My Gym Rat

 

This week contains my last few “normal” days before I begin terrorizing the citizens of St. Louis every single night,[1] which means I’m spending whatever little bits of time I can with Husband—cuddling, sitting with him while he finally watches Mindhunter,[2] and taking care of some projects we foolishly put off until the least convenient season.

 

Yes, I really want to tell you about one of them, but I can’t.  It’s too big (and not at a shareable stage yet).  We’ll get there, I promise.

 

But my altered schedule makes my nightly call with Offspring easier; most nights I just call him when I’m on my way home to wash the blood out of my hair.[3]

(Ready or Not) Bride in torn, burned, bloody wedding dress, covered in blood spatter, hair matted with blood and grit, giggles.

 

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vs. The Vacuum

 

What with one thing and another, we’ve been making heavy use of professional pet sitters recently (I found a service that lets me book online, without ever speaking to another human, but still sends the same actual human every time to take care of my furry darlings; basically, it’s the antisocial control-freak’s ideal and every business should adopt this model) which exposed a few unkempt corners around the house as well as kicking up a few dustbunnies within my psyche.

 

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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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Stuffing Fluffies

 

Sometimes I swear he says shit just to get a reaction out of me.

Barney Stinson "Whaaaaaat?!"

And by “reaction” I mean get me to blog about him.  So he can be Internet Famous.  Which makes you all his enablers.  Not me—I’m his wife, and legally obligated to support his bullshit for as long as it amuses me to do so—but y’all need to do some deep thinkin’ about what sort of behavior you want to encourage in the people who design the things that fly over your damned heads all day long.

 

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Poor Brenda

 

Adding to the recent avalanche of suck, our car started randomly overheating last week.  So it was with one last longing look at our for-once-not-meager account that I sent Husband and car off to the shop.

 

Only to be rewarded with an outrageous repair bill.

 

As in:

HIM:  Did you get my email? With the estimate?
ME:  No, let me… Oh holy fucksticks.  No.  Just… no.
HIM:  Yeah.
ME:  No, No!  We don’t have that—and if we did, we certainly wouldn’t spend it on this car!
HIM:  So… car shopping?
ME:  Ugh.
HIM:  I’ll come home and—
ME:  Wait—do I have to go?
HIM:  Um… yeah?
ME:  (internal litany of fucks)

Chanel Oberlin has a tantrum

Don’t.  Wanna!

 

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