You can put lipstick on a pig...

I married That Guy. That Guy, who is so not metrosexual that it is a source of humor and sadness for me, at the same time. He's the guy who shops at Kohls for Dockers, or Men's Warehouse, or (ugh) JC Penney. He thinks this is what makes him look not douchey. He has also been saying he's a 50 year old man, since he was 41. Still not 50 dude. You probably got it now, I don't need to mention the bizarre eyebrows.

But what I don't understand is that he works in Marketing. Aren't these usually the guys that know better?

(ps: my cat is munching his toe nails behind me right now as I type, I'm trapped by gross men)

So last week I swear I heard angels singing. Mr. Right was offered a job after his 9 week hiatus (aka playing Call to Duty on the Wii and naps at 6:30 pm). This offer is to work at a European car company, in Marketing...

he came to me and said (I should have been warned here because I actually lost my breath) that he needed me to take him shopping to pick out some more "hip" clothes. Apparently, things are different at EUROPEAN car companies. I decided to downplay it and tell him that the fact he used the word hip, meant it was going to be painful. I clarified "you don't mean 'hip replacement clothes' right?"... "we're talking... Club Monaco, Banana, Nordstrom... right?".

Since that conversation, I have been trying not to scare it. I'm being gentle. Today is the day we should go shopping, but I'm going to wait for him to come and sniff my hand. I'm careful not to look him directly in the eye, just be patient. Sometimes it's best to go slow with the feral ones.

Do cheeseburgers cause tumors?

A while back I wrote about my fear of doctors, and hospitals. I'm not going to link back to it because I'm too afraid to.

At the time, I was having an ultrasound. No extraordinary issues there.

I may have been having some sort of strange insight to the future though because there is about to be some funny blog fodder coming. Or at least I hope it's lots of fun. I am going to have an MRI on Monday which is a prelude to UFE. Heard of it? Uterine Fibroid Embolization. Should be fun.

A very Doogie Howzer looking young man will be performing this procedure. He has no idea yet that I will be refusing the catheter they describe in the brochure. I just got used to the idea of staying in the hospital overnight, getting a brazilian wax before, the cheeseburger I plan to send Mr. Right to fetch for me from the Red Coat Tavern across the street, and the pain meds they have promised me. I was on a roll and they had to go and kill it by mentioning the word "catheter".

Worst word in the English language.

My plan is to not take in any fluids for 3 days before the procedure so that I'm so dehydrated that the nurse takes pity on me.

That's my dream anyway. If I'm up to it, I may blog from the hospital. If I don't grab my fuzzy slippers and escape that is.

or, how we gear up for Valentine's Day around here

When I got home from work tonight, I didn't even notice the dishes on the counters, or the full dishwasher, or the mess on the stove, or the toilet seat left up with kitty taking a drink, or Mr. Right pretending to be looking for a job on his Macbook.

I headed right to our bedroom to relax.

A minute later, it was the last straw. I was about to rip into Mr. Right for leaving his smelly clothes on the floor... when I noticed they were arranged in a heart shape.

He seriously does love me.

I envy her moxy

We have a cute little 10 gallon fish tank. We have some mollies, a swordtail, a guppy, three albino catfish because I like saying albino catfish, and two small fish that sortof glow. The fish that live here are happy, except for when my cat Oliver torments them.

We have one orange swordtail fish. A female. We had a male too, but she went all black widow on him. Can't say I blame her. He probably sweated on the machine she wanted to use at Bally's and didn't wipe up after himself. I envy her moxy.

A short while after the male was found murdered and an autopsy was done, three tiny little baby swordtails showed up in the tank that look just like girl swordtail. Some time goes by, they grow into bigger babies.

Then today, I notice MORE swordtail babies. Tiny little newborn babies. How can this be? The male was executed. What the?

I asked Mr. Right how did this happen, and he actually.... ASKED ME IF I HAVE EVER HAD A SCIENCE CLASS. I almost went all black widow myself, but internalized it instead. I repeated, "there is only one swordtail, a female". Then I heard some mumbling about how swordtails breed with mollies?

I'm no fish expert, but I know this is the equivalent of a cat breeding with a dog. In science class, don't they teach you that doesn't happen?

I love google. Right away I found what I was looking for and sent this email to Mr. Right when I got to work.

So the swordtail does not breed with other types of fish... but, they are
livebearers and if you read at the very end of this article
"a month after the first batch expect another batch from the same female. Female
livebearers store sperm in a pouch for several months and can continue to have
fry without being near another male"

In your face.

Then I did my best George Jefferson swagger all the way to lunch.

Random Thoughts Friday

The Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks is now called the GingerSNAP latte. They have something against bread.

There is really a Chevy Chase Boulevard. Life makes sense now.

I don't eat blue jelly beans. What flavor is blue? It's not blueberry. What is that?

I don't like Christmas wrapping paper with any blue on it. It seems wrong. No, I'm not prejudice against Jewish people.

Only Princess Di could ever pull off blue eyeshadow.

Does it count if you just eat the custard out of a donut?

My New Year's Resolution is to give up Trader Joe's Nutty American Trek Mix. Hold me.

If Mr. Right asks me if I ever took a science class again, I may punch him.

People say there is a grace period after the expiration date on dairy. I'm not ready to live life on that edge.

"Latin is a dead language I always say" Rushmore, 1997

"These are OR scrubs, I just came from work" Rushmore, 1997

"O R they!" Rushmore, 1997

My favorite movie of all time is Rushmore (Jason Schwartzman and Bill Murray, 1997)

I could have married a UPS driver

You may remember that new headboard. I ordered some lights for the inside of it so that I wouldn't miss the functionality of the old skank headboard. I'm sentimental that way.

Off topic, there is a wall switch in our bedroom that I have been asking Mr. Right to replace for... 2 months now. I think he has been too busy being off work because he hasn't been able to fit it into his schedule. He does have a grueling tour with Call of Duty on the Wii so I totally understand.

However, when the lights showed up in the mail today (I know this via the wonderful UPS tracking website), I sent Mr. Right an email from work asking him to leave the box alone because I would like to supervise that installation.

This triggered an argument that I am not the boss of him and he is getting his tools now to do the installing.

This is what I like to call an epiphany. I need to rethink my whole approach. Rubbing meatloaf on items that need repairing is not the way to go.

An open letter to hair stylists

Dear Husband's Hair Stylist,

When you are cutting Mr. Right's hair, please don't out of the blue say to him "so are you going to go home and take a shower after this?", then just roll your eyes when he looks at you blankly and asks you if that was a suggestion.

Because, then I have to deal with a night of obsessive questions about what he smells like. Of course I didn't help when I said "you don't smell bad, per say...", but I was starting to feel like I have a high maintenance husband, and I'm the only one who is allowed to be high maintenance. Sure, I know you people are just more personal in the way you perform your profession than the average person. I get it because every single time I am getting my hair done, my stylist is on her period and likes to describe it to me in detail. However, Mr. Right is a hetero guy and not street wise in the ways of the stylist.

Thanks, alot.

kisses.