Car Beer.

"You hanging out the window yelling CHUG CHUG CHUG while I am refilling the windshield washer fluid at a busy gas station is not something I ever want to experience again."


Our heroine makes herself sick.

Today I made myself horribly ill. I also lost fifty bucks. That's fifty Canadian dollars, not the peanuts you call USD.

Picture this. I am sitting on the couch reading Dostoevsky in the original Russian (playing Viva Pinata on the x-box) with my bone china teacup of freshly steeped peppermint herbal tea sitting on the butler tray in front of me (bottle of pepsi shoved under a thigh) and idly pondering how utterly fantastic and gorgeous I am (utterly fantastic and gorgeous).

B puts on a classical piece by Gorecki for both of us to enjoy (starts singing She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy while in the shower) and enquires shortly after if I would mind if he grilled some lemon pork and whipped up some fresh tzatziki for lunch (yells his intention to go get burgers and fries from within said shower). With the menu settled, I decide that I'm a tad peckish right then and wonder aloud if I should munch on something (munch on something).

B stops and stares for a full minute, and then points out that lunch is only 20 minutes away at the most. Clearly living with the guy for 10 years has fucked with his memory, because I don't recall giving him the impression I am anything but a gourmet (pig). And I remind him that I am fully capable of eating some snackfoods en masse without ruining my appetite. Like nuts. He went with the childish man giggle because I said "nuts", and I patiently began to smack talk...boasting of all the times I had trained myself for this very moment with dim sum events through my history.

"You will make yourself ill, sweetheart."
("I'm not cleaning up puke, you heathen.")

"Darling, I am capable of judging my stomach capacity."
("Fuck you, I'm not a heathen. I have a delightful appetite you cock.")


"Your silence speaks volumes, my dear."
("You are such a manboy.")

"Shall we place a friendly wager on your ability?"
("Fifty bucks says you can't eat a bag of pistachios.")

"Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios."
("Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios.")

"I'm sure you can, but just one bag will suffice. The non-red ones."
("I'm sure you can, but one bag'll do. Just not the red ones or you'll get it everywhere.")

"Good call."
("Good call.")

And thus the wager was set. Soon after, he came home with a bag. Of nuts. From the bulk aisle. One kilogram. That fucker.


Lyric Abuse

The date? A few days ago. The place? The stairs. Time? Fucked if I know.

Backstory. The entire day I had been annoying B by reciting lyrics in response to anything he said. He failed to appreciate the significant talent that lies in being able to find the exact lyric that conveys the proper response in less than thirty seconds. It is because he is simple-minded.

Cut to. Heading up the stairs, he phrased a question in my general direction. Amateur.

Alright, so you are caught up. He tosses me a question and I respond with another lyric. "Too many men. Too many people. Too many problems. And not enough love to go around." He turned around slowly and stared me down, while I started up the stairs after him. A few dramatic pauses.....and he yells.


I knew I married this dude for a reason.

* I am aware these aren't the exact lyrics. Get off my back.



"Shut up and just drink it without the show, Angel."


"Enough already. Just swallow it."


"Next bottle is Buckleys."

"OHMYGODTHEHORR....oh. Okay. I'm cool."


An old birthday tale.

(plucked from my marital archives circa 2007)

Enter morning. B wakes up and he's pissing and moaning about how fucking old he is. He refuses to get out of bed. He is talking about needing a hip replacement. It's his birthday today, you see.

So, with a short burst of speed and a massive flying leap toward his aging body, I get ready to punch him in the thigh. Really really hard. Just to remind him that he's not old. And I yell "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" while flying through the air with my fist coiled for action.

Instead I punched him really really hard...

...right in the nuts.

Thankfully he was already lying on the bed and he was able to pass out gracefully.

So I had to go buy him a new xbox to make up for it. Seriously. How else does one apologize for the THIRD WORST BIRTHDAY GIFT EVER GIVEN BY ANYONE AT ANY POINT IN TIME? First being genocide (but in retrospect I suppose that is what happened down there this morning) and the second being a bolo tie.

If he doesn't die of penis-punching complications, I can only assume he will carry through on his threat to divorce me. This, of course, was pre-xbox, so hopefully he has forgotten about shouting that at me. Hopefully. How long does penis punching pain last, exactly?

Number One.

Hello there interwebs. I am compiling all the little stories, essays, and outright lies I've told about my marriage into one place. This place. It shouldn't take me long. But I also said that about losing ten pounds. Some perspective is good.