Today is Husband’s annual physical. Or, as it is known in our house, his yearly violation.
This was yesterday:
HUSBAND: Will you go to the doctors with me tomorrow?
HUSBAND: I can’t remember where it is.
ME: You gonna also want me to go into the room with you?
HUSBAND: So there can be three women in the room laughing at my penis? No thank you.
And this was last year:
HUSBAND: I should probably stop and get some new underwear.
ME: What? You need new underwear right now? Or you forgot to wear underwear?
HUSBAND: I have the physical tomorrow. I should have new underwear.
That man is never boring. Even when he repeats himself, never boring!
Click here to read last year's entire post.
I was so sure that the county fair would be where I would fall in love with my new pet pig. That I would have my Wilbur the pig moment and Husband would fold and I would be driving home from the fair with my new best friend. "Careful. They smell funny.” my friend said. “Their skin is really rough.” my other friend said. "There's no way in hell we’re getting a pig." Husband said. But I was determined. I was set in my mind. I was getting a pig.
This is a picture of me at the fair on Friday. I was so excited to see this guy right as we walked in the gate; I made Husband take a picture. I was sure it was an omen, a cute pink talisman of what was to come.
I was wrong. About the cute pink part.
This is me petting actual pigs!
SO EXCITED!!! Note the stupid expression on my face as I try to have a moment with the pigs that are fast asleep and trying to pretend I’m not there. I’m telling Husband that their skin feels a bit like elephant skin. Note that despite my attempts to have them fall in love with me, there is not one eye open and the ears only twitched when I tickled them. Also note that there are only three pictures because Husband was having none of my obsession and was trying to leave the stall.
Then I found this speckled guy and I was sure it was love.
Note the expression of pure bliss on my face, the absolute joy as I realize I’ve met my animal sole mate. Now note the speckle right next to my hand - that is not a speckle at all but actually a tick. That speckle was one of five – FIVE TICKS - on my smelly sole mates tummy. FIVE TICKS that I spotted before I jumped up and started doing the "Get them off me!" dance.
Note that there are not any pictures of my freaking out once I spotted said ticks but you can just imagine my smile turning to clenched teeth holding back the squeal as I quick got myself up off the ground and began the inevitable tick check. You can imagine the large amounts of hand sanitizer I squirted over my hands – and arms and face. I only didn’t spread it ALL OVER my body because people were watching and I was trying to be cool in front of the young 4H kids who obviously would have prevented my pig ownership. I mean I’m still doing tick checks three days later.
I’d like to lodge a formal complaint to the author of Charlotte’s Web. Not once in that heartwarming story about a pig and his spider friend were ticks mentioned. Not. One. Time. I feel this tick omission has done me - and my pig owning fantasy - a great disservice. I mean how many years did I imagine myself as Fern in that story, loving and caring for Wilbur for the rest of my days? Apparently too many years. The county fair is where dreams die, not just Charlotte the spider.
If you want me, I’ll be in the shower - again - washing invisible ticks down the drain with my pig owning dreams and my "That chick is so cool" status. I mean, I can do poop and weird smells and kids that pull their penises out in class but I do not do ticks.
And, apparently, I won't be owning pigs either.
Like me my mother has no ability to remember song titles. None. Zip. Zilch. And like me, she can’t get the words to songs right either. If you’ve not seen this video of British comic Peter Kay talking about people singing the wrong words, please spend some time and watch it. It’s pretty much, me and the mom singing in the kitchen. Well, it is if all the songs Peter Kay suggested were found on jazz, blues or Broadway CDs. The mom and I can butcher the lyrics to a Broadway song like no other.
Anyway, I got this email from her Wednesday titled, ‘Song you might enjoy.’ In the body of the email she wrote the following:
“…(Uncle) liked it enough to buy it (for 99c, I think). I don't have a copy. but the singer is Vince Gill and the title is
How can I kiss your lips at night when you've been eating my ass out all day? Very country, and I may have the last part of the title off a bit. Very funny.”
I’m sorry, Mom? Did you say I might enjoy a song called, ‘How can I kiss your lips at night when you've been eating my ass out all day?’
And then she followed that whopper of a title up with - “Very country, and I may have the last part of the title off a bit.”
YOU THINK, MOM? I know country songs cover some dark stuff but it's usually limited to booze and women. X-rated sex seldom makes it into a country song - let alone a title!
"I may have the last part of the title off a bit.” Yeah, Mom. You got it off a little bit. The real title is: ‘It’s Hard To Kiss Those Lips At Night That Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.’
How is it that my mom, my poor sweet mom who only knows about X-rated stuff because when I'm telling her stories about friends or stuff that celebrities are doing, we have to Google it, how is it that she came up with ‘HOW CAN I KISS YOUR LIPS AT NIGHT WHEN YOU'VE BEEN EATING MY ASS OUT ALL DAY?’ ???
Sure, 'eating' and 'chewing' are similar activities EXCEPT WHEN YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ASSES!!! Because then you really want to be sure what you're talking about or the video of the song is going to be on YouPorn not YouTube.
Now I have to explain to her what YouPorn is...
“… eating my ass out all day.” Man, I love my mom!
So. Dang. Funny.
I consider myself to be a creative person. I make stuff out of stuff and it makes me feel good. And sometimes the things that I make actually look like the thing I tried to make. So, very creative, right?
Well, according to Pinterest, WRONG. According to Pinterest, I am not creative. According to Pinterest, I am a failure. To this date, this is the only thing I’ve made that slightly resembles the thing I found on Pintrest.
Note: that I’ve used caution tape so it is really just a minor ironic Pinterest success.
But for every win, there are lots and lots and lots and lots of failures.
I give you exhibit A: On the left, a wheelbarrow filled with the neighbor’s wine bottles. On the right, said wine bottles stripped of labels and ready to become art.
Yeah, that never happened. Those wine bottles, that were going to look like very arty and different and "Ooooh, you're so talented, ej!" ended up cracking or breaking or shattering and the leftovers ended up sitting on my counter looking like remnants of the best party ever. That project added to my list of major Pintrest failures and - based on the look from the dude at the glass recycler - categorized me as a drunk.
But then I stumbled upon this concept of Stabby Trees and found myself surprised to find that I love to create them. They aren’t Pinterest perfect. Heck, they’re likely deadly but I like them and I like making them and they make me happy. So Pintrest and its implied guilt, I thought could shove it as I happily twisted my feelings out into stabby copper trees.
Until my friend, who makes stained glass, saw one and talked me - read: told me it was happening - into sharing a booth with her at the upcoming Made in Nashville. This invitation/command happened last September. I figured she'd forget.
And that is why, one month from today, I will be standing next to her in a booth smiling pretty and trying not to cry as people walk by my stabby babies and sneer. I might have to put some extra something in my mocha to make it through the day. And by mocha, I mean hot booze with chocolate. I am now having panic dreams while asleep and manic thoughts while awake. I also hate her a little bit. BUT, I'm not bored and Husband and his Mistress are no longer the focus of my stress so there's that....
Damn you, Pinterest.
As I told you Friday, Husband has been having an affair for the last eight months. On Saturday we invited our friends to come meet her and bask in her beauty. Despite my fears (and bitter bitchy asides), they all loved Husband's Mistress and all she has to offer. And they should. She is stunning and charming and music was made and new friendships were formed. It was a good night.
Husband’s favorite part of the evening was when he sat in the project room with two very accomplished drummers as they played the bass and guitar and he played the cajon. All of three of them happily making beautiful music with other mistresses in a lovely padded room.
My favorite part was Sunday at 1pm when I finally found my grandmother’s rings which for some dumb reason I found myself wearing at some point in the party. Until I’d apparently decided to take them off and put them in a 'safe place.' A place I could not remember until 1pm Sunday. I was in full panic "CRAP, I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GO THROUGH THE TRASH!" mode when I finally remembered that the 'safe place' was apparently the spice cabinet.
I should not drink wine. Everything else is up for grabs but wine gives me blank spots, a screeching loud voice (according to Husband) and faulty security about my spice cabinet. I'm an idiot.
Oh, I loved meeting the guy who has a pig. After seeing pictures of the pig, legs splayed in the sunshine just enjoying life, I now totally want a pig. And I think Husband’s guilt is at an all time high that I can actually get myself a pig!
I think my many years of performing in and directing Charlottes Web might be also be informing this sudden desire. I might have to do some research so I can rebut all his arguments against pig. He’s sure to have them and my response can’t be, “Because Wilbur!” Even though, it is totally because of Wilbur.
How to approach the request might take some finagling. Should I go for the, “Eight months of spending every dime and all your time on her, I deserve a pig.” Or should my approach be, “I’m so proud of what you’ve done with your time and our money… can I have a pig?”
For now, here are the promised pictures of the slut – I mean, Husband’s new girlfriend – in all her glory. Remember before? Smack dab in the middle of that floor is where Tigger The Dog peed our first night in the house. Sexy, right?
Well, here's The Mistress after. Husband is a pain in the ass and he never listens to what I say but he does damn good work!
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