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Archive for September, 2004

|| September 3, 2004 || 1:12 am || Comments (5) ||

Hey Diego, swear on my telephone it’s true.

Well, my gaahhhhhd.

How to tell you? How to tell you that crazy, swirly things happen and you, at eleven-thirteen Central Standard Time on a slow-moving Thursday night, could have your stomach dropping to your ankles and bouncing back up to jog your heart, sending warmth and murmurs rolling through it like the world’s most pleasant of Chinook Winds?

That someone can be missed horribly without you ever knowing, without you ever having knowledge of the full context of it until they come flailing back into your sphere of existence.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

All we can see is a bare shoulder and a tumble of hair. So still is she amidst the security of comforter and pillows that she could be dead; she has mastered the art of sleeping at last. The phone rings; it wakes the young woman in the bed. She knows instinctively who it is.

HER: Whatcha doin’?

HIM: Eatin’ a donut. Just smoked a bowl.

HER: Mmmph. What day is it?

HIM: The day you get to talk to me, loser.

HER: Fuh-uhhhhck, I get to do that every day.

HIM: And what a lucky young lady that makes you.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Hit it, champy:

If you were here right now, I would give you, like, such a noogie.

|| September 1, 2004 || 10:39 am || Comments (15) ||

It all evens out in the wash.

In a supreme display of love, devotion and egalitarianism, I changed clothes detergent when Maxim and I got married. It seems that he has ’sensitive skin’. His mother informed me after I married him that, “Oh yes, I’ve always had to use Brand Ex, because that’s the only one that doesn’t break him out.”

(side note: He is also allergic to latex. Thus, Mathias. I’m sure all of you were dying to know that, so there you have it. /side note)

It could possibly have been a deal-breaker, because I am one of those jackasses that clings fervently to a very few things (once I’ve found them worthy of being labeled with the adjective YAY!) until they are discontinued or die: lipsticks, hairdressers, moisturizers, salad dressings, female friends, clothes detergent. I am sad to admit that yes, I am –although it is selectively done– rabidly brand-loyal.

But wisely, everyone in Maxim’s extended family waited to slide this info to me (and he was smart enough to not require any laundry duty of me) until after the nuptials. I am a woman of character and would never, ever in a million years divorce someone over their choice of laundry soap.

(Soda pop flavors, however, are an entirely different matter. Mike and Biff? Both Co-Cola drinkers. Co-Cola drinkers apparently make very, very bad husbands.)

So I’m flexible, right? I can accommodate. And I do accommodate. Despite the fact that I am the Very Most Importanttm person in this house, I realize I live with others and they have their own needs. Sometimes I even let them hold the remote.

Alright, as our groundwork, we’ve established that I’m a giver; I canna help it…it’s in my (evil, evil, so very dastardly) nature. But I am also reservedly product-loyal.

So you people can understand why, when I reached for the laundry detergent yesterday evening and found it to be the same brand but a different scent, I let fly with a primal wail so long and loud as to have the entire Superior family gathered at the utility room door within mere seconds. The children were sent away, Maxim was chided for his foolish, risk-taking behavior, he was sufficiently penitent (promising never, ever, EVER to do such a thing again) to merit begrudging forgiveness and was summarily dismissed to go on daydreaming about hairy hippie women and the perfect homebrewed lager.

He would have not gotten off so lightly had it not been for Monday afternoon.

Maxim is off work on Mondays. In deference to that, I carry my caseload on other days. That way he and I get to spend a little time together smoking crackrock and forcing the terrified woman tied to our bedstead to do the same yukking it up and maybe catching a flick or sommat. ‘Or sommat’ meaning all up on it wit da nookie.

You see, in our household, during the school year, Mondays are guaranteed fundays, dear and loyal Muffinasses. Yesssss, indeedy. It’s so easy to get a piece of ass around here on Mondays between eight ay emm (have to hold an hour-and-a-half after the threepack gets on the bus in reserve in the event that we are criminally forced to make a mad dash to school to ferry some forgotten object) and two pee emm that it should be criminal. Mmmm, handcuffs….


Kind of.

So Mondays: It’s fun getting laid in the various parts of the house that are off-limits when the wee ones are gadding about. This past Monday, however, found us in the environs of our bedroom (new manymanythreadcount sheets I found impossibly cheap at Ross, WOO!) awash in really great sensations. Upon completion of the gymnastics, as we lie there smooching and glowing and shit like that, we could hear the neighbor across the street mowing away at his lawn.

Maxim suddenly popped up on his knees, opened the blinds, and yelled, “HA-HA! You’re mowing the yard and we’re doing it!!”

Between waves of choking laughter, I said two things:

“You have just ensured that I will never, ever be able to get really mad at you ay-GAIN.”

“Dude, I’m blogging that.”