Here’s why I intensely dislike* my husband:

 

You're invited to an*Well, I was gonna say “hate.” But, hate’s such a strong word.

“Intensely dislike” doesn’t have quite the same ooomph, though.

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But, I shall continue.

HERE’S A BIG FAT LIST:

  1. Watching Brian eat chicken wings is the kind of experience that will put you off chicken, and their wings, forever. You know those scavenger ants that crawl all over a big cow corpse and leave it picked clean in ten minutes? Think that, but more gross.
  2. The other day I sat down next to him on the couch and said, “Guess what time I started writing today. Go ahead, guess.” And he didn’t respond so I said, “NEVER O’CLCOCK. THAT’S WHEN.” And then he said, “Why?”
  3. Whenever he goes anywhere, in any car, and it comes to a stop, it takes him like forty minutes to actually exit the car. I don’t know what he does in there, because I usually just leave. Perhaps he’s a top secret spy and whenever the car shuts off he has to reconfig his gps for the spy people. That doesn’t really make any sense. But it’s so annoying.
  4. He walks really slow. Unless I’m walking beside him. Then I can’t seem to keep up with his long footsteps. So, maybe it’s an optical illusion. Or, that he doesn’t want to walk with me. We’ll say option one.
  5. I once was having an existential laundry breakdown and flopped down next to him in bed and said, “Do you ever feel like the days are all just the same thing, over and over, and we’re all on this turning planet just milling about and doing the same thing, over and over, and it will just be like that until we die? Because I just folded and put away laundry and now that’s how I feel.”  And he said, “Yes.”

These are hateful, awful things. Deplorable.

But, that’s marriage.

Here’s my point (which I know is kinda full of snark today but it’s Wednesday, and that’s my snark day. Thursday is for serenity. Friday is for super-spiritual… I have it all written down in my bullet journal).

MY POINT:

My husband is so annoying. Like, sometimes? Just watching him eat makes me want to stab him with a fork. Marriage is like that. It’s like a long overdue pot of rice on the stove that just BOOM bubbles over in seconds and creates a God awful mess. Simply because the rice was rice.

Here’s another metaphor for you. Marriage is like, a petri dish. Here we are, stuck together in all this goo (children), watching each other, and other things (children) and just floating about and sometimes behaving like one-celled organisms.

And it’s so annoying.

But, even with the chicken wings and the melodious sounds of snoring at night that keeps the whole neighborhood in sync- even with that. AND his weird love of Quick Trip hot dogs. AND that if he says, “I’m going to the store for some milk,” I can expect him back sometime before sundown.

EVEN WITH ALL THOSE THINGS:

I will always and forever love him. Forever and forever. Like, forever.

More today than yesterday, in fact.

Because, that’s marriage.

 

Happy anniversary, my sweet love. Every day’s a new day.

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The road to Slugville is wide and slimy.

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Friends, I am now on day two of my re-route from Slugville and I have to tell you, it has been one orange construction cone after another.

Actually it’s been ok. But not great. Like, I am not all that jazzed about it. Because, Slugville is so easy.

This road? Away from Slugville? It isn’t easy.

So, let me just say this isn’t one of those posts where I’m gonna turn it all around for a glorious big finish, and you end up all “Heck to the YES! I too am feeling so TOTALLY ON FIRE WITH IT ALL! I’M A ROMAN CANDLE OF MOTIVATION!

I TOO SHALL FIX ALL THE THINGSSSSS!”

Nope. Not really that kinda post.

I have continued on my slow clunking along. I’m getting more sleep. I’m reading more happy things, things that feed the soul. Life is just basically putting one foot in front of the other.

So, yesterday I got an email that was a big “NO” to something I had tried for. Here’s a hint: It’s like a speaking gig? One that rhymes with “Bed” but with a “T?”  And also? I can’t come.

I was so disappointed. I really wanted to be able to write this to you, today:

“Oh my gosh! I have been so in a FUNK lately. But yet, here is this big, huge, gigantic wonderful email that is telling me I am chosen. Like, I AM THE CHOSEN ONE! Too much? Too bad Star Wars movie? Well, whatever. REDEMPTION is ALL UP IN HERE, y’all! It was all for a REASON! The sadness! The slime! I got through it and here is the big huge fat REWARD! YEA ME! This is how life works, y’all. You do the time and then, BOOM, Obi Wan is at your door waving a big, fat, Publisher’s Clearing House check and life is all unicorns and  kittens and endless guacamole!!!”

And here’s the other thing, though,

I didn’t make it by two people. Two. I was like so close.

The guy who emailed me was very nice. He was encouraging. He told me to try again. And I was all, “But I didn’t get it! How can I try again when I am so upset!? I am UPSET! There is no pulling up by bootstraps here! I was all Anakin Skywalker in my head for a moment! Chosen. One. Did I mention this is UPSETTING!”

Y’all. Two years ago, if you had told me I would have missed getting a Bed-with-a-T talk by two people I would have laughed at you. A kinda crazed, maniacal laugh. The kind where you throw your head back and cackle, like Vizzini in Princess Bride does. INCONCEIVABLE.

I guess the thing is this:

I am still trudging along. I am moving slow in traffic, past all those annoying orange cones, and did you know?

You aren’t supposed to speed in a construction zone.

Oh. And?

All of life is a construction zone.

OOOOO. That’s good. I think I will have to make a meme.

Yea… and then Glennon will tweet it and I’ll be famous! By the end of the day! That’s right! IT. COULD. HAPPEN!

Oh good God.  I need to get a grip.

I’m gonna go clean the cat box, people. That always tends to bring me smack back into reality.

 

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Introversion, Alcohol, and Door to Door Sales PART TWO

I told you I’d be back.

part two of my saga from yesterday actually pertains (I promise, Kate, it does!) to my favorite thing ever: Five Minute Friday.

Today’s theme:

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*Wait for it – there is a connection to the post. I promise.

 

Such a pretty little graphic. Very Kate Motaung. My post, however, will be very Momsie and thus, not so pretty.

So yesterday I described to you (or tried to) the tangled underwear drawer that is my introverted self. It is a absolutely fascinating journey, into Momsie’s neurotic tendencies. Well, maybe not fascinating. I asked my husband recently how it was, living with me, and trying to figure me out on a daily basis. He didn’t answer for a while, sighed deeply, then came over, gave me a tender kiss, and said,

“Never mind, dear. I’m married to you. We’re stuck together for life.”

That really wasn’t all the encouraging but at least I got a kiss out of it.

Anyhow, I wanted to share with you this really dreadful task that me and my boys were going to take on today, but as you know I got all sidetracked in myself. So here goes. I’m gonna bare it all now. Ready?

We have to fundraise at my darling wee ones’ school. The children have to go door to door to ask for sponsors for Jump Rope for Heart.

Thus, I think I am going to die.

They should call it Jump Rope for Heart Attack.

Ohhhh. I was trying to be cute there and then realized… that’s kind of a depressing twist on things, isn’t it?

Anyhow.

There are two problems here. The first and most obvious problem is that my children do not have any sort jump roping abilities. It’s comic. They attempt it and it looks like they’re basically trying to beat themselves up. I watch ’em attempt the rope thingie and think, “Oh sweet ones. Bless your little uncoordinated hearts. The world is hard enough! Come sit here on the couch with me and have a Thin Mint.”

Also this: I cannot go door to door. I just can’t. It will make me one of the people that they are badly jumping rope for.

Here is the (yet another scintillating) conversation I had about this with the really awesome husband:

Me: (speaking in a choked whisper, like I’m discussing a home-colonoscopy or something) We need to go door to door with the boys to help raise money… I gotta go sit down.

Hubs: Oh cool! We should do this as a family! We can all just go up and down ALL the streets! Asking ALL the people in this town for MONEY! Family bonding!

Me: Clearly I should never have married you.

(Don’t worry! See above. We’re stuck with each other. Like, forever. Or until one of us dies because door to door sales.)

I picture pushing my children up the walk and slowly backing away as they go to ring the doorbell.

Nice Neighbor Lady: Oh hello! Two small boys who seem really clueless about what to say! Adorable!

Both boys are suddenly stricken with Low Talking Syndrome and a complete misfire on why they are here on this porch in the first place.

Blonde: Wanna buy me? Jump roping?

Me: (strangled voice from the bushes) Doing great honey!

Red: Dat’s my mom. Right der. In the bushes.

Nice Neighbor Lady: Who? Where? That suspicious stranger lurking over there? Is she bothering you? Should I call the police?

And that’s how I ended up in the slammer because of Jump Rope for Heart.

It could happen.

I am thinking, if you have any pity, you will just go to the website and donate a kajillion dollars for me? It’s for a good cause. It’s the Keep Momsie Alive Fundraiser…

It’s my LIMIT.*

I draw the line at door to door sales, people. My babies are on their own. This is a very Gone With the Wind moment because, as God is my witness, I will never sell door to door again. I gritted my teeth through Bluebirds. I barely survived Girl Scouts and all those cookies. I am DONE.
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Follow up: Brian took pity on me and donated online. Thank you, computers! All those times I whined about how all you do is disconnect us from reality? I was WRONG! I LOVE being disconnected from reality! Yea detachment!

And here is a cute Princess Bride meme to help you forget how really, really silly Momsie is. I promise. I’m not actually going to send my sweet babies out there, alone, to knock on doors. I’m just gonna give ’em both their own Visa cards at 6 and 8 years old and they can just take care of it that way.

Should work.

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