What with its being Valentine's Day and all, many of the ladies of SG are probably thinking to themselves: Boy-howdy, I wish I had a romantic fellow like FatDavid8 in my life...which is understandable as I am, as those of you who read this journal know, quite the catch. Those of you who aren't thinking thusly may want to reconsider after reading the account of my Valentine's day morn below:
M.F., my wife of nine years, and I were walking to work together from the parking lot at 8 o'clock this morning when we happened to cross a patch of ice and snow all jumbled together, a sort of winter's equivalent to gravel and sand. As we walked along, our steps made an irritating crunchy/squeaky sound {a sort of: "screeetch, scritch, scritch, scritch"}, and M.F. remarked: "Aagh! I hate that sound!"
"Me, too!" I replied. "It makes that sound whenever I try to wipe my manky butt. That's why I never wipe."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. Birdcup's butt {Birdcup is one of our cats} sounds like that, too. She doesn't like it, so she never wipes, either."
"Your butts make that sound when you wipe?" M.F. asked incredulously.
"Not anymore," I explained, "because we've stopped wiping...because of the sound. Sometimes, of course, when my pants are too tight, the butt nuggets between my cheeks make that sound when they rub together. That's why I usually wear such baggy pants and affect such an ambling gait."
"Well, Birdcup is pretty fluffy. I can see why things might get caught in her hair, but..."
"Well, I'm pretty hairy, too. Would you care to see?"
"No, thank you. But I can't see why you can't take care of keeping things clean back there. I mean, she's just a cat. You're a human. You have opposable thumbs."
"Don't I know it! They're both opposed to going back there. That's why I have the crusty mankiness on my butt."
Before we could finish our exchange, we arrived at work, and M.F. seemed not to want to continue with it in front of our co-workers for some reason.
So, just imagine: if you had yourselves a man like me, you could start almost every day with dialogue like that. Really gets the old romantic juices flowing, doesn't it? Why, if M.F. didn't have this recurring headache that she's had off-and-on {mostly on} since 1995, we'd doubtlessly be making with the hot monkey loving right now. Instead, I guess I'll be spending this Valentine's day with the other woman in my life.
Oh, well: there's always next year.
M.F., my wife of nine years, and I were walking to work together from the parking lot at 8 o'clock this morning when we happened to cross a patch of ice and snow all jumbled together, a sort of winter's equivalent to gravel and sand. As we walked along, our steps made an irritating crunchy/squeaky sound {a sort of: "screeetch, scritch, scritch, scritch"}, and M.F. remarked: "Aagh! I hate that sound!"
"Me, too!" I replied. "It makes that sound whenever I try to wipe my manky butt. That's why I never wipe."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. Birdcup's butt {Birdcup is one of our cats} sounds like that, too. She doesn't like it, so she never wipes, either."
"Your butts make that sound when you wipe?" M.F. asked incredulously.
"Not anymore," I explained, "because we've stopped wiping...because of the sound. Sometimes, of course, when my pants are too tight, the butt nuggets between my cheeks make that sound when they rub together. That's why I usually wear such baggy pants and affect such an ambling gait."
"Well, Birdcup is pretty fluffy. I can see why things might get caught in her hair, but..."
"Well, I'm pretty hairy, too. Would you care to see?"
"No, thank you. But I can't see why you can't take care of keeping things clean back there. I mean, she's just a cat. You're a human. You have opposable thumbs."
"Don't I know it! They're both opposed to going back there. That's why I have the crusty mankiness on my butt."
Before we could finish our exchange, we arrived at work, and M.F. seemed not to want to continue with it in front of our co-workers for some reason.
So, just imagine: if you had yourselves a man like me, you could start almost every day with dialogue like that. Really gets the old romantic juices flowing, doesn't it? Why, if M.F. didn't have this recurring headache that she's had off-and-on {mostly on} since 1995, we'd doubtlessly be making with the hot monkey loving right now. Instead, I guess I'll be spending this Valentine's day with the other woman in my life.
Oh, well: there's always next year.
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Did the painting arrive safely?