My apologies for just dropping off the radar for a month. I know you all were in absolute agony without me, but trust me – it wasn’t as much agony as I was in. Word to the wise: Never, ever, ever break your clavicle. Ever. The same goes for your ribs (from what I hear), or your scapula, or any other bone that connects to your torso. Pictures? I think we need pictures. Continue reading
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.
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:
In other news, you should totally go look at all of her other stuff. She’s really awesome.
Guess what our intrepid blog author received for Christmas this year?
(Oh, and some other stuff.)
Husband calls it my power animal. I’m just excited that me and BFF have matching animal hats that personify our existence. We will soon take over the world with baby giraffes and pandas. There will be no more war, just lots of “awwwww!!!” everywhere.
And just to start spreading my giraffe
tyranny love, I put it on everyone else’s head that I could. Both people who would allow me photographic evidence have super-smiles on their faces, which is proof that I WILL TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH AWW. Yes. Watch it happen, people. (Also, how cute are these people?)
So this is proof. Prepare yourself for the baby panda/baby giraffe peace on war on peace.
Did your gift make your (or anyone else’s) year? Do tell!
Leave that to me. Because my fucking throat is ON FREAKING FIRE.
Sorry I haven’t been around, and might not be for a few more days.
It started Sunday. I just started coughing a lot, but I didn’t think anything of it. Woke up Monday, and my throat felt scratchy. I didn’t feel sick, but I sounded like a bad Kathleen Turner impersonator.
Monday night, tossed and turned. Apparently I coughed a lot in the middle of the night, and had drainage. Woke up at 5AM. Throat hurt so bad, like I’d been sleeping with my mouth open and it was just super raw. Could barely talk. Called boss to work from home.
My voice got progressively worse, then a bit better. All I wanted was ice cream, chicken soup, and mashed potatoes. Husband took care of me like a champ.
Last night, y’all? I slept in 30 minute segments. I’d be in that state of half-sleep where I was really uncomfortable, and everytime I’d swallow, it’d be so painful that it would wake me up. I tried Nyquil. I tried drinking water. I tried throat spray. NOTHING HELPED.
I sound like a chipmunk who’s being choked out by an elephant trunk. (That’s right, wait for the visual.)
I’m going to the doctor today and I will not leave until he either carves out my throat or otherwise fixes the problem, pronto. At this point, I’m hoping for the former. I’m not a patient patient.
I’m also going on vacation Friday and won’t be back until Monday (although, we’re going to Mississippi, so it’s possible I’ll be back by Saturday. Or dead. One or the other). I will leave you with two videos that horrified me on Sunday.
Please explain to me what’s going on here, because I don’t understand it.
You have to watch the whole videos to see the “dance moves” (a phrase I’m loosely applying here) and the hair. And the clothes. And the…I don’t even…yeah.
One thing I will give this gal. Bitch has a pretty voice. Does not have groove.
Last night, Husband and I are in bed, and he says, “OH!” suddenly. Like whatever he’s about to say has been something he’s been waiting to tell me all day. And then he busts out with this:
Husband: I’m going to invent a new instrument.
Husband: It’ll be called the “clarionette.”
If you haven’t already noticed, I’m not a normal gal.
In fact, I’ve been frequently called a man trapped in a (seriously hot, seriously female) body. (Actually, the parenthetical part has never been spoken in my presence. I was shaped like a ruler until a year ago when I started gaining weight. Damn you, metabolism!)
This is why, when my then-fiance was talking about the purchase of an engagement present, I liked his first idea best: Engagement Muscle Car.
He had logical reasons for suggesting it (some of which are itemized below). Of course, to me, logic was secondary to the noise a great muscle car made when driven (very quickly) under a bridge or down the highway. Let’s be honest. Muscle cars are hot.
Husband and I are watching TV. Hero escapes prison and jumps into truck. Grabs wires beneath the steering wheel, rips off plastic cover of wire, touches them together. Car starts. Scene continues.
Husband turns to me and says, “That wouldn’t work with brown wires on a GM. You have to twist yellow with pink, then touch them with purple.”
This is why I need my husband. He teaches me how to effectively hotwire a car.