Fred and I were sitting in the living room watching TV – I know! The excitement! – the other night, and I said to him, "Don’t look at me."
"Okaaaaaaay," he said obediently.
I held up a magazine to block his view in case he decided to go all wild and look at me anyway.
"Is my hair -" I began, and he groaned. I give him all kinds of hell for begging me to grow my hair long and then never so much as giving it a passing glance, never running his fingers through it, never playing with it and making little braids all over my head, nada.
"Is my hair straight today?" I demanded.
He thought for a long moment. "Yes," he said very certainly. "It is straight. It’s always straight, though, because it dries pretty much straight." He was pretty proud of his answer, because he’d covered all bases – claiming straightness, but acknowledging the fact that I may not have spent half an hour blowing every strand straight as a stick and coating it with something to make sure it would stay straight for an entire day.
I had, in actuality, not blown my hair straight that morning. In fact, I put some styling crap in it, pointed the blow-dryer at it for about five minutes while reading a magazine, run a hairpick (toepick!) through it, and called it good enough.
To recap. In the eyes of my husband, this hair:
is as straight as this hair:
And in like manner, I would guess that to his eyes, this hairstyle:
is very similar to this one:
(note to self: very short very blond hair not a good look. Try out different hairstyles for yourself at Clairol’s Try it on Studio!). I think I’m starting to understand how his mind works, and y’know what? That’s fine with me! I’d much rather spend 5 minutes with the blowdryer than 30. God knows I’ve got better things to do.
Like sitting on my ass in front of the computer.
Although you can’t really tell from the picture I took yesterday (the non-straight hair), my roots have grown out to an amazing length, and although I usually have my hair colored at a salon (said with a snobby accent), it’s just so freakin’ expensive, and if I’m growing my hair longer, I don’t need to have it trimmed every 6 weeks either, do I? No, I don’t. So while I was at Target, I purchased a box of hair color, and I’ll be requiring Fred’s haircoloring services tomorrow morning. I could do it without help, but I have the unfortunate tendency to miss large spots of hair on the back of my head when I do it myself, so I always ask for help. Fred’s done it before, and he’ll do it again with a minimum of complaining, because that’s the kinda guy he is.
I think I’ll call him Fredriq, and make him talk in a French accent and squeal with excitement while he’s doing it.
Yes, I AM so mean to my husband. But he loves it. However, if YOU try to be mean to him, I’ll kick your ass. And I can do it, too. Have you seen my calf lately?
* * *
It’s raining like hell yet AGAIN today (hell-O, could we have another TWO sunny days in a row sometime soon, PLEASE?), and two minutes ago I glanced out the front window and saw a scary-ass sky.
Y’know, when I lived in Maine, we saw dark and crappy-looking skies all the time, but I never worried that a twister was about to drop it’s ass out of the sky and spin me away.
There’s something to be said for living in Maine, cold weather be damned.
* * *
So, we have this big basket at the bottom of the stairs. I put it there soon after we moved in, with the idea that dirty dishclothes and various other clothing that gets left laying around downstairs (specifically, SOCKS. I don’t know where they come from, but there seems to always be at least two pair scattered on the floor at any given moment) could be put into the basket, and eventually taken upstairs and tossed into the washer. When I was repotting plants the other day, I needed to make room for one of them (which I still haven’t brought inside):
This plant – which I can’t seem to remember the name of of which I cannot seem to remember the name – is very unhappy on the front porch. We had a plant like this one at the old house and it thrived, but the porch at the old house didn’t get direct sunlight for hours in the morning, and the porch here does. Anyway, the pot that this plant was in didn’t have a tray to catch the water, so I needed to repot it into a pot that did, and in the pot that this plant was in, I potted the geranium Fred’s mother sent when he had his operation.
Confused yet? Anyway, because I was standing in the doorway taking pictures, I got a shot of the geranium. Just for you!
I’m not crazy about geraniums, but I have to admit that this is a pretty good-looking plant.
Oh! And while I was taking pictures, here’s a shot of the butterfly bush I ordered months ago and finally received in the mail last week:
It is not, contrary to how it looks, green at the top. That would be part of the rose bush from behind the planter. At this point, what will someday be a blooming butterfly bush is now nothing but a stick in a pot. Actually, there are two of them – one on each side of the porch.
Well, I went a little off track there, didn’t I?
Anyway, I want to put the plant – the one whose name I can’t remember – inside at the bottom of the stairs, where the basket was sitting. So, I carried the basket upstairs and put it in a corner, deciding that that was the perfect place for it. This corner:
When I came upstairs that night, the basket had been knocked over. It appears that Tubby really likes to lay in that spot, and so he weaselled his butt behind the basket and knocked it over so he could lay there.
FINE. I moved the basket so that Tubby could lay there at his leisure and wouldn’t have to knock the basket out of the way every time. I’m accomodating, I’m easy, NO PROBLEM.
I put the basket between Fred and the spud’s bedroom doors, where it fit perfectly. Oh, except that it appears:
that His Fucking Majesty likes to lay THERE as well. When I asked Fred "IS THERE ANYWHERE HE DOESN’T WANT TO LAY HIS BIG ASS?!", I was informed that Tubby likes to lay pretty much everywhere upstairs.
The little bastard. And no doubt when I finally get around to hauling the Nameless Plant inside, Tubby will be R IGHT THERE munching on it’s poor little leaves. I swear, Nance, I’m boxing his ass up and sending him to you! Let him spend his days running away from Gump and we’ll see how bitchy and demanding he is.
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