Chicken Soup for the Soles

So we didn’t win the lottery on Friday.

Same shit, different date, I know. I’m not entirely unrealistic in my expectations. But it’s been a bad couple of weeks for me health-wise, and it would’ve been really nice if this had been the draw that rescued me from the job that drains all my energy and the stifling hot bedroom with zero air circulation that won’t let me have a proper sleep to build up any new energy to drain.

Although it’s probably best that we didn’t win this week. Turns out there were four winning tickets in total, and Nutty Hubby and I don’t like to share, and it might look just the slightest bit suspicious if all the other winners mysteriously disappeared.

So we’re not millionaires, and we’re not murderers. I guess there are worse things.

Cave Johnson and I are bad at optimism.

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Oh, eu.

Nutty Hubby: Someone just wheeled their newborn through the office. I may have misheard, but I think the kid’s name is Unix.

Me: Boy or girl? If it’s a girl it could plausibly be Eunice.

Nutty Hubby: Nah, I’m not that nice.

Me: Eudouche.

Nutty Hubby: Touché.

 

No good fortune goes unpunished.

Nutty Hubby: Apparently not only is today the equinox, but there was a total solar eclipse. The catch? It was only viewable from Europe.

Me: Whatever. One day we’ll be rich enough for me to chase interesting natural phenomena. You hear that, eclipses? One lottery win for us and then NO ESCAPE FOR YOU.

Nutty Hubby: Thanks, you’ve doomed us to an enormous solar flare which wipes out all electronics on Earth the day we win the lottery.

Me: You’re welcome.

 

Sorry, Earth, but a winner without WIFI is still a winner.

 

 

Take his hand, you dumbass.

Tomorrow Nutty Hubby and I will celebrate seven hopelessly smitten years together, four of them as one of those married couples you hate because they’re still all lovey-dovey in public and they haven’t tried to kill each other yet.

It doesn’t really feel like it’s been seven years, but I also don’t really feel not-quite-32 years old, so what do I know? Although I did spend one of those years in a different country, because the fact that Nutty Hubby proposed didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to ditch him for grad school abroad, so really it’s only like six years actually together together, and then when you take into consideration all the time you spend sleeping or at work…why, we’re practically strangers!

Anyhow, this morning I was thinking about this weirdo I agreed to spend the rest of my life with, and marveling at how I ended up married at all when just a few months prior to the start of our relationship I had decided that having a ring on my finger was something that really didn’t interest me anymore. And then I found myself wondering for the millionth time how the hell we even wound up together, because really, we were idiots about the whole thing. Continue reading

Why I sleep with otters.*

(*Because I don’t have enough weird fetishes represented in my search terms as it is.)

I fail at sleeping.

If there’s one thing I will forever be jealous of, it’s Nutty Hubby’s ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. He can nod off in almost any environment, no matter how public, loud or uncomfortable, in five minutes or less.

For me, trying to sleep means it’s time for every little solitary minute detail of the world to come flooding into my head for thorough dissection and analysis; a maze of intrigue created by my brain, to be solved before I am allowed the sweet respite of slumber.

For Nutty Hubby, trying to sleep is…wait, trying? People have to try to sleep? No no no no no. Do or do not, there is no try! LOL BRB ZZZZZzzZZzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzzzzz…

If I didn’t love him so much, I’d hate him.

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The Nine Inch Conspiracy

My husband is slightly obsessed with pie.

That’s not a euphemism for anything, the man just really loves baking.

He has his favorite crust recipe memorized. He has a cookbook full of every pie recipe you could ever think of, even the really weird ones like sour cream and raisin. He is the kind of person who will just randomly turn to you out of the blue and say, “What do you think, should I make a blackberry pie?”

And you’re like, “Okay, but we’re four hours from home on a winding mountain road at the moment so that might be a little difficult.” And he’s like, “Oh I know, I meant when we get back.”

We take our baked goods seriously in the Nut house, and everybody knows it. At least, I thought everybody knew it.

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The Nut, a ventriloquist and a dummy walk into a bar…

Every time I start feeling like a well-adjusted, productive member of society, the powers that be roll up their sleeves and devise a new scheme to remind me that life is essentially one big ongoing joke, and I’m just one of its many punchlines.

Sometimes I lose my birth control pills to horny arachnids. Sometimes I get trapped in bathrooms at formal occasions. And sometimes, I’m just a plain ol’ dummy.

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