As what seems to be becoming customary, I’ll review a few happenings from my weekend. Maybe I’ll even try to keep it concise. I know this doesn’t seem fitting for a rambler such as myself, but the 140 character limit on twitter has forced me to tighten up beyond that which I thought I was capable. I should have a six-pack by the end of the month. No doubt.
Anyway, we went back to the store where I almost potentially shamed myself for eternity. I felt like the prodigal son . . . returning in disgrace, just hoping they would welcome me back with open arms and not ask any questions, or make eye contact . . . or even recognize me, or frisk me. A fresh start, that’s what I wanted. Luckily, it was just like olden golden times, except I made a mental note of everything going in the bags so as to avoid any future embarrassment on my part. I also had a heightened sense of the security cameras that were most assuredly watching my every move. I just hope those leering guys or gals aren’t perverts because I don’t usually think about what is or is not showing from the fifteen foot view above me.
While we were shopping I saw some pants that the Husband desperately needed, since he is down to only one wearable pair. Does anyone else know a man who gets holes in his pants every three months, without fail? Well, I knew the Husband would have a problem with me springing this on him. I usually have to prep him for a week before we go clothes shopping because he despises it THAT much. I know it makes him feel like a baby when I go and pick out stuff for him to try on. He always tells me he can go out and do this himself. But here’s the kicker folks: He NEVER does. If he went out shopping alone and came back with clothes (I should say “stylish new clothes”), I would smack my own self in the butt and send myself to bed early without any dinner.
But alas this has yet to happen. So I approached the Husband and held out two pairs (just two measly pairs) of pants to try on. He looked at me like I had just asked him to jump off the Eiffel Tower, or gut a pig. It was hilarious. I laughed until tears welled up. The Husband cried too, and then he tried on the dang pants and we bought them. Victory! Oh but wait. I realized the pair he agreed to buy and looked best on him were Wranglers. Aren’t those for cowboys? They didn’t look like Wranglers because they weren’t hugging him in all the wrong (or right) places. Oh well. I shouldn’t mess with success.
And somehow this turned into a non-concise post about the Husband. But those usually are the most fun I must admit. He is a treasure trove of good material. I should probably remind him that he was fully supportive of this blogging venture of mine. And I should also probably remind him of that one time I was in labor, about to give birth to our son, and he turned into one big pile of laughs (I actually think this picture is hilarious. I look at it whenever I'm feeling low. I'll probably post it again from time to time. . . because I have no shame).
In other news, our air conditioner is broken and it reached 85 degrees in our house. Sweat, sweat, everywhere. The Husband wasn’t even enjoying it despite his lifelong love of the stuff.
Also R.I.P. tomato and pepper plants. There was really never any hope for you, not with these two chumps taking care of you (to be honest it was mostly the Husband this time).
Tune in tomorrow when I reveal how my evil deeds have come back to haunt me.