My husband is OBSESSED with this song! He heard it on the radio and couldn't get it out of his head. So what does he do?? He downloads it as his ringtone, makes me listen to it on YouTube and then figures out how to play it on the guitar. Granted, all of this occurred within the first fifteen minutes of him coming home. According to my mom, I was considered the "Disco Queen" as a toddler to the disdain of her friends (my pigtailed self would squeal with delight with anything Donna Summers and Diana Ross) but I believe John is the true Disco Queen of the family. For serious, this song might be my bete noir:



Is he serious?? Sadly kids, I think he is...the truly tragic part? He's 29, been in numerous punk rock bands, loves all the same music that I do and is a virtuoso with the bass-- but I think it's just a sham--I think he was made for disco. To be sure, nothing good can come of this. What's next? People seriously don't know what they're getting into when they mumble the words, "In sickness and in health" now do they?

Last night I was feeling an inordinate amount of love for John before he came home...like seriously, I was radiating love, lust and everything I've ever felt for him. I even sat down and made him a "mind-map" of all of his awesomeness of the year. I saw it on a website as something someone could do as a cute thing for Valentine's Day, I decided just to make him one yesterday (You've never felt creative freedom until you've purchased 50 blank greeting cards with matching envelopes...I make EVERYONE homemade cards and I feel like an artist again).

Today, I realized that I went out with him for the first time two years ago last night...had I really known, aside from the psychosomatics I would've made us tacos!

John, I love you.


Everyone else, I'm sorry I made you throw up in your mouths.

Where's the justice when John's all snug in bed and I'm all ready for work (complete with a cold shower this morning because the water heater's on the fritz). If anyone says "You have the Summer off!" I will cut you...

I can't even believe that I'm married to a man who's never heard of Emmit Otter's Jugband Christmas! Believe me when I tell you that I'm mostly a grinch and that I have very little holiday spirit (due to a brief stint in retail) but I will forever love Emmit.

I went to the vet today to take Frankie (my Lab to your left there) to get her booster shots (oh happy day for her!). Everything goes as expected, they try to give her shots and she does alligator rolls on the table. For some reason they kept asking me to tell her not to do that...like that will help. Sorry folks, if she doesn't want a shot, I doubt me calling her Schnukums is going to help. I joke, I did try to calm her down but she just kept doing her barrel rolls and licking my hands...but eventually, they got it all done. Other than that, it was an uneventful visit until we went to pay our bill.

Frankie and I stood at the counter patiently counting the seconds until the two of us could get the hell out of the veterinarian office...we can only take so much pep and baby talk so early in the morning. Seriously, Frankie hates baby talk. She rolls her eyes at people who talk down to her. She did a lot of eye rolling this morning. Well, we must've looked like a pair of irresistible brunettes that needed to be talked to, because some guy with a monster dog decided to take this opportunity to attempt to make small talk. Let's set the scene; my dog is desperately clawing at my arm begging to get the hell out of Dodge and his dog is about to eat her. What was his owner doing? Oh yeah, hitting on me. As Frankie recoils from the demon dog, the douche bag who was previously asking me if I lived in the area and other stupid questions (one in which involved my lunch plans) says to me, "You should probably keep your dog away from my dog, he hates other dogs!" and he says this very sternly as if Frankie was wagging her little tail and trying to play with his dog. Frankie was cowering between my legs and whining softly. I backed up a little more, glanced at the woman who was supposed to be "quickly" preparing my bill...it appeared that she was still preparing. In fact, it looked as though she was still prepping to prepare.

Douchebag's dog lunges at us again, and I back up a little more. He says again, this time even more firmly, "My dog doesn't like dogs, you should really keep your dog away from mine!" This man is crazy! Frankie is tucked between my legs, she hasn't moved at all--in fact, she looks like she's as stiff as a board with fear and I have now backed away from his dog three times and I'm only two steps from the door. So I gave him my patented "What the fuck did you just say to me?" look, took a deep breath and slowly uttered, "I was at this counter first waiting for my bill, you just came out and started hitting on me. I'm married and I don't want to have lunch with you if you noticed when I lacked enthusiasm in talking with you. If your dog has a problem with other dogs why don't you do us all a favor and get your dog the fuck away from mine?" I signed my bill with a flourish and gripped Frankie's leash tightly to leave, feeling like I probably overreacted and then the most unexpected thing happened...

a lady clapped...

and then supplied me with some interesting information. Apparently Douchebag's dog had bitten two other dogs in the waiting room...THAT DAY. After hearing that, I didn't feel like I was a bitch, I just felt like a good mom taking care of her dogbaby.

John gets home from work and while we're munching on dinner (I'm becoming a good cook, yo!) I tell him, "Oh my god John, I watched the saddest movie today!" because let's be honest, aside from laying out, my day wasn't all that exciting. He said, "Oh yeah? Which movie?" I replied, "Dear Frankie". He said, "Why was it so sad? What's it about?"

And so, with tears welling in my eyes as I thought back to the movie, and I carefully told him in about ten minutes all about the movie. As I wiped a single tear away, I waited for him to mock me for loving such an obvious chick flick. Instead, he says, "Wow, you tell the worst stories!" and he laughed at me. He laughed! I became indignant, "You asked what the movie was about, so I told you!"

"M, I asked for a synopsis of the story...I doubt you'd find all of what you said on the back of the box!" And then the smartass picked up the case and pretended to read my "long synopsis" on the back of the case. Then he turned to me and said, "Do you think we can get you to pretend to read the back and you could just retell the plot and I can video tape it?"

What a db...I liked it better when he wanted to film me naked.

PS. I'm not mocking Native Americans, I'm mocking this poorly made commercial.

I knew it! For what seems like years I've been telling people that Aspercreme used to have a jingle that said, "You bet your sweet Aspercreme!" and now John found it on Youtube last night. The demi-gods of Youtube, how I love you so!

Let me share with you...and you, stop wondering why I was so worried about it, will ya?

Throughout our relationship there's always been something a little puzzling about us ( I mean besides the obvious). We have a little trouble putting our arms around each other's waists when walking down the street and we can't do certain things standing up no matter how hard we’ve tried. Lord have we tried! I’ve been bent over mini fridges, bars, kitchen counters, arm chairs, couches---pretty much everything but the kitchen sink. But the other day, the truth was revealed to me, and being the big mouthed know it all that I am...I had to fill John in on my discovery.

It all started with the Eagles' tickets that we had on Monday. I brought John clothes from home so that he could just change at work and we could take the subway to the game. Well, I brought him holey jeans and so we had to make a quick pit stop in Macy's. It was there that I learned the truth...Iam not the stumpy one! (You don't know how happy that makes me to write that sentence). The truth is, I was shocked to see that as we were frantically perusing the aisles/piles of jeans that John kept looking at the 30 inch length jeans. "What?" "What’s this I thought?" I kept my lips pursed and my eyes down until we found the perfect jeans for him...then I unleashed my revelation.
"John," I said ever so sweetly,"are you sure that you a 30 length?I mean, you are 6 foot 1 and all..." I batted my lashes knowing that in a few short seconds the truth would be revealed in a way that Geraldo never could manage (think Al Capone’s empty vault). He responded with a quick, "Yeah" as he hurriedly walked down the streets. I said (knowing that triumph and glory was mine), "I wear 33's or 34's. (deep breath and wide grin) That makes you the stumpy one!!"

And it's true. He's the stumpy one. And now he hates it. He whines while we lie in bed..."I don't wanna be the stumpy one." And I do the best I can when confronted with such a statement. I say, "Too bad--you’re the stumpy one!" and then I cackle myself to sleep. To confirm the longness of my legs we did a very scientific measuring using our forearms (because really cool married couples measure each other using cubits--the old Egyptian form of measurement) to measure from hip to toe. Again I won.. But to be magnanimous I said to him as I rubbed his pouty face, " It's ok, not everyone can be the short chubby version of the supermodel...I just have really, really long legs...whereas you...you have an incredibly long torso. So good night Torso Boy."

It's so good not to be the stumpy one!