for God’s sake.

But no, he will just pick up a giant soft pretzel and take a big bite.  Like he’s a giant and it’s a regular pretzel?  Is he pretending?  Is that what’s happening?  No, it isn’t.  I’ve asked.

Now, I’m sure some of the more “fair-minded” among you will be reflexively searching for an excuse that justifies this behavior (there isn’t one) or leaping acrobatically to point out that this one alarming lifestyle choice isn’t really proof that he is, as alleged, nutty as a fruitcake.  Well I’m here to tell you that it’s not just soft pretzels, so take that you Advocate of Madness.  Sometimes, in a fit of domestic divinity, I’ll whip up a batch of those giant cookies – the ones clearly meant to rest on the plate (if I’m feeling fancy) or on the paper towel or just directly on the desk next to the keyboard, from whence you will break off convenient pieces and enjoy those.  Nope.  He picks ‘em up and fucking BITES them, too. Like some sort of mini-m&m cookie-devouring savage.

cookie monster approves

We’ll get to YOUR issues in a minute, fuzzball


Further examination of chez moi and the dynamics therein will reveal to the doubters among you that I am not one of those fork fetishists who cuts every bite of a pizza or burger or candy bar into convenient pieces.  In fact, I’m gonna level with you, because I feel like we’ve got a bond going here: if it’s just me, grabbing leftovers out of the fridge, I don’t even bother with a plate.  I’ll eat what I want straight out of the container or nuke it whole, whatever.   And when I get takeout?  I eat it off whatever container was helpfully provided by the people who know that food best: the restaurant.  HE, on the other hand, the pretzel-biter, suddenly gets all CIVILIZED and grabs a plate.  Like we’re eating greasy Chinese at the White House.  He’ll run out for a box of disappointing chicken pieces and some over-salted fries and will then stop off in the kitchen to grab plates for these things.

Abu eating bread

You see that? No consistency, but he’s clearly mad as a hatter.


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