“So what,” you ask, fundamentally fed up with all this stalling, “do you need such a whacking great tank for?”
To fulfill a promise made to itty bitty me.
Basically, it’s very expensive therapy.
It’s not, as you’ve probably guessed, a baby shark.
But leaving Offspring guessing about what I was plotting here while he nobly battles red tape and ignorance in support of… whatever it is we’re doing over there. I’ve honestly forgotten.
Friends, I need your help.
It’s too late for a cover-up—at this point the best we can hope for is to be really proactive about our excuses, explanations, and justifications.
Let me back up.
Apologies in advance, but I’m turning in a sub-par performance.
Hauntings season is (basically) over, which means Husband and I are spending quality time having weird-ass conversations for your benefit.
I mean, we’d have them whether I had a blog or not, obviously… but you do benefit from reading about them so here’s a thing that happened yesterday—enjoy!
I debated telling you about this. It’s not my usual sort of thing at all.
But then I remembered that time I got the disastrous Botox injections that melted my face and made my migraines worse; specifically, I thought about all the people who commented on that post, or contacted me about it, and all the people whose heartbreaking search terms lead them to it every week. I thought about that and I thought, “I wish someone had told me five years ago what I know now!”
The decision sort of made itself after that.
I’ll say this for engineers: given fifteen years of marriage and five years of blogging, they start to notice patterns.