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Posts Tagged ‘husband’

A Week of Why, Part I

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , on November 18, 2008| 1 Comment »

In honor of my wedding anniversary this Wednesday, I’ll be posting a week’s worth of reasons of why I’m still married to the guy who showed up 45 minutes late to our first date driving a drafty Volkswagen Vanagon.

Part I
Because last night, while mocking old music videos from the ’80s on YouTube, we had this conversation:

Bill: I’m trying to think of just one more good one. What about “Safety Dance”?
Me: Isn’t that the one with people dressed like they’re at a Renaissance Fair?
Bill: It has midgets.
Me: Oh, hell yeah.

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Sleeping single in a double bed

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on November 2, 2008| Leave a Comment »

I’ve been secretly living alone for the past 2.5 weeks. Secretly in deference to my mother and husband, who didn’t think the world should know that I was alone in the house at night.

The husband spent nearly three weeks in New Jersey on business. I spent nearly three weeks being really bad at being single, eating turkey bacon and wheat toast every night for dinner and strewing project papers all over the living room.

In what should have been an ill-advised move, I also watched a couple of horror movies by myself: “The Ring” and “Pet Sematary.” Either I’ve become so jaded that movies don’t scare me anymore, or I just picked the wrong movies (a certainty in the second case).

At any rate, Bill’s back, the living room has been cleared of lit articles and the toaster has been stowed under the cabinet. The pre-Halloween airing of every horror movie ever made is finally over, so no more temptation there.

In short, we’re back the the DINK lifestyle that we’ve come to know and love. I didn’t realize I’d miss it so much.

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On the Highway to Hell, finally

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on October 22, 2008| 1 Comment »

In every relationship, there are schisms, disagreements over past events that will never be resolved. These can run from the minor to the catastrophic, from aggravating to infuriating.

Also, apparently, there are events that are not your fault at all, but you end up being held accountable for them anyway.

My little brother got married on the same night that AC/DC played at the Mississippi Gulf Coast Coliseum in Biloxi. In fairness, the wedding was scheduled months before the concert was scheduled.

My husband did not get to go to the concert. To add insult to injury, we stayed at the casino nearest the coliseum, and had to see the fans leaving the next morning, resplendent in their black concert T-shirts and hangovers.

In retrospect, I should have dropped him off at the coliseum on the way to the reception.

For several years, any time AC/DC has come on the radio, any time Rolling Stone runs an article on AC/DC, any time the topic of concerts comes up, Bill reminds me of the hole in his concert roster. I remind him that it’s not my fault, and silently remind myself to be quicker about changing the radio station or hiding the Rolling Stone next time.

So I’m happy to announce that AC/DC is on tour yet again, and we have snagged tickets to the Nashville show. I can finally stop censoring magazines and radio broadcasts.

Thank you, AC/DC, for touring again. And thank you, Rob, for staying married so I don’t have to hear about what a waste of time it was to go to that wedding instead of AC/DC.

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Goats of Wrath

Posted in Photographs, tagged , , , , , , on October 15, 2008| 3 Comments »


I don’t have a thing for goats. Really. The photo at the top of this blog just struck me as a cool image, a unique moment in time.

The husband and I had just finished making our way through a north Alabama corn maze (an especially bad idea, given that I grew up spending summers on a Mississippi farm and knew how miserable a cornfield was in August). Making our way back to the car, we stopped at the advertised “goat walk,” and this is what we found. A lone goat on an elevated walkway. He wasn’t picking stocks or diving into a plastic pool. He was just walking. On the goat walk.

When I was about 2 years old, I’m told, I developed a terrific fear of goats. I got my signals crossed with the “Billy Goats Gruff” fairy tale and thought that goats were the bad guys. This may or may not have had anything to do with my grandfather, whose story embellishments were legendary.

At any rate, my fear of goats led me to pull my feet up anytime I sat down, proclaiming that the billy goats were going to get me. This lasted until my dad took me to the nearest petting zoo and introduced me to the goats, decidedly non-scary furry creatures. My phobia was cured.

So goats and I go back a long way.

The goat on the goat walk seemed a little embarrassed, like he knew how ridiculous the whole contraption really was, how futile it was to be part of a rural circus put on for city folk. I felt a little embarrassed for him, too.

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