My new marriage tradition. Who’s with me?

This weekend I was supposed to drive to Utah to see The Boy, who’s there visiting his mom, but instead, I’m here on the couch, thanks to a nasty head cold. Thank you pediatrician’s office last week. Thank you Booger Eaters IN the pediatrician’s office who gave it to MP, who gave it to me.

No worries — he should be back this way soon. For now, the distance seems to actually be working just fine. We’re in agreement that there’s no need to rush things. We’re together, even if we’re apart. I don’t take the ring on my finger lightly, and neither does he.

Well … I don’t take the ring ITSELF lightly. I’d be lying if I said it was always on my finger. Honestly, I never got it when married guys said they didn’t wear a ring because they “didn’t do jewelry,” or “it just bugged them.” Whatever, right?

Okay, I get it. NOW, I get it. Cause it kinda bugs me too. I’ve never been a huge jewelry girl, but I’m trying. I’m REALLY trying. I do love the ring. I love that he picked it out. I love that it’s so understated. It’s perfect.

And in the scheme of things I suppose it doesn’t make much difference. The plan is to each get rings tattooed on our fingers. (Because he’s one of those non-ring wearing guys … serendipity, no?)

Although, the more I think about it, I might have a better idea. I propose a NEW tradition. New, but still in keeping with the spirit and symbolism of the ring. Instead of a ring, maybe I’ll just have his FACE tattooed on my fingertip. It IS permanent, after all, and that way he’ll always be with me, regardless of distance.

As I age and my fingers prune-up … so will his face. Isn’t growing old together the whole point? MWAH.

And when I’m pissed at him, I’ll just stick that finger right on up my butt. No fighting, no arguing. Just lots of passive aggressive sodomy.

(Ooh yeah, I’m taking “giving the finger” to a WHOLE new level with this one, baybee.)

And on that note, a random photo search result. Look what Google delivered TODAY when I did a search for “finger.”

Awww. Smoochy smooch.

Not to worry. You have my word — absolutely no Finger Monkeys will be harmed in the expression of marital anger. (There’s a Richard Gere joke in here somewhere, I’m just not feelin’ it tonight …)

Leatherface called. He wants his skin back.

So I’m searching the web for a photo to put up in Swap Mama‘s new Antiques & Collectibles group. (Did I mention we’re on track to hit 3,000 members in a few days?!? WAAA HOOO!) I search for “antique dolls.”

I get THIS.

Um …

Hold me.

Which, I’m thinking is going to be the same reaction Yo Gabba Gabba reruns on DVD will get 200 years from now.

But seriously. This? I’m troubled.

If karma exists, in my next life, I’m sure I’ll be a fly.

I was such a dude in a past life.

Given a choice, I’d rather drink beer.

I truly believe there may be nothing funnier on earth than a fart.

And war movies and sports movies are always guaranteed to make me cry.

Seriously. It’s quarter to one in the morning, I’m sitting here in The Big Chair (correctly referred to as a “chair and a half” which is accurate, but just not a cozy enough description for my beloved and well-loved Big Chair) watching some football flick with Dennis Quaid – which totally narrows it down, right? – and bawling my face off because not only is it a sports movie, but the protagonist dies of leukemia. Which, hello? SO not right.

It’s not over yet – maybe they can throw in a war scene – lots of guys dying in battle. And some tragic music. And the final scene from The Notebook for good measure. Because, you know, in THIS life I’m a chick.

Oh, here’s more proof of my past life — my newest obsession. After the internet, the BEST INVENTION EVAH.

THE Cadillac of fly swatters. (Have I mentioned my intense hatred of flies and their poop-covered, hairy little legs? And the vomit spots they leave on my blinds?) The Boy and I happened upon this electric gem at a discount store in Connecticut. I loved it so much I went back the next week and bought six more – one for each member of the family … and a few extras for Christmas presents.

These guys SO need to market this on wedding registries — what other product on the market simultaneously keeps a home pest free AND promotes spousal bonding through cold-hearted, murderous good, wholesome entertainment?

Huh? *Elbow nudge* Am I right?

Electrocution. It’s never been so fun! (I ain’t in marketing for nuthin’.)

Obama comes to Montana and learns to fish in a ditch.

So Friday? Obama came to town.

Oh yeah … and hung out at the house NEXT DOOR for the afternoon.

Which totally sounds like I must live in some hoity-toity neighborhood, but Doogs … I live in a doublewide. Albeit, a nice one, but still … it’s a DOUBLEWIDE. There just happens to be a McMansion a few acres over with a river running through it.

Okay, that’s not true.

It’s really running through the backyard, but that doesn’t sound as poetic or … movie-worthy … I digress.

Turns out the O-Man was learning to flyfish. Which is actually pretty funny. To any seasoned Montana flyfisherman, that particular stretch of river? Might as well fish in a ditch. (And that comes from Poppy.)

Anyhoo, earlier in the day, Obama landed at the airport — which we live all of three minutes from — and we watched Air Force One land from the road just outside the runway. That, in and of itself, was pretty cool.

Once home, we noticed a military helicopter circling the immediate area around our house, over and over. Low. Grammy and I commented on it, but dismissed it as regular security since we were so close to the airport.

A few hours later, Poppy noticed the Secret Service. And Highway Patrol. And Sherrif. And an Ambulance. And 30+ SUVs and cars. All parked at the house next door. He suggested we start shooting gophers from the deck. Which … would’ve been funny until we were all shot by snipers.

I, Gladys Kravitz, had to get a closer look, and recruited MP to walk down our driveway, in the rain, to *check* the mail. Which didn’t look suspicious in the least. Especially when MP balked and stopped halfway there. Too late to turn back, I continued alone, and as I neared the gravel road, a black SUV, previously in park, slammed it into gear, sped toward me, nearly hit me, sped past me … and splattered mud all over me.

I flipped off a G-Man. Crossin’ it off the Bucket List.

A few minutes later, safely back in Grammy’s house (for those who don’t know, our houses are next to one another), we watched the motorcade depart for the mountains.

Grammy stood on the front porch, jumping up and down in the rain, waving like a lunatic. And SHE’s a Republican.

She DID get a photo:

Focus much? I’ll cut her some slack. She had the fevah.

The elephant in the room.

Okay, so here’s the deal. The trip to Connecticut to see The Boy didn’t go all that well.

What we THOUGHT would be our first taste of “real life,” turned out to be anything but, I’m afraid. With MP not in her summer preschool program, that meant she was with me 24/7.

NOT real life.

We spent our days in one of three places: the house, the beach, or the store. The three places I could actually FIND.

NOT real life.

And THAT meant I didn’t have much time to work.

NOT real life.

And THAT meant I was stressed and feeling like I had a ton to do each night … just about the time The Boy was ready to quit HIS day and relax. Which left him feeling ignored.

Throw a set of seven-year-old twins into the mix, neither of whom take their muddy shoes off in the house, eat junk food, and don’t brush their teeth at night, and my OCD-riddled brain came close to spontaneously combusting.

Breaking point was about the tenth night MP woke up scared and I brought her to bed. Yeah, didn’t go over all that well. The Boy is NOT a happy sleeper.

Oh, and did I mention the scorching case of poison ivy I’m STILL toting around? And the bug bites? And that it RAINED nearly the entire time? Overcast, gloomy, dark, wet and humid. Not my idea of paradise.

This would be an appropriate moment to use one of my most-hated words. Moist. Connecticut is moist.

*sigh*

So, we’re chillaxin’. We both agree last month kinda sucked. Since then, we’ve each used the phrase “it’s going to take some adjustment,” more times than not. He needs to remember what it’s like to have a five-year-old, and I need to deal with a little dirt and a whole new set of parenting rules. (The not brushing at night though, that’s gonna be tough.)

I guess this is what happens when you change your entire life at age 41.

“Adjustment.”

Hip, hip, boo.

We now return to regularly scheduled programming …

Yes, I am alive.

I must admit, though, I almost don’t want to post, for fear of breaking up the ragin’ party Depot Dad‘s currently throwing in the comments section of my last post. As for that riding crop and saddle, we’ll talk later, DD.

So here’s the skinny.

I’ve been devoting all my time to my newest baby.

It’s guaranteed to change the dating scene as we single folk know it.

I’m super excited.

I’m wearing it right now.

I’m so proud I could burst.