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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Actual Conversations With Alexa

 

Because I am a delightful mass of contradictions, no one can predict which technologies I will embrace the instant they are available and which ones I will shun until a loved one drags me, kicking and screaming, into the century of the fruitbat.*

 

Example: though I complain about delays of microseconds** everywhere else in my life, I will beta test any game that appeals even a little bit.  I also howled in frustration when my phone wasn’t one of the first hundred or so delivered.  But I only agreed to download the goddamned parking meter app because A) the meter charged my card double the day before and B) I forgot my wallet and it was my turn to pay for parking again.  No choice there, and I was getting shame for not having already done it.

 

Also, I only just got an Echo for Christmas.

 

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First Class Mistake

When last I left you, I was not going to be a sky pirate captain because my husband is a quitter—a died-in-the-wool giver-upper who never supports my dreams.

Angelina Jolie (Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow) in her black uniform and eyepatch, on the deck of her skyship, against a background of clouds and skyscrapers

I’d have had a better hat, though.

I am, as it happens, still not a sky pirate captain.
I am, however, a person who has literally paid for a hotel by the hour, (though I’m sure the good people at Ramada don’t advertise this service) upgraded herself out of the best flight ever, and—because I love you—snapped a photo of the most mockable woman in all of Georgia.
Here’s what happened:

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Ich bin ein Berliner – A Greek Saga, Pt III (Story Time!)

 

And now for the thrilling conclusion of our Greek saga.  It is Wednesday, October 4, 1995. 

 

Husband, you will recall, is in Frankfurt, Germany (where he is not supposed to be) on his way back from Bangor, Maine, USA (where he was not supposed to be).  He is supposed to be getting his ass back to Skopje, Macedonia, but the borders have been closed until further notice.

 

map of Macedonia, pin in Skopje

 

He is, for those of you who cannot be arsed to read the previous two stories(1 & 2), utterly fucked.  And we haven’t even gotten to the part where he negotiates with shady characters, gets bartered away like a Rölexx watch, and bluffs his way past certain death under bright lights and the watchful eye of a half-dozen itchy trigger fingers.

 

I am so excited to see how this turns out!