My Liar

 

Though we haven’t met, we’ve been together long enough now that you’ve formed certain impressions of me.

 

You are, for example, aware of my flair for the dramatic.

woman flailing on floor wailing, "I haven't eaten since BREAKFAST! I ONLY HAD A POPTART!"

 

You might have correctly assumed, from my passionate departure from the world each autumn, that dressing up and doing creepy shit is literally what keeps my heart beating.

Morticia Addams: "Life is not all lovely thorns and singing vultures, you know"

 

Thus you are forgiven your surprise at the following factoid: I have never attended a murder mystery.

 

Correction: I hadn’t.  Until Audrey hosted one.*

 

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Ceci n’est pas un Post (But it IS an Update)

 

This is not a real post in the sense that you know it.

 

It is, rather, a sort of notice. Of things to come, of the (temporary, I hope) direction of this blog… but also a kind of discussion because I am still working out in my head how this will go.

Woman concentrates while equations flash

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Our Bedroom Problems

 

There are a few pieces of marital advice that must be universal, for all that they’re utter crap:

  • Never go to bed angry. Clearly, the person who first uttered this “advice” had never had angry sex or make-up sex—both of which are more likely, at a certain age, with a soft surface nearby.  Also, sometimes what two people need in order to see how ridiculous they’re being is a good night’s sleep!
  • Share everything, including hobbies. While I can’t imagine being happily married to someone with whom I had no common interests, if you’ve got no time apart what’s there to communicate about?  Seriously, how do you start an interesting conversation with someone who just lived all day in your hip pocket?
  • Total honesty is always the best policy. Ummm, no thank you?  I honestly don’t need to hear the details from dudes’ weekend—my man came home with his virtue intact (well… to the extent that he left with, anyway) and that’s all I need to know.  No—please, no specifics on who bought what, tried what, or whether they showered after.  I may want to eat again someday.
  • Never fight in the bedroom. Yeah, about that…

 

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Rainy Day Blues

 

Upon returning from my (magnificent yet windy) Birfday Weekend I was immediately felled by a common cold.

 

The lesson here, I feel confident, is that I should take longer and fancier holidays—if I’m going to be ill every time I recover from travel, I should at least be recovering from two weeks in Venice or some shit.  Somebody do the ridiculous math to back me up—I gotta go pop more Sudafed.  BRB.

 

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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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