This is a text I got from Husband last night. It was in the men's bathroom of the bar -
And this text is the reason Husband and I are husband and wife.
Because a little more than a month ago, I was in the same bar and I took this picture while I was in the ladies bathroom -
They tell me there are all sorts of things that you should look for in a partner. Is he financially stable? Is he mentally stable? Can he make you laugh? Will he make a good father? But this picture, this weird sense of humor is why Husband and I are perfect for each other. Because, when we both found ourselves in separate bathrooms where DIU DICK was shilling his... um, whatever, we both thought, "I should take a picture of this and share it with the person I love."
Or, in my case, I should share it with the small part of the world that choose to read what is coming out of my brain.
So, there you go. Texts from the bathroom. Weird from the brain. Wednesday.
SIDE NOTE: Check out the difference between Husband's picture and mine. Note that his is clear and crisp and only contains the subject matter, i.e. Dick Strong. Note that mine not only contains the subject but the reflection of the bathroom, toilet seat and all. And, in case that wasn't enough, a snarky reflection of me taking the picture. Yeah, I should not quit my day job to go pro. Assuming there is a professional bathroom ad picture-taking job. If there is, I should not apply. I will not succeed.
This was in my email this morning.
LinkedIn is like a boyfriend who thinks I'm better and more socially conscious than I really am. I obviously haven't shown him my bitchy self serving side. Yet.
And my passive aggressive approach of not responding to any email suggestions or adding any updates to my job information is apparently resulting in more contact not less. Doesn't LinkedIn know I'm not that into him?
I don't think we're right for each other, LinkeIn. It's not you. It's me.
Anytime Husband and I are out and about and we come across a couple trying to take a picture, they usually ask me to take the shot. I’m more approachable and smiley than Husband, you see. But I always tell them Husband should be the one to take the picture because I can't take a good picture, like ever. I cut off heads and tilt shot at odd angles and I always, ALWAYS seem to take the picture when someone has their eyes half open in that weird serial killer way. And, no matter how carefully I try the picture is always blurry.
Every single time.
Last night, on our way home, we found ourselves stopped at a light next to a bus stop bench. The back of the bench had a picture of a woman looking angsty and angry and shouty. And on the bench seat was a cup of coffee and one lone glove. It was quite a statement in opposites. Both Husband and I took note of the artiness.
Then, as the bench was on my side of the car and he was driving, I decided to take a picture. I framed it. I focused it. And then, right as I was about to take the picture, Husband warned me that the light was about to change. I steadied my hand, pushed the button to take the picture and this is the shot I got...
Beautiful, right? I haven't retouched it or anything! I'm good, right?
I'm thinking of going professional. Pretty sure this would get me the big bucks from someone who can see the deep statement about life that I'm trying to make.
I'm going to title it: MUDDLED.
Or perhaps I’ll call it: CONFUSED.
Or maybe I'll just go with the obvious and call it: LIFE IS BLURRY. Because, as you can see, it is.
If you'd like an original for your art collection, let me know. I'm sure we can work something out. I'm all about sharing my gift.
Last Thursday, Tigger the Dog (TTD) had her annual shots scheduled. I made Husband promise to take her because I’m sick of being the bad guy/mean parent when it comes to her. I’m the one who has to give her a bath and attempt to cut her nails and chases her when she eats poop. He’s the one who plays ball and gives her copious treats and never comes at her with sharp objects that make her nails bleed despite my best attempts to avoid the quick. This time, with shots involved, I wanted out. Besides, Husband is fond of saying that TTD gets all Chewbacca because she’s feeding off my nervous energy so if I’m not there, all should be rainbows and unicorns, right?
And then the dang dog went and ran herself into the stairs during the big freeze and got herself four staples. And those dang staples were scheduled to be removed during the dreaded shots appointment. And the stupid snow iced up and it was determined that it would be best if we were both in the car with dog so I could calm her and Husband could concentrate on getting us there safely by not sliding off the road. ,
So we trot off to the vet’s, slip sliding through the slushy ice bits on the road, make it to the vet’s office safely. Tigger is whiney and wiggly but not nuts. She actually sits to get weighed and then, somewhat calmly, follows the vet tech and Husband into the room where the bad stuff happens. Treats and shots and staple removal happen and everything is relatively painless – except the bill. That totally hurt!
And then, while the vet is writing up her notes and the vet tech is running my credit card, Husband spots a small thing on TTD’s eyebrow. I call the vet back in and she examines it as best she can. TTD remembers her from minutes before and isn’t really playing easy.
“It’s a mole,” Vet says. “Nothing really to worry about but I can remove it if it becomes troublesome.”
Another few treats, a large hit to my bank account and we were out of there. Not too traumatic, right?
Husband has the Internet and the Internet has awful things that could happen to you, your loved ones and, in particular, the mole on your dogs eyebrow that looks like a dried booger but now he knows will kill her. He spent the night on the Internet. He spent the next few days poking the mole. He spent way too much time imagining what could go wrong and then he asked me to book an appointment to get the mole removed.
“It could be cancer.” He said. “And then what?”
I can’t argue with, “And then what?” Not me, who can worry anything into a fatal disease. So, appointments were made and pre-surgery instructions were given and Husband readied his car for transport because the appointment was at 7:30am and there was no way he’d be awake. And, dang it, because this meant I was going to be back being bad guy/mean parent again. And then, last night at almost midnight, as he was saying his good-bye to her – because “what if…” he noticed THE MOLE WAS GONE!
Gone! Like there was no longer a mole on her face BECAUSE IT FELL OFF!!! Bleah, soooooo gross!
If I weren’t so dang tired, I would have gotten video of Husband scouring the dog bed and the carpet for the missing mole. If I weren’t so over the Internet and its dang tempting doom and gloom, I would have spent the night trying to match the booger mole thing he found to some evil cancer to prove him right. But I don’t have time for that nonsense. I had to get to sleep so I could get up early to NOT take the dog to the vet to get a mole removed but instead to call them and tell them my Husband does not have a degree as a WebMD veterinarian and that whatever was cancerous is no longer on the dogs face so we won’t be coming in to have it removed but here’s my credit card to charge for the booking of the room and drugs and drama.
Life with Husband is never boring.
But, you know, sometimes, I would like boring.
And my bank account and I would really be okay with dull and uninteresting and way, way, WAY, less expensive…
UPDATE: When I called the vet's office and explained the missing mole, they were totally understanding. I would go so far as to say they were as amused as I was by the image of Husband crawling around the brown carpet with his iPhone light looking for mole bits. AND, they did not charge me a cent for not coming in to have the missing mole removed. Win, WIN! Especially for the dang dog. She doesn't know how close she came to more slicing and dicing and hating me again. Phew! Now, let's get back to being boring.
The other night Husband woke me up at 1am to tell me that the Owls were making the sweet owl love.
"Do you want to go see?" he asked me. Like getting out of my warm bed and standing in the cold dark night to listen to owls, "Who, who, who, whoo, whoooo!" was something I was going to do. I love the stupid owls but I'm not nuts.
But I was excited. Like very, very excited. Owls making owl love means we're getting more owl babies and I love me some owl babies!
Two days later, I looked out at the owl nest and I spotted what I thought was an owl sitting on a nearby branch. Giddy with excitement, I stumbled about the house hunting for the binoculars, found them and planted myself in front of the window to stalk the proud parents.
And found out that it wasn't a mama Owl. It was THIS GUY -
The jagged tree branch sticking up on the left is the owl's nest. And the dude on the right sitting right next to it is a freaking Red-tailed Hawk! NOT OKAY!!!
I'm all for Mother Nature and survival of the fittest and blah, blah, blah, but I really don't think it's fair that this pretty guy is sitting right next to an easy breakfast. And I WANT OWL BABIES!!!
I want to watch their fuzzy bodies creeping up the tree limbs and trying to get up the nerve to fly. I want to see them do that weird hopping flop onto whatever beast they've been stalking for dinner and then look confused as they try to figure out what to do next. I want to watch the head bob thing that they all seem to do to some secret music I can't hear. I WANT OWL BABIES NOT RED-TAIL OWL MURDERERS.
Which brings me to THIS GUY -
This is Mrs. Red-tailed Hawk sitting UNDER THE BIRD FEEDER waiting for lunch to wander up for some bird seed and take a sudden trip to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Note Mrs. Cardinal sitting frozen on the bird feeder trying not to be seen. She sat there for quite a long time trying not to be eaten. If it weren't for Tigger the Dog bounding toward them, I'm not sure how long the standoff would have gone on.
I sent my Uncle, the great biologist who knows everything about everything fuzzy, furry and slimy, a panic email about my current dilemma - too many awesome deadly birds preventing my other awesome birds from making more awesome but cute deadly birds - and he was not in the least sympathetic.
"I wouldn't worry too much." He said.
RIGHT! Like I can turn worry off. Does he not know me at all? Does he not know that I can take this one Red Tail Hawk thing and turn it into sleepless nights, blog posts and binocular headaches? Not "worry too much." PLEASE! Like that's a thing I'm even remotely capable of. If I was to sit down and write out the things I was currently worrying about, I'd still be writing next week. This owl vs. hawk thing is just a drop in my bucket of worries. And my bucket is ocean sized...
Now, Uncle did say that he was surprised that Owl didn't attack Red-tail so maybe that means there are no babies IN the nest yet. Meaning, Red-tail was there for breakfast but the restaurant was not yet open. And that when the restaurant is in fact full, the mob enforcers will be out making sure diners they don't like don't get fed... Yeah, that's what I'm telling myself.
As my Aunt said, "Nature is hard."
She also said that last year she witnessed a pair of Red-tailed Hawks set up a nest under a Great Horned Owl nest. "The Red-tailed Hawks chicks did not live for very long."
Yeah.... I'm going to have to put that on the worry list too...
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me