Dirty Bird [dur-tee burd]

(noun). This is the guy (or gal!) who thinks it’s gonna win them a reward to shout something dirty or suggestive–and perhaps also gesticulate–out a car window at someone before speeding away. The dirty bird’s approach: fly in, swoop low, drop a load of crap, maybe strut around a little bit, then flit away, chirping merrily to the other dirty birds about what they’ve just done.

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Chief Complaint: Stabby Pain

My dear, sweet husband has been asking to take me to the ER all day because he’s convinced I have an ulcer. I’m convinced that after his recent finger+hedge trimmer incident we need to avoid ridiculous ER bills for a while and I should try to get in with my GP tomorrow instead. Also, “I’m not dead yet!” and I can sit up and type this, so I’m clearly not ready for the ER, right? RIGHT.

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Servants’ Quarters

After being sick and stuck on the sofa all week–I was sick; he was stuck on the sofa with me, or anyway, he was kind enough to hang around and pretend to be interested in my sofa adventures–we decided to venture out into the world today. Cue drumroll, ’cause it was epic. I actually masked my under eye circles and put on earrings! And clothes!

Our favorite draft house hangout was sold out for the afternoon except for the VERY front rows of the theaters, so we decided on another of our favorite weekend pastimes, open housing. (Front row seats in the latter activity involve less neck pain and eyestrain, you see.) We spent the afternoon touring open houses in our area, contemplating real estate prices, decorating and remodeling options, and the move we keep talking about maybe possibly making sometime in the yet-to-be decided future.

We wandered through some pretty neighborhoods and into one particularly gorgeous house, and upon asking the real estate agent for the list price, we both giggled when she announced the price tag. I may break some rules of social etiquette, but I do know it’s rude to talk about money so I’ve edited that out here and you’re welcome. Anyway, I think it’s not going to offend anyone here when I say the price tag was just a tad outside our price range, by, well, just a smidge. (She quoted it and B said “Yeah, that’s about double what we’re looking for.” Only, he was lying because the price tag was about three times what we’d be in for at this stage of our lives, or the next or the one after that.)

The real estate agent giggled with us–fortunately, not at us, bless her for that–when I asked if there was a servant’s door through which we should quietly excuse ourselves after we heard the price tag. Continue reading “Servants’ Quarters”

Game Time

C: Hubby just texted me to say, “It’s time to play everyone’s favorite game.” I waited for a followup message but received none, so I decided to answer, “Pin the party hat on the naked fireman?” Turns out the real answer is, “Where is my hotel?” and he was not amused.

E:  That is NOT as fun as pin the party hat on the naked fireman. That is not as fun as ANYTHING you do with a naked fireman.

C: How about, “Where is my hotel where I left my naked fireman?”

E: Could be fun. Could be incredibly frustrating.

Happy Nine Years, Dude.

Most years I just lie to my mom now when she asks if I’ve had my flu shot, but I happened to be at the doctor’s office for a routine appointment when they were administering quadrivalent flu shots this year, so I got one. (Quadrivalent, for those of you who don’t know what it means, translates loosely to “bad mamma jamma.” Bad mamma jamma, in turn, can lead to some fun Web searches if you don’t know what it means.) Afterward, I promptly called my mom to tell her how responsible I’d been, in hopes that it might buy me a year or two during which she won’t nag me about flu shots. That theory was scrapped today when she found out I’m sick and she started a new chant that I’m certain is sponsored by whoever produces Tamiflu.

Anyway, flu shot. Did it. And now after comparing symptoms with my sister who was tested for the flu and diagnosed with one of the A types, it turns out that this mini-plague I’m suffering now may actually be the flu. Except I’m handling it far better than unvaccinated folks would, so contrary to all the whining I’m doing to my husband, it won’t in fact be the end of me.

Continue reading “Happy Nine Years, Dude.”