Why You Should Not Spoon Taylor

I’ve spent the last six months almost-writing a blog post, but now bitches, this is happening.  Prepare yourselves.

We’re going to start with a story.  Get your blankies and your giraffe hats, and gather around.

A long time ago, in a land   So one time, I was dating this guy.  Super sweet, cheek-pinchingly adorable guy.  Wouldn’t harm a fly.  He was that guy that would be helping old ladies across the street, didn’t curse (so you knew our relationship was doomed), didn’t have any vices except for video games and a slightly-too-comfortable relationship with all his guy friends.  (Like, they’d have sleep-overs and one of them drove a Miata.  I’m not judging, I’m just saying.  It was suspect.)

Right, so, super-nice dude.  We’d been dating for, what, two months?  Long enough for him to realize I was totally the most amazing person on the planet, but not long enough to say, warrant me yelling at him for anything.  He was still holding in his farts around me, so I guess we were in the honeymoon period.

He still lived with his parents (and I being the older and wiser of the two, had an apartment), so he stayed over at my place a lot.  We were still at the “we love to just cuddle all the time” phase.  Anyway, we snuggle into bed, and he cuddles in behind me like a super-sweet guy would do.  He nuzzles his head into my hair, murmuring something about how I smelled like gingerbread (what?), and falls asleep.  I drift off into dreamland, lovely comforted by the warmth of his body.

Except it couldn’t have been that comforting, because I started having a dream about getting into a fight.  I have no memory of the dream.  I just remember I was in that halfway-to-sleep, halfway-awake part of the REM cycle, where you twitch a lot.  So in the dream, someone takes a swing at my face, and hits me in the jaw.

Half-asleep, I lurch my head back…right into his nose.  Hard.

Y’all, I broke. His. Nose.

I wake up to a kind of dull ache in the back of my head, and my poor boyfriend, screeching like a banshee.

I know what you’re thinking…”How rude of him to wake Taylor up like that!  She was trying to sleep.”  And I appreciate that, because it’s totally true.  Plus I was traumatized by some whore trying to suckerpunch me in the jaw, so I was already kind of shaken up.

Seriously, no joke.  Blood is gushing everywhere.  All over my leopard print sheets, all over his face.  He’s crying, I’m crying.  It was a whole big ordeal.

I tell you this because I had a dream last night, where I was fighting with a kangaroo (playfully.  That motherfucker would have laid me out if he’d wanted to), and in my dream, he hit me in the face and I jerked back my head while waking up, and for a split second all I could think was OMG I HOPE HUSBAND ISN’T SPOONING ME.

And he was.  I could feel his arm curled lovingly around my waist as I was sobering from the dream, and I remember just gasping really loudly, like I was already expecting the collision.

But then, by some sheer miracle, he had his head tilted back just far enough that he escaped the head attack.  I don’t understand how that happened, but thank God.  He is far less accepting than the first guy I beat up with my punch-dreams.  He’d probably make a big deal out of it, and want me to drive him to the hospital and shit, and I just wasn’t in the mood for that kind of drama on a Monday morning.

Bullet dodged.  But now, I think he might need to wear protective head gear, just in case.

 

Conversations With Amanda, Part 2

As previously mentioned, I love having conversations with my BFF Amanda.

Mostly because we can be really mean to each other, but in the most loving of ways.  Example:  She borrowed a book from me.  It has charts and graphs and fill-in-the-blank area.  She wanted to borrow the book.  But then weeks went by, and I asked her about it.

She did not read any more of the book, but I did not throat-kick her.  (But oh, it’s coming, Amanda.)

But one of my favorite recent conversations had to do with my (poor) husband and an owl painting that Amanda did.

Here is the painting in question:

It’s amazing, and I don’t just say that because she’s my BFF.  I’m really particular about my art, and there’s very little that I would excitedly put up on my wall.  Not only do all the colors in this palate go with my color schemes, but I love owls, and I love snarky owls the best.  So clearly, this painting was destined to be mine.

Amanda and I discussed where I would put it once it was placed in the home.  I decided I would place it in the powder room, over the toilet, facing the mirror.

In the conversation below, “him” is the owl:

Poor Husband.

In other news, you should totally go look at all of her other stuff.  She’s really awesome.

I’m Apparently #1 at Husband-Pantsing

So, I guess this is the best forum to air my addiction.

I have a pantsing problem.

Actual conversation with my (poor, poor) husband:

Husband: *in the kitchen, innocently surveying the contents of the pantry in his boxers*

Me:  [internally: Oooh…] *yanks boxers to Husband’s knees*

Husband:  *huffily pulling his boxers back up, glaring at me with disdain and faintly looking like he is a chubby kid who just got pantsed by the bully at the bus stop* WTF, Taylor.

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