Or “Buying Stuff”

 

It is a fact universally acknowledged that husbands—not men, mind you, but husbands, who must hold purses and sit in designated creepy chairs or husband playpens—hate shopping.

 

 

Husband contends that the actual issue is that he sees no reason to shop, ever; I shop, he claims, while he buys things.

 

But, whatever the reason—and I’m sure we can agree it can’t possibly be anything to do with my sunny self—I’ve begun to suspect he’s particularly reluctant to shop with me.

 

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Dear Missouri,

 

What did I ever do to you?  Yes, fine, I mock everything that crosses my path and a lesser state might assume* when I move in that it’s only a matter of time.  But so far I’m finding your people delightful, your greenery lush, yet varied and thus not oppressive, (I’m looking at you, pacific northwest) and your food worth crowing about.  Sure, the cheese is… questionable… but it’s easy enough to avoid and thus I’ve not said one unkind word even though I’ve been warned about terrible taxes, can’t get on a plane with my new driver’s license, and everything has taken longer than it should have because of your weird bureaucracies and local customs. 

 

Side note: this house has no toilet paper holders.  When I pointed it out to Scott (when he came by to do the paperwork on our first day) he said, “here in Missouri we like to hold our paper products, keep ‘em safe.”  Now, I know, and y’all know, that he was full of shit and making excuses for why this janky-ass haunted house doesn’t have a proper place to set your toilet paper roll (there are also no towel bars, in case you’re curious) but he said it with such sincerity, and with such an easy gesture—as though he were cuddling his toilet paper—that for a moment I did wonder.

 

But back to you, Missouri.  What is your deal?  How the fuck long is your summer?

 

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Actual Conversations With Great British Bakers

 

I have a bone to pick with whomever recommended The Great British Baking Show as soothing, low-stakes programming.  So basically, the entire internet.

 

It probably didn’t help that I started my binge during a particularly vicious migraine, being—for once—in no mood for the brooding glances of Colin Sodding Firth, or my beloved Audrey Hepburn’s struggle to find herself and maybe a name for the cat.   Turns out when I’ve got a migraine I need gentle, low-stakes, and familiar.

 

Otherwise I end up on the couch—in full noodle mode from a combination of Percocet and migraine meds—talking to the bakers.  Like they can hear me.

 

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His Fluffer

 

As I mentioned last week, my friend’s epic birthday party gave us an excuse for a mini road trip. 

 

I know some people avoid long drives, but our relationship more or less began in the car—that sounded dirty, but I swear only everything else I say is—and so for us a long drive is like a repeat of that first date.

 

Which is why I’m not going to tell you about Audrey’s party—you’ll get nothing from me on the beautiful food (tapas, because she’s adulting on a whole ‘nother level) or how drunk I got or the demonstrations from an even drunker ER nurse that had us all laughing until someone spilled red wine (which was weird, because we were all drinking vodka.)

 

Instead, I want to share yet another of our car convos, because I feel we are at our most us when we’re trapped in a car all day. 

 

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