Tuesday Three.
List three things you’ve drank today yesterday (since it’s still pretty early for me):
1) Water
2) Diet Snapple Pink Lemonade (not sure if I like it or not)
3) Diet Snapple Lime Green Tea
List three things you’ve eaten today yesterday:
1) Boiled shrimp.
2) Roasted asparagus.
3) String cheese.
List three talents you wish you had:
1) I wish I had zero fear of speaking in public (is that a talent?).
2) I wish I could play any kind of musical instrument.
3) I wish I could sing.
* * *
Fred and I went for another hike yesterday, this one here in Madison on Rainbow Mountain. I had to yell at him on Sunday because every single day since I brought up the idea of hiking together a few days a week, he’s brought it up CONSTANTLY.
“Let’s go for a hike around Rainbow!” he likes to say, right after I’ve eaten and have had to make 63 trips to the bathroom.
“Let’s go up the Waterline trail!” he likes to say, when I’m in the middle of having a relaxing day.
“Let’s go for a hike around Rainbow!” he likes to say, when I’m in the middle of doing housework.
Finally, Sunday afternoon, when he tried the “Let’s go for a hike around Rainbow!” for the zillionth time, I let him have.
“Would you SHUT THE FUCK UP about hiking?!” I yelled. “Just because I suggested we start hiking together doesn’t mean I want you harassing the fucking shit out of me sixteen fucking times a day! If you don’t knock it off, I’m never going hiking with you again and you can climb goddamn Mt. Katahdin on your OWN!”
I might possibly have been PMSing.
So yesterday when he got home from work and we were laying on the bed talking, he said “Are you in a good mood?”
I groaned. “WHYYYYYYYYYYY? What do you have to tell me?”
“I’d like to suggest, in the most non-harassing way possible, that we go for a hike after dinner.”
I thought about it, took a mental inventory of how I felt, and said “Maybe. Ask me after dinner.”
Obviously – since I already said we went for a hike yesterday – I decided I was up for it.
On the way to the mountain, Fred started asking me about what kind of hike I wanted to go on. “Do you want to go downhill and then flat and then uphill at the end? Do you want to go downhill and then uphill and then flat at the end? Do you want to go uphill and then downhill and then uphill again and then a little bit flat and then uphill again?”
“Goddamn!” I said. “I don’t want uphill at the end, otherwise I don’t care!”
“We’ll go on the downhill, then uphill, then flat at the end, so you can cool down a little.”
He is such a fucking liar. We went on the downhill, this is true. And then we went uphill, also true. And then it was flat for about three feet, and then it was uphill almost the entire way back to the car.
“I guess this isn’t as flat as I thought,” he said.
“No,” I said, gasping and panting for air. “Some people might even call it UPHILL.”
It took us 45 minutes to do a mile of hiking. This does not bode well for our three-mile hike on Wednesday.
And at the end? I was dripping with sweat, and he had not a single drop of sweat anywhere on him.
I hate him.
* * *
When we got home, we settled in front of our computers, me to check my mail and Fred to call about a couple of houses we’d seen in a “Homes and Land” magazine. I glanced toward the front door and saw Miz Poo and Mister Boogers sitting there.
“How odd,” I thought. “They never sit there like that. What’s going on?” And I leaned forward and saw that, under the table in the corner by the stairs, was a bird, just calmly standing there. And the cats were calmly standing there watching it.
“Hang up the phone,” I said to Fred. “We’ve got a bird.”
Fred told me to go get him some gloves, and once he put them on (hot pink gloves I keep under the sink for cleaning, which looked quite SMASHING on him, if I do say so) he reached under the table and picked up the bird, who didn’t fight or squawk or resist in any way.
(I like the picture of Tubby, Patron Saint of Bird-Killing Cats, hanging in the background)
Fred walked the bird to the back door, went out into the back yard, held out his hand, and the bird flew off.
It was the calmest bird experience we’ve ever had. I bet that the bird’s refusal to fight or fly frantically around the house is what saved his life.
Anyone know what kind of bird that is?
* * *
The happiest kitty in the! whole! world!
The old grouch, curled up and sleeping.
* * *
Previously
2005: Gives a whole new meaning to the term of endearment “Shithead”, doesn’t it?
2004: No entry.
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: What the FUCK is going on with Meg Ryan’s hair?!
2001: House hunting.
2000: Any way you slice it, it’s going to be one hell of a long drive.]]>