The Way Things Are






Delighted, yet guilty.
2006-04-11, 2:52 p.m.

I think you are all on to something. Here’s more evidence that DW is in fact a woman:

Last night in bed (don’t you just cringe anytime anyone begins a story with that?) (but too bad), last night in bed, he was rubbing my back, and my arms, and just very quietly putting me right to sleep, because if you lay me out flat on a mattress in a dark room after 10:00 p.m., I’m going to sleep. But I knew that this was not what he intended – this is a form of – not foreplay – but PREPLAY, that will go on for dozens of minutes before it escalates to anything else.

(translation: before one of us goes for a crotch-grab, and that’s usually me, because HELLO I need my sleep)

Usually, I will swoop in and jump to the next level to get the party started, but last night, it went on for quite a while, past his usual time limit of preplay, and I couldn’t tell if he intended to escalate or just really put me to sleep, which he was doing a really good job of, and I was too lazy to do anything proactive about it. So I decided to talk instead.

I said, ahem, “I have a request.”

“You have a request?”

“Yes, I have a request. If we’re going to have sex, we’d better cut to the chase before I fall asleep.”

“We don’t have to have sex. We can just lay here and snuggle.”

“No, we don’t have to have sex, but I want to have sex. I just thought I’d better let you know that the window of opportunity is closing.”

“God, what am I, a woman? ‘We can just lay here and snuggle’?!”

So there you have it, my friends. He’s all “lay here and snuggle” and I’m all “so are we going to have sex? I’m sleepy. Now go make me a sandwich.”

I roll my eyes.


Our neighbors have a cow, or whatever it is you call a young male cattle animal – a boy bovine – a boyvine – good eatin’ (honestly, when the world is ending and there’s no more electricity, if he steps foot on our property, we’re eating him) - and he has figured out a way to slip through the fence so he can visit us, hang out and eat our grass, keep Mrs. Beans company (she LOVES him) and poop in our yard.

It’s a bit disconcerting to be standing in your bedroom, getting dressed for church, and glance out the window and see a large cow standing there, chewing grass, and looking back at you. Oh. Jeans and a t-shirt, in case you were wondering. We go to a very casual church. And yes I looked good, and I don’t blame him a bit for looking.

However, back to the present/past, I noticed yesterday afternoon that whenever I stuck my head out the back door and hollered “Dogs! Where are you?” that they would come running from behind our dilapidated chicken shed, looking very much like they were up to something: delighted, yet guilty.

I wondered whether they were smoking cigarettes back there, but realized it was much worse when we let them back into the house, and got all too close to Piper to trim her little baby talons.

COW POOP! They had been eating COW POOP. They reeked of it, and soon the room reeked of it, as they held their mouths wide open in manic dog grins, panting happily. Piper managed to lick DW’s mouth in a bid to escape the talon-clipping.

I remember one of our dogs when I was growing up – I don’t remember which one, so don’t ask me – used to eat cow poop whenever we’d go for a visit to my grandparents in the country. One of my cherished childhood memories is of a dog vomiting cow poop in the car on our way home.

You just can’t get a better childhood memory than that. I challenge you.

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