I'm Not As Cool As Ya'll Think

The dreads have gone.*

I loved the way they looked, really I did, but they required more of me on some days than even my children. The waxing, the twisting, the back-combing, the re-banding and re-arranging after sleeping--it was too much. Also, it turns out I have a mild form of Hair OCD, and I cannot, cannot,  live happily without washing and brushing my hair for days at a time. Who knew?

I only wish I was a hippie. Dreads are not for me. Duh, right? I should have known because shaving my legs brings me pleasure like few other things, especially when I can do it right before slipping in between some clean cotton sheets.  I also eat un-organic things and my children have both been vaccinated and I routinely and voluntarily consume both hotdogs (gasp!) and bologna (bring on the lips and assholes!). Clearly I am not now, and have never been, completely committed to the hippie cause. Except for the peace and love thing, I still be down with that.

That last slip into white-girl gangsta speech reminds me of something that happened just the other day. Dashing Husband and I were in bed a couple of nights ago (fully clothed and engaging in no hanky panky--now go do some penance for your impure thoughts!) when Dashing Husband, after one of my wacky suggestions, told me, "That's not how I roll."

When I finally stopped giggling, I said, "You're Whitey White Boy. That's not how you roll." As if a red-headed, palefaced, conspicuously tall man of Irish descent could roll.

ANYway. Not much else happening around these parts. Gus's birthday party was a success, many robots were received, and the FUCKING DOG ate the birthday cake. You'll pardon my language, it was either use an expletive or tie her to the bumper of my car and drag her to her death.

You see, I made a fabulous yellow layer cake with chocolate chips in it. From scratch. I also made blue buttercream frosting. From scratch. And then Will woke up, and I went to soothe him back to sleep, and when I returned to the kitchen, the FUCKING DOG was standing with her paws on the counter. EATING THE CAKE. If I had been less angry I would have taken a picture because in the back of my mind I was thinking, ooh blog this!

When Dashing Husband found out what had happened (Catcher is, after all, his FUCKING DOG) he offered to buy a new cake mix and/or new cake. But I had completely lost all motivation at that point. "There were chocolate chips in that," I pointed out. I was thinking, though I did not say it, that it would be lucky if the chocolate killed the FUCKING DOG. "Let me go get some more," Dashing Husband replied. "It doesn't seem to be working."

And that, my friends, is why we're married. He read my mind, and though the chocolate did not kill the FUCKING DOG as I had hoped--well, it was something to know that Dashing Husband can tap into my psyche on such a molecular level.

*I did not shave my head. I bought the Knotty Boy Emergency Dreadlock Removal Kit, and you would never know that just a few days ago my hair was nappy!

Comments

[morganbosley]

Love you girl. Sorry the dreads didn't work.

Sorry that the dog didn't eat enough chocolet.

Smiles and love,
Casey

[Jacqui]

You said Fuck.

[sharon]

Monty ate a hunk out of our wedding cake while it was cooling. I thought C was going to kill the dog. Luckily, it was the bottom layer, and (Upon my suggestion, of course) C was able to cut that layer down and use it as the middle layer. You may have eaten dog spit at our wedding.

[Mom]

Saints Preserve Us!

[Kelly]

I came in to find the dog taking a chomp out of a cake I was taking to the inlaws. I thought about redoing it for a moment, and then just patched the missing chunk with icing.

[Lompoc42]

If the dog had ate my cake, I'd have made him FUCKING ICING to patch the whole. :)

[mamadaisy]

all our pets are fucking pets. excuse me, FUCKING pets.

and yes, dashing husband rocks.

[morganbosley]

One of our dogs once ate..

1. pound of raw beef!

1. bottle of asprins

1. pin cushion

1. box of chocolet

and yes is still alive (damn)