- I scrolled past a clickbait article entitled “How Marriage Made Me a Better Man” by Kanye West.
- I actually read an article that explained if you think you would be happier in five years without your spouse, your marriage is more likely to fail. Genius!
- My coffee dance, and my husband’s reaction to my artistry.
- My morning hairdo, after a particularly restless night’s sleep. Anyone remember the Bay City Rollers?
- Sending my dog down as the wake-up alarm for my basement-dwelling college grad and enjoying the surprised exclamations after thirty-nine pounds of flying dog meat lands somewhere on his person.
- Reading a tongue-in-cheek facebook rant about how gays are using poisoned Halloween candy to turn children gay … and the fact that many commentors either believed it, and/or didn’t get that it was a JOKE. Seriously, one of the symptoms was breaking out into Cher songs, come on, people. This is much funnier than Mike Pence’s actual stance concerning gay rights, which is really not amusing at all.
- My dog’s constant nose butting, whining and puppy eyes because she wants a WALK NOW. Oh, and her obvious disdain at my perceived lack of understanding, which forced her to bring her collar to me and lay it at my feet. Get it, human? I tried to explain to her that the wet, chewed thingy on her paw keeps her on injured reserve for one more day, but she doesn’t seem to understand me, either. (Split nail mishap.)
- 9. and 10. My grocery list. I encourage said basement dweller to put items he would like on my shopping list. This morning, I woke up to a list that contained “guacamole supplies” and “heroin.” First, let me preface by saying the basement dweller and I share the same dark humor, and going for the joke is a much stronger force than the bonds of political correctness. There are so many things I like about his additions. First, that he writes “guacomole supplies,” not avocados, red onions, cilantro, limes, jalapeno, etc. I am not sure he actually knows what all goes into its creation, he probably thinks this delicious dip just magically makes itself. I also like, in this age of computers and texting, that his handwriting still looks like it did in sixth grade. (In his defense, his handwriting is the best of the boys, including his father.) Fun fact: terrible handwriting, which just earned me extra workbooks in grade school, is now called dysgraphia, and your kids, with their inherited poor penmanship, can get occupational therapy for it, paid for with our tax dollars. It doesn’t work any better than the extra workbooks, but it does come with a snazzy name and much higher price tag. And yes, I know heroin is a major problem, so is death and the presidential election, but we laugh at those things, too. And he knows I don’t buy our heroin at the grocery store.