My Forrest

 

If you don’t follow me on Instagram you should go fix that right now because I’m not retelling all the same stories and jokes here. And I’m certainly not reposting all the pictures.*

 

But if you found your way here from Instagram?** Welcome, and I promise not to I’ll try not to scare you off. This, in case you missed the url and the title of the blog, is the place where I talk shit about my husband by faithfully repeating the things he says and letting you laugh at him. You might be thinking there’s not much material there, given that he’s a brilliant engineer who designs the safest mode of travel currently available and caves to flimsy arguments like, “but the dog is already in our house, so you might as well let me keep it” but five years of more-or-less consistent fuckery speaks for itself.

 

Everyone caught up?

 

Good, because I’m actually starting with an update on Offspring.

(Orange is the New Black) Crazy Eyes holding a mop strikes a

 

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It’s My Birfday!

 

I noticed none of you mentioned, but this weekend is a Very Special weekend.  Some might argue—quite rightly—that it’s the most special weekend in the whole calendar year.  And you were just going to let it go completely unremarked-upon.

 

Y’all.

 

IT’S MAH BIRTHDAY WEEKEND!!!

Eelke Kleijn in confetti shower

 

That’s right, it’s that magical time of year when we celebrate the miracle that is me*.  And this year we’re righting an ancient wrong

 

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Some Random Shit

 

Every time he says something, I make a note of it.

 

Okay, not every time, obviously.  Some of the shit he says is boring.  Obviously.  I mean, sometimes he really does come home and just say, “Hi,” and kiss me, then, “I’m gonna go change real quick,” and I don’t see him for an hour because somehow his computer was on the way to the bedroom (it isn’t) and he got sucked into a game or facebook or whatever.  Obviously I don’t make a note of that.  I also don’t make a note when he says, “Got your coat?  It’s cold out” or “can you let the dogs out?  I’m tired” or any of those mundane daily things.

 

But the weird, the funny, the random, and the stupid?  They all get a note.

 

… Mostly.  I actually forget a lot.  And sometimes he gets mad if he sees me reaching for my phone right after he said something, but I can’t tell if he’s really annoyed or if he’s wishing he could do a rewrite before I get it down forever.*

 

So I’ve got all these notes, yeah?  Oodles of them, some from years back that never made it into a post.  Why?  Because they were little one-offs or I couldn’t spin a whole story around them.  And I’m sick of looking at them now.  Plus I’m trying to move over to a different organization tool for these notes and it would be really helpful to not have so many old ones kicking around.  So I’ve got two options: try to jam them in soon-ish, claiming they happened recently (not… really feasible for some) or just present them as-is in a sort of highlight episode.

 

Raise your hand if you guessed that I would choose the lazy way.

 

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Fur is the New Black

 

I just checked my stats this week, and I’ve got some bad news.

 

Statistically speaking, we are not friends.

 

I mean, obviously I love you because you take time out of your day to come here and read about me—my favorite topic in the world, thankyouverymuch—but there’s no denying that I don’t know and have never met an estimated 99.993% of you.*

 

Woman concentrates while equations flash

Math.  Not even once.

 

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WTB Farm

 

I have plenty of complaints—and the usual Actual Conversation,™ but first I need to update you on a critical issue.

 

One I’m sure—if you’re a regular around here—has been on your mind of late.  Probably keeping you from working (you’re welcome) or even getting a good night’s sleep (I’m sorry).

 

Because I know you’ve been deeply concerned for a certain member of my family.

 

John Stewart (hosting The Daily Show) eating popcorn while he stares, wide-eyed, at something

 

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Stuffing Fluffies

 

Sometimes I swear he says shit just to get a reaction out of me.

Barney Stinson "Whaaaaaat?!"

And by “reaction” I mean get me to blog about him.  So he can be Internet Famous.  Which makes you all his enablers.  Not me—I’m his wife, and legally obligated to support his bullshit for as long as it amuses me to do so—but y’all need to do some deep thinkin’ about what sort of behavior you want to encourage in the people who design the things that fly over your damned heads all day long.

 

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Poor Brenda

 

Adding to the recent avalanche of suck, our car started randomly overheating last week.  So it was with one last longing look at our for-once-not-meager account that I sent Husband and car off to the shop.

 

Only to be rewarded with an outrageous repair bill.

 

As in:

HIM:  Did you get my email? With the estimate?
ME:  No, let me… Oh holy fucksticks.  No.  Just… no.
HIM:  Yeah.
ME:  No, No!  We don’t have that—and if we did, we certainly wouldn’t spend it on this car!
HIM:  So… car shopping?
ME:  Ugh.
HIM:  I’ll come home and—
ME:  Wait—do I have to go?
HIM:  Um… yeah?
ME:  (internal litany of fucks)

Chanel Oberlin has a tantrum

Don’t.  Wanna!

 

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