So since we're all in the sharing mood, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I'm kind of shallow. Surprising, but true. Some people need to have depth in their life, but not me. I'm completely content to stay in the kiddie pool. If the surface water looks clear, I am not sticking my hand down in there only to have an eel bite me. Eels are ugly, vicious creatures. This one time, while at an aquarium in North Carolina, I was having a fantastic time viewing all of the creatures in the main tank. Everything was going swell right up until the moray eel poked its ugly face out of its hiding place. Ick. It was so creepy and disgusting... and creepy, undulating towards the divers spreading the food around. Did you know that some people actually eat eel? Who does that? Listen, if something is going to be my dinner, it can't be too cute, or too ugly. Luckily, chickens are in the in between and their stupidity makes them that much easier to swallow. I feel like I'm doing the world a service everytime I cut into a tender, juicy chicken breast.
So, where was I before this became a KFC advertisement? Right, then. Back to what I was blathering on about. I'm pretty sure I own the book The Art of War by Sun Tzu but I never even got past the opening dedication. I can tell you that it's a fantastic door stop, spider smasher, and in a pinch can be used as a mouse pad. So whenver someone starts talking about some profound subject that supposedly has shaped the course of civilization, I find it absolutely necessary to interrupt them with anecdotes on crazy celebrity behavior. Between you, me and the fence post, I'll leave the deep thoughts to Jack Handey.
Some women require depth to their love. They need to know that their men have a telepathic mainline into their brain, and every emotion that flits through them as their day progresses. They need to know that their men get them, without them even opening their mouths. Luckily for him, I have no such expectations of Chris. In fact, my expectations are as follows (and in order of importance): The sun rising tomorrow, the toilet seat remaining in the downward position, and that Chris comes home to me at night. I'm not even noting conversation on there, or date night or flowers on Sunday, because those things don't matter. I already know he loves me for 2 reasons.
Reason #1. On a weekly basis, I misplace my keys. He will immediately stop what he is doing, and organize a search and rescue team complete with dogs to help me look for my keys. He will get down on his hands and knees, braving the ferocious dust bunnies that dwell under the couch and in short, investigate the disappearance of my keys with a singlemindedness that would make David Caruso reconsider his current acting gig. And when they turn up in my purse, standing out so conspicuously as to be dancing a jig across the straps, where I had sworn 3 times previously that I had checked my purse and they couldnt possibly be in there, he doesnt utter a sound. He doesnt even raise an eyebrow. He will calmly resume whatever activity he was previously engaged in, and let the matter drop.
Reason #2. I have a bad case of the dropsies. I've had a bad case of the dropsies for all of my life, but now that my back is playing the 'ha ha ha you want to bend over, and then stand back up straight?, you're funny' game, dropping stuff all of the time is really a nuisance. I try, oh Lord do I try, not to drop stuff. But inevitably, I get tired which means I get clumsy. Well, clumsier than normal. Whenever I drop stuff and he's around, he will always pick it up for me. Always. I'll be in the kitchen, and he'll be in the living room, and I'll drop something. Before I even have a chance to position myself to bend over and pick it up, his long arm will reach from the couch to where I am standing and pick it up for me. Bless his ever lovin' heart. Note: I have considered playing the drop and pick up game with him, just to see how far I can take it, but then I think, 'no, no, self, you really shouldnt press your luck'.
So the next time you post a pic of you and your SO sucking face as your profile pic with undying love facebook declarations, telling your friends that 'he gets you' and is 'plugged in' you can take that "Nobody puts baby in a corner" shit and shove it. Who needs all that nonsense? Not me. Just help me find my car keys and pick up the shit I drop. I'm easy, okay?
So, where was I before this became a KFC advertisement? Right, then. Back to what I was blathering on about. I'm pretty sure I own the book The Art of War by Sun Tzu but I never even got past the opening dedication. I can tell you that it's a fantastic door stop, spider smasher, and in a pinch can be used as a mouse pad. So whenver someone starts talking about some profound subject that supposedly has shaped the course of civilization, I find it absolutely necessary to interrupt them with anecdotes on crazy celebrity behavior. Between you, me and the fence post, I'll leave the deep thoughts to Jack Handey.
Some women require depth to their love. They need to know that their men have a telepathic mainline into their brain, and every emotion that flits through them as their day progresses. They need to know that their men get them, without them even opening their mouths. Luckily for him, I have no such expectations of Chris. In fact, my expectations are as follows (and in order of importance): The sun rising tomorrow, the toilet seat remaining in the downward position, and that Chris comes home to me at night. I'm not even noting conversation on there, or date night or flowers on Sunday, because those things don't matter. I already know he loves me for 2 reasons.
Reason #1. On a weekly basis, I misplace my keys. He will immediately stop what he is doing, and organize a search and rescue team complete with dogs to help me look for my keys. He will get down on his hands and knees, braving the ferocious dust bunnies that dwell under the couch and in short, investigate the disappearance of my keys with a singlemindedness that would make David Caruso reconsider his current acting gig. And when they turn up in my purse, standing out so conspicuously as to be dancing a jig across the straps, where I had sworn 3 times previously that I had checked my purse and they couldnt possibly be in there, he doesnt utter a sound. He doesnt even raise an eyebrow. He will calmly resume whatever activity he was previously engaged in, and let the matter drop.
Reason #2. I have a bad case of the dropsies. I've had a bad case of the dropsies for all of my life, but now that my back is playing the 'ha ha ha you want to bend over, and then stand back up straight?, you're funny' game, dropping stuff all of the time is really a nuisance. I try, oh Lord do I try, not to drop stuff. But inevitably, I get tired which means I get clumsy. Well, clumsier than normal. Whenever I drop stuff and he's around, he will always pick it up for me. Always. I'll be in the kitchen, and he'll be in the living room, and I'll drop something. Before I even have a chance to position myself to bend over and pick it up, his long arm will reach from the couch to where I am standing and pick it up for me. Bless his ever lovin' heart. Note: I have considered playing the drop and pick up game with him, just to see how far I can take it, but then I think, 'no, no, self, you really shouldnt press your luck'.
So the next time you post a pic of you and your SO sucking face as your profile pic with undying love facebook declarations, telling your friends that 'he gets you' and is 'plugged in' you can take that "Nobody puts baby in a corner" shit and shove it. Who needs all that nonsense? Not me. Just help me find my car keys and pick up the shit I drop. I'm easy, okay?
"If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let'em go,
because, man, they're gone."
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