Today is my husband’s birthday, so I’m pretending all day that my world isn’t ending and that I am not the center of the entire universe. To my wonderfully weird husband, happy birthday. I promise that your cake this year will look better than last year’s attempt at fancy cake making:
Never believe anything my husband tells you. For example, when new people come to the studio and ask if there’s a bathroom, he says, “Yes but it takes quarters. If you need to make change, let us know now.” And when we were interviewing a woman to see if she would be the right person to officiate our wedding, he said, “Now, here’s where things get a little…awkward. See, my dad’s side of the family is nudist, so half the wedding will need to be performed nude, including all the guests and the wedding party. You’re okay with that, right?” Again, I can’t stress this enough: never believe anything my husband tells you. And if you’re a telemarketer calling our house, your day is about to get way more interesting. Take, for example, the telemarketer who called and asked for Budd Taylor.
S (in a hick voice): “Budd? I don’t know no Budd. I’m Ding.”
Telemarketer: “Ding?” (this was a rookie mistake, you’ve opened the door by asking a question, and now S will be off and rolling)
S: “Yes, Ding.”
Telemarketer: “You’re saying that’s your name?”
S: “Yes, first name Ding, last name Dong.”
Telemarketer: “Your name is Ding Dong?”
S: “Yes,” at which point he breaks into song, “Ding dong the witch is dead, which old witch, the wicked witch!” And then he hangs up.
Did I mention that my husband is in need of therapy unique?
Last night I
threatened to beat S to death with a paint brush gently reminded S about putting a fresh hand towel up when he removed the dirty one. This morning, I see this:
Does he really not know the difference between a washcloth and a hand towel? He can’t see that it’s significantly smaller? Really? Or is he involved in some diabolical plot to drive me slowly mad?
He should really tread lightly. I’m feeling kind of stabby today. Which reminds me, I went to high school at a place called STAB. Well, technically it was St. Anne’s Belfield, but all of the school gear like t-shirts and bumper stickers said STAB. For the sports teams they had things like STAB Soccer and STAB Lacrosse. When traveling out of state in the family Volvo with your STAB Football bumper sticker on it, you have to wonder what people who didn’t know about the school must have thought. Why such violent feelings towards a sport, for heavensake? And wouldn’t stabbing the football cause it to deflate? That’d make it way harder to play with. I wasn’t big into sports, but I used to really wish that they’d had a bumper sticker that said STAB Artists. Except that someone might think I really meant it and try to stab me. So maybe the school was right to not make gear like that. Even if you weren’t supporting my dream, thank you for protecting my life, STAB, thank you.
S has the habit of not actually washing his hands after he puts gel or spray or whatever in his hair, and instead just wipes them on the hand towel in the bathroom. Then, because it’s sticky, he sets it on top of the washing machine but never replaces it with a clean hand towel. I have explained the purpose of the towel, and how, if there isn’t one there, there’s nothing to dry my hands on, and how this makes me really crankypants and way more likely to murder him. He did it AGAIN today, which means I may have to
slip him a revenge laxative explain the point of a hand towel all over again. The joys of married life.
The hubs did actually read a few posts that night that he said he needed something to put him to sleep, but he has yet to read any more, and it’s been almost 2 weeks of hilarity and geniusiosity (I’m so brilliant I come up with NEW words…deal with it). So, I’m forced to spread more lies about him on this, the internet. Here is lie #5:
My husband is secretly a Cardassian, bent on bringing our civilization down. For those not familiar, the Cardassians are a race of humanoids on Star Trek: The Next Generation who are bad. Very, very bad. And unreasonable. And they’re hell bent on destroying us and bringing down society as we know it. They are not to be confused with the Kardashians of our modern era, though I think the same could be said for them.
Last night as we’re climbing into bed, S turns on his laptop. Knowing that he STILL hasn’t read any of my blog posts yet, I said, “Oh, are you finally going to read my blog?” He said, “I was going to, but now that you’ve asked, no.” Me: “You were not.” Him: “Well, I need something to put me to sleep.”
So now I must spread more lies about him. Did you know that he is the secret love child of Billy Campbell and Randy Orton? First, pics of them. Then, 2 pics of him. I told so! He may also come from Patrick Swayze and Kurt Russell with the right hair.
The hubs, S, still has not read any of my posts, so here is lie #3 about my husband: he is a pimp…for platypuses. He goes to zoos and parades lady platypuses in front of the horny teenager platypuses and the rich but lonely older platypuses. The poor lady platypuses have to wear really uncomfortable hooker heels and fishnets (actual fishnets, not fishnet stockings – they are aquatic creatures, after all). When they start throwing sand dollars (aquatic money, you know) at S, he lets them have the lady platypuses. This is actually very dangerous work, because did you know that male platypuses have venomous spurs? No shit. I’m not even kidding. Look it up, I’ll wait…I know, right?! I just totally jacked up your world, didn’t I? There you were going about your day, blissfully thinking that platypuses were just silly creatures to be mocked, but no, they’ll take you down, motherf*cker! Don’t mess with a platypus. Unless it’s not breeding season, in which case, apparently, the spurs are no longer secreting venom. How messed up is that??
So anyway, yeah, my husband is a platypus pimp.
Here is lie #2 about my husband: My husband is a murderer. Remember how I said that we had tons of slugs in our apartment complex? Well, my husband had heard that if you sprinkle them with salt, it makes them go away. He figured they hated it and it would make them run (and by run, I mean ooze) as far away as they could. So he sprinkled salt on one and it shriveled up a died and looked like a dried, black booger. Or a little cat turd, maybe. Delightful, no? He didn’t realize it would die, so then he felt really, really bad about it and got super guilty. Instead of comforting him that he hadn’t intended to cut the slug down in the prime of its life, I chose to tell him he was cruel and evil.
Okay, so this story is actually true, but I’m the slug slayer and my husband is the non-soother. They should really make that the next hit TV show. Instead of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, it’ll be Emily the Slug Slayer. It might not be as fast paced, but that’s okay. They could bring in slug wranglers to get the slugs to act in the scenes. Hey, maybe the hubs would be better at slug wrangling than he was at llamacorn wrangling! I bet they’d pay him a lot of money for it. Unless they decided that the money was better spent on creating CGI slugs. They’d probably have to put a disclaimer at the end of each show saying that no slugs were harmed in the making.
Also, I think I have slug on the brain because under the Advanced Settings tab on wordpress, there’s a box called SLUG. What the hell is that for??! Is it supposed to signify that this post will be so kickass that it’ll slug you upside the head? Is it a way to let all of my slug readers know that this post will be about them? Will someone please enlighten as to the point of the SLUG box?
I’ve been badgering my husband to get him to read my blog, but so far, no dice. I have decided that, in retaliation for not devoting every waking moment to worshipping the ground I walk on, I am going to spread lies about him all over the internet. By “all over the internet,” of course, I mean here on this blog because, let’s face it, I’m way too damn lazy to do it anywhere else. Today’s lie is that, before he met me, my husband wrangled llamacorns (llamas with unicorn horns, obviously) in New Zealand. He wasn’t very good at it, though, and whenever they’d spit at him, he’d run for the hills, and since he has hobbit feet (being from New Zealand and all), he’d trip a lot and the llamacorns could run him down and dance jigs around his sprawled body. Pathetic, really. I kept one of the llamacorns as a souvenir and mounted its head when it died and gave it to a friend whose life-long dream is also to become a llamacorn wrangler. Let’s hope she’s better at it than he was.
(I really did make this! That part isn’t a lie.)