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Tag: Shawn

Our Love is a Hormonal Teenager – 14 years of Geekery

[et_pb_section admin_label=”section”] [et_pb_row admin_label=”row”] [et_pb_column type=”4_4″] [et_pb_text admin_label=”Text”] Today is the infamous day, in the year of oh lawd, 2017, when my husband, Shawn and I celebrate 8 years of official marriage. Actual we gotta piece of paper ‘n everything! marriage, as opposed to use getting together back in 2003 and from then on our simply referring to one another as husband and wife married. Our love is fourteen years old today and if it were a teenager in today’s world…Jesus, I would feel pretty torn up being a teen this year, also with the added befuddlement of hormones, brain development, and…

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It’s like we’re coffee married!

[while I am coming out of the bathroom.] “You know…I wouldn’t be adverse to you making more coffee. Just puttin’ that out there. Y’know. Just in case.” [ Stop in mid step. Widen eyes. GASP. Flail my arms, ] ” OH MY GOD I just got the greatest idea ever…What IF…” [Pretends to lean on the wall and looks enthralled.] “WHAT if…WHAT IF….What if I made some more coffee?” “HOLY SHIT it’s like you can read my mind!” “I NO RITE???” makes more coffee. Life returns to usual morning routine.

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To my Husband in the New Year.

You are my little planet, my earth. Hard packed from the way my feet pace back and forth in your heart–worrying about the things you’d never think of. Because really, they aren’t things that were meant to be worried about. Do you think I will die first? What will happen if you do? You know, I cannot live without you. I would have to go right after. You watch as I say these things and wring my hands as old women in markets haggling over the price of life. Your earth is soft and cool;  never too hot or baked from Floridian…

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The beautiful, calming sounds of a crazy fat man. Now for your phone!

I slept in on Thursday. Like, slept in a lot. Every once in a while I get hit with the sleepy bug, especially when Shawn is home. I just…sleep better. A lot better. Lots and lots better. Sometimes it borders on it being a coma. Imagine my surprise however, when I woke up to plug in my phone and noticed that when I did it didn’t make the normal noises my phone should make. Oh no. No, see–my phone emitted my husbands voice. My phone went, in Shawn’s voice, “boopBeep!” In my stunned silence as I stared at my phone my husband began chortling like…

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First date snob.

Me: [Reads a screenshot of a twitter play-by-play of possibly the worst date in Starbucks history. Starts giggle snorting.] Shawn: “What?” Me: [Reads it.] Both of us: “Oh my god. That was awful.” Me: “He took her to Starbucks. Who does that?” Shawn: [Look over his glasses at me.] “Go get a coffee? On the first date. You know?” Me: [Stare.] Shawn: “It’s the first date. ‘Let’s get to know each other and see if the dating thing is plausible’ thing?” Me: “Who the fuck does that? Nobody does that. Take me out for gourmet dinner and diamonds.” Shawn: [Snort.] “People…

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I can’t imagine

I can’t imagine loving me. I am a difficult woman to understand. For the longest time in my life I was nothing more than a ball of smothering love and sulfurous self-hate, mingling together until neither side could determine who would win and one moment I was loving the world and the next minute I was sobbing over broken incense burners. How do you love someone like that? How do you dedicate—willingly—your life and spending it with someone who’s apparently emotional maturity is that of a confused and angry seven year old? I don’t know. For the longest time, I…

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Finding some way to smile about it.

I love the holidays. Specifically, I love that as I am on my own I can celebrate the holidays–within budget–how I see fit. I can’t understand how celebrating in your own way, where it harms none, becomes a point of grumbling to some. Yesterday I begged Shawn to take me to the Dollar store to see if we could afford a few more decorations for Halloween/Samhain/All Hallow’s Eve. We spent less than $10 and I was able to walk out with 2 head stones, orange pumpkin garland, spider webbing, creepy cloth, a jack o’ lantern lamp and two black ravens.…

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With great bread there must also come–great nomability.

It’s dangerous knowing how to make great homemade bread. At first, it doesn’t seem like it. You fail a few times and chew stoically on your fifty pound loaf that should have come out light and fluffy because damn it, you MADE this and you’re gonna EAT it and pretend to ENJOY it because it took you HOURS to make it. You think back on everything everyone has told you about bread, with their sneering Bread Overlord smug smiles and advice such as: oh, you’ll know when it’s right. You’ll FEEEEEEEEELLLLL it. Then they secretly bro-fist one another behind your back…

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Arguments in the key of 2GP

“I don’t understand how you do this. ” “Do what?” “This! This kitchen thing you do.  There were EIGHT THOUSAND bowls in the sink and seventeen knives. What do you need EIGHT THOUSAND bowls for!” “Really? Really. Eight thousand? Whatever, Mister Flour ALL OVER the sink and the counter and some on the walls and ooooon the flooooors and socks by his desk and glasses on the desk and never cleans the surface of the–” “That has nothing to do with the fact–” “–cabinets or the cabinet doors or the fingerprints on the refrigerator or sweep and mop the floors…

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