Taller and Deeper


Parents of small children, this post is not for you.


See, you think you’re living the best part of parenting, what with the first smiles and the first steps and the first days of school and the first school plays… and the first heated “I hate you!” still ages away.

little boy sitting at the table looking up at a grown-up, says "You are a terrible person"

Such a special age…


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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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My Enginerd (and His Rubbers)


Since I know you’ve been wondering and were only too polite to ask, Husband’s new job is turning out to be a great fit.  There was a brief hiccup over the horror of “casual Fridays”


shirtless man with small portable radio dances past office cubicles staffed by appropriatedly dressed office workers, who are stunned.

“Casual” is tougher to dial in when you’re an engineer.


But other than that?  It’s all good.  His boss loves him, his boss’s boss loves him, and everyone on his team is great.  He’s already been put in charge of a design… which means I’m hearing about a design.


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I Got No Roots


I have noted, on numerous occasions, my willingness to laugh at myself.  To point out my own errors, however rare they might be. 


I just… forgot to mention this one when it happened, because there was so much going on at the time.  So I’m telling you now. 


I promise, it has nothing to do with my desire to stave off discussions of whether I’ve unpacked all 37 boxes of kitchen stuff (they won’t fit, there’s no way) or putting off the answer to the question you’re all asking—which is totally coming, I just remembered this and wanted to put it out there and also I’m a champion procrastinator.

line-art of woman collapsed in garden; text reads, "I'd like to nominate myself for the Procrastinator of the Year award, but I'd rather fill out the application some other time."


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Getting (back to my) Gimmick


Last week I gave you a Conversation between my cats and wrote about an encounter with a professional exterminator.


At least, I think that’s who he was.  It’s possible a passing lunatic came by to murder me but, seeing the truck outside, had a change of heart and murdered the exterminator instead.  Then he stole the uniform and sprayed orange juice around my house so I wouldn’t wonder what happened to the real exterminator. 


Unlikely?  Sure.  But it would explain the giant fucking spider Hamilton killed last night while I watched Orange is the New Black.

(Orange is the New Black) CO Luschek steps outside, looks around, goes back into prison. Text flashes: *NOPE!*


Anyway, between those two posts you might be wondering if I’ve forgotten the stated goal of this page: to bring you truthful, accurate reports of the things my husband says in the form of my actual conversations with him.  I promise you, it is not so!  Here, let me soothe you with a quick sampling of what it’s been like, living here with him.


Don’t stop now – keep reading!