One of the many things Husband and I do not agree on is ice cream.
Not quite like this: both of these still taste good.
Yes, we’ve addressed the temperature issue before but don’t worry—we’re not into reruns yet. This is about flavor, which some might argue is even more important since it cannot be corrected once you’ve left the store.
Don’t stop now – keep reading!
You see that shit right there? THAT is why Audrey is a good friend.
Husband, on the other hand, is a jerkface an engineer and keeps arguing this point with me.
I’m about to invite every single one of you over so you can walk around this house and feel how fucking haunted it is.* Because Husband is full of explanations for everything: I hear voices because of dog toys or the neighbors’ stereos, and I’m not used to the reflective properties of all this brick and tile after our last house (admittedly 80% wood) and I’m just scaring myself… blah, blah, blah.
Welcome back!
Aren’t guessing games the BEST?
I know sometimes it’s frustrating, getting into the rhythm of a story only to hit the To Be Continued wall, but I’ve been feeling the lack of interaction lately, so I enjoyed the comment action.
And, if Husband is to be believed, this blog is all about me.
But the time has come to appease your curiosity and answer the days’ old question:
What the fuck was his excuse for his phone?
Answer, and the full conversation, after the jump.
I have noted, on numerous occasions, my willingness to laugh at myself. To point out my own errors, however rare they might be.
I just… forgot to mention this one when it happened, because there was so much going on at the time. So I’m telling you now.
I promise, it has nothing to do with my desire to stave off discussions of whether I’ve unpacked all 37 boxes of kitchen stuff (they won’t fit, there’s no way) or putting off the answer to the question you’re all asking—which is totally coming, I just remembered this and wanted to put it out there and also I’m a champion procrastinator.
We’ve got a weird combination of boring conversations:
ME: Can we work on getting the media room more set up this weekend?
HIM: Yeah, we can do that. Maybe get some space for dog pillows? Oh, and I can put the latch on the storage shed.
ME: That would be nice. Thank you.
… And dramatic ones:
ME: … So basically I’ve been freaking out all day and I’m—
HIM: Yeah, this is… I don’t even know what we’re going to do.
ME: RIGHT?!?
Last week I gave you a Conversation between my cats and wrote about an encounter with a professional exterminator.
At least, I think that’s who he was. It’s possible a passing lunatic came by to murder me but, seeing the truck outside, had a change of heart and murdered the exterminator instead. Then he stole the uniform and sprayed orange juice around my house so I wouldn’t wonder what happened to the real exterminator.
Unlikely? Sure. But it would explain the giant fucking spider Hamilton killed last night while I watched Orange is the New Black.
Anyway, between those two posts you might be wondering if I’ve forgotten the stated goal of this page: to bring you truthful, accurate reports of the things my husband says in the form of my actual conversations with him. I promise you, it is not so! Here, let me soothe you with a quick sampling of what it’s been like, living here with him.
We are here, you will recall, to discuss The Bug issue.
Well, not “discuss” in the traditional format, obviously; you are there and I am here and there’s a temporal disconnect as well. More “discuss” in the book club sense; I’ll tell you a story, and then maybe we’ll have a discussion question at the end. Won’t that be fun?
Shut up, it’s better than working. And if you’re not reading on your employer’s time it’s not my fault.
