Sleeping with Stupid

 

I’m home alone, and really dealing with it surprisingly well, all things considered.

 

I mean, I may have hit the craft store a little hard but in my defense THEY EMAIL ME COUPONS.  What am I supposed to do, not take advantage of a super-awesome limited-time sales event?

 

Pshh.

 

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Scattered

 

Offspring is in Afghanistan.

 

ME:  How’s it going?
OFFSPRING:  Pretty shitty day, actually.  It’s raining, long shift… and I had to enact the River City protocol.
ME:  What’s that?
OFFSPRING:  Shut down internet.  Because someone died.  Someone I was literally just talking to.
ME:  … I’m so sorry, hon.

(we talk about this for a while; him clearly still in shock and sleep-deprived, me gamely hiding my own tears of sympathy and relief that it wasn’t my boy)

ME:  Wait a minute… if there’s no internet, how are you calling me?
OFFSPRING:  Oh, it was on the other side.  Plus…  I’m on dirty internet.
ME:  …
OFFSPRING:  ‘s technically illegal, but I ran it myself, in my own room, so it’s fine.
ME:  … I love you, kid.
OFFSPRING:  What’re they gonna do, right?

 

Woman kneeling in front of child says, "I'm a proud mom"

 

Husband is in Taiwan.

 

HIM:  They took us out for dinner.
ME:  (sleepily, I am 13 hours behind)  Mmmh?
HIM:  To a “traditional Chinese restaurant.”
ME:  … Oh.
HIM:  Yeah.  The second course was some sort of tofu with a fish sauce.
ME:  Oh honey… I’m sorry.
HIM:  I didn’t know about the fish sauce until I took that first bite.[1]
ME:  (nodding)  Because you’re in a place where fish is so ubiquitous they don’t even think of it as an ingredient.[2]
HIM:  So now not only do I not like tofu because of the texture—
ME:  Okay, I keep telling you—
HIM:  But now the last time I had it there was fish sauce and I got sick.
ME:  … Right.  But the texture thing: tofu has a lot of textures.  There’s no one specific texture that’s “tofu.”
HIM:  But that’s part of the problem!
ME:  … (considers possibility that I’m actually still asleep)

(Will and Grace) Karen holds out hand, says to Jack, "I'm to tired to slap you. Bash your face against my palm, would ya?"

 

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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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Chapter Fourteen: Redux

 

Jan stayed with a friend my last night in Colorado, so I had the house—and her cat—to myself.

 

I nursed my hurt with sweet tea and tater tots, waiting to get good and tired.

 

I fiddled with their remote, possibly breaking it, and finally got one channel in.[1]

 

I taught the cat new tricks.

 

I was waiting without knowing it.

 

The call came just before 1am.

 

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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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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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