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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It’s My Birfday!

 

I noticed none of you mentioned, but this weekend is a Very Special weekend.  Some might argue—quite rightly—that it’s the most special weekend in the whole calendar year.  And you were just going to let it go completely unremarked-upon.

 

Y’all.

 

IT’S MAH BIRTHDAY WEEKEND!!!

Eelke Kleijn in confetti shower

 

That’s right, it’s that magical time of year when we celebrate the miracle that is me*.  And this year we’re righting an ancient wrong

 

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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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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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