This week has been… interesting. I came very close to live Tweeting a tenant temper tantrum because it was seriously infuriating and hilarious all at the same time. However, since I’m attempting to be more positive, I settled for some snarky commentary on Facebook. Interspersed with all this douchebaggery are the conversations that keep me sane. Or feed my burgeoning insanity. Potato, PoTAHto…
Our second wedding anniversary is coming up in a few weeks, and I’m having some trouble settling on a husband gift. Nothing will ever live up to the sheer awesomeness of the beer fridge, but replacing the broken one is not in the budget. So I turned to Queen Inappropriate for some brain storming and got this instead:
me: But seriously, I have no idea what to get him, and we have a $50 limit.
The Queen: well, when we had times like that- I always turned to thinkgeek
me: I thought about it, but didn’t find anything appealing. Except the plush microbes which he already has half of.
me: The man has mad scientist stuffed animals.
me: Please ponder that for a moment
me: Mad. Scientist. Stuffed. Animals.
The Queen: …
At one point right before I moved to Wisconsin, I flew in for a weekend to visit my husband. In the course of getting ready for bed one night, my eye was drawn to something strange peeking out from the corner of the bed. I bent over and pulled out a plush microbe. “Honey? Why is Rabies under the mattress?”
At another point, our cat (RIP, buddy.) was using West Nile as a toy, but he lost interest when there was no catnip in it. I finally made him pack the whole petri dish and take them to his lab where they belong. In a house full of oddities such as ours, you can have a vibrating bondaged rubber ducky in the medicine cabinet or plushie microbes under the mattress, and the duck was there first.
And speaking of oddities, The Queen is getting a monster of a dog next week and I’ve offered to make a training mat for her out of some fabric we spent hours at our respective places of business surfing for on the interwebz. (Don’t judge me- I never get lunch breaks.) She also wants a pair of doggy pajamas for those cold nights. I think the idea is born of puppy madness and it looks ridiculous. I’m also not terribly adept at sewing clothes, so I ain’t doin’ it. That doesn’t stop the delusions of Canine Couture from flowing.
Queen Puppy Drunk: that’s pretty too. jay would abhor it.
me: I abhor it. It looks like something that your dog might spit up if she accidentally got into LSD.
Queen Puppy Drunk: lulz
Queen Puppy Drunk: omg! that’s adorable…Stella needs pajamas out of that.
me: I refuse on principal.
Queen Puppy Drunk: on the principle of what (Principal is what is in a school. He’s your ‘pal’. It’s ok, because I was convinced Alaska was an island until like 2 years ago.)**
me: On the principle that she’s a DOG that should not be wearing CAT pajamas.
**It’s true… I was in the guild chat channel when this confession was first made. I laughed so hard that I didn’t realize my character was being attacked by aliens and shit and I died. Karma is real, people.
Queen Puppy Drunk:: Aw. This is terrible blog fodder
me: You say that because you will not be happy with anything that does not end in, “Yes! I would be thrilled to make ridiculous pajamas for a small pony that will have outgrown them in a month!”
It’s true. And she won’t relent until I make her little monster some assless dog-jammies.
But back to the Mad Scientist…
Once a month, we make a big grocery shopping trip to buy our meat for the month and restock the pantry. It’s a big trip, a costly trip, and we usually end up exhausted from carrying two tons of groceries upstairs to our apartment. This past trip, we also needed to refill both of our water jugs. (We don’t do tap water. The stuff here is lethal. Even the houseplants try to spit it back at us.)
As I was grabbing the last few things on our list, he decided to go fill the jugs. Just as he arrived at that idea, a small hispanic woman with four of her own 5-gallon jugs entered the store with her kids. And suddenly, there was a turf war. My husband made a sharp turn into the adjacent aisle. “I have to beat her there!” And he took off at a half sprint with the full cart, empty jugs bouncing out a hollow cadence like the drums of war. I followed after him on a parallel course, at a normal, sane pace. Every aisle I looked in his direction to see him passing by like a blur. And I laughed my ass off while other shoppers stared at me like *I* was the unstable variable in that particular equation.
He need not have worried as it was- the other poor woman was plagued by obstacles from the outset; first by an old lady who parked her cart in the middle of the walkway to talk to someone and then by her children who were pawing at the candy aisle like rabid little monkeys looking for a sugar fix. Regardless, I eventually reached the water island with our last few grocery items, and there he stood: My husband, the mighty warrior, wearing proudly the look of the smug victor.
This is what happens to the mighty hunter-gatherers of the species when the mammoths go extinct…