Tag: husband

my “hangover” parade

We live in a tourist area as I’ve mentioned a bazillion times before…and so our town does weird-ass things to attract tourists. Year-round. There. That should suffice as an explanation, when you wonder why I went to a Mardi Gras parade last night. Because yes. I know. It’s August. And I’m not still drunk. And

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to watch or not to watch

Hubs wanted to rent Divergent tonight but I said no. I’m in the midst of forcing Hubs to binge-watch The Killing on Netflix. Not hard-core-binge-watch. I mean, I let him go to work, run and eat… I don’t know if Hubs actually wanted to see Divergent, or if he just wants a break from Linden

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I’m Out-ing Myself

My husband is baffled by my mustache collection, and he is convinced that I am the ONLY person on the planet who likes mustache merchandise despite all the evidence to the contrary, like there are actually stores full of this shit so obviously somebody is buying it besides me. Over the past year or two,

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Cat Scratch Fever

Hubs and I just got back from Disney. We ran the Tower of Terror Ten Miler. And it was super fun. After the ten mile run, there was an after-party, at Hollywood Studios. And I’m not a fast runner, so before we went to Disney, I was kind of wigging out about the after-party. I

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I Have A Death Rattle & Hubs Makes A Poster

I have a summer cold and Hubs is plastering signs on the refrigerator to remind me when my next dose of non-narcotic, non-drowsy cold medicine is due, like I’m a senior citizen with Alzheimer’s, or a crack whore with no sense of time. WTH!? I don’t really feel bad. Well, okay. I feel bad, but

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I’m Gleek, The Pet Space Monkey with a Limp

My right hip hurts. And my left foot hurts. And I know that makes me sound like Quasimoto on Geritol, but actually, it’s my husband’s fault. And my friend Ethel’s fault too; and really, it’s like blaming the same person because my husband and my friend Ethel are the Wonder Twins. During an expo for

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I Watched Smut Street & Lost My Sexy

Via text (with my husband): Me: You are a Cookie Monster. Hubs: Doesn’t he live in a garbage can? Me: No, that’s Oscar the Groin. Hubs: WTH kind of Sesame Street did you watch? I wanted to sound naughty, and say something to my husband like: “Let me pat you down and look for a

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Ohio Makes Fat Floridians

I ate my way through Ohio last weekend. I gained three pounds in fifty-five hours. Three pounds doesn’t sound like a lot; unless you imagine duct taping twelve sticks of butter to your inner thighs (because that is where weight goes on me), then it becomes a serious amount of fatness. Last night when I

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Mentally Challenged with Water Bottles

The other night I told my husband that I needed him to rub my back until I fell asleep because my dog-bite hurt. I rub your back every night. “I know but tonight is especially important because I got mauled. So you have to do it for longer. Until I fall asleep.” You are retarded.

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The Cujo-Pekingese & My Ass, Part 2

I haven’t turned into Teen Wolf yet but I have new powers. The bite on my ass from the Cujo-Pekingese DID get infected. Days ago I warned my husband that the bite on my ass could get infected. I also told my husband days ago that we needed to find out where the negligent Cujo-Pekingese

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