Sexy Music Showdown

So, from the ultimate in the spouse wars category, the wife and I have started https://www.facebook.com/SexyMusicShowdown">Sexy Music Showdown
. We're having quite a bit of fun with it, but there are certain complications that arise on occasion.
Today's category was "Predict a song the other would find sexy." I decided to go with Faith Hill - Breathe, so I win. She...had a bit more trouble finding a song.

Quoth the Space Monkey: "I'm trying to find music you would think is sexy...and it's making my face hurt!"

She settled on Bon Jovi - Born to Be My Baby. She's good...with my help she could be better.

Rule the World Redux

On this, the day of my birthday celebration (observed...the real thing is Tuesday), I thought it might be nice to start blogging again. At least mini-blogging (which is more than micro but less than macro...so, just...blogging?).

The Space Monkey went into the kitchen just a few minutes ago and started singing, "Welcome to your life...." This caused her to pause, turn and glare at me through the kitchen wall.

"Great! Now I'm gonna have that song stuck in my head because of you."

It's true, she talks with links.

My work is done here.

Pyrrhic Victory

So, when I said one blog post per week, apparently I meant one blog post per quarter.

Over the months, the Space Monkey and I have had this on-going argument about her keeping her feet up on the dashboard. I'm not a fan, not because of her feet but because of toe-prints on the windshield and how they make that sector of the windshield virtually useless at night.

And because of the potential she might accidentally crack the windshield.

Like this.

Shoe Coffee

I said I'd provide more details today about the horrors of driving, but, alas, I'm still seeking a mender (WTB! PST! KTHXBAI!). Then I looked at the clock and realized it was 1 a.m. and decided I should push something I was going to save for later this week.

There was a piece of plastic from a coffee cup on the leg rest in our hotel room Saturday. I said it was definitely not ours.

Pictured: definitely not ours.

Evil Space Monkey: "No, that came out of my shoe, remember?"
Oracle of Truth: "Why was there a piece of coffee cup in your shoe?"
Evil Space Monkey: "I don't know. I blame you."
Oracle of Truth: "I do not drink coffee from shoes."

And that's why I'm the Oracle of Truth, boys and girls. Where she wants to weigh down the facts with blame, I cut right to the heart—the kernel, if you will—of the matter, and unveil the Truth™.

Also, I had nothing to do with that thing. I can't remember the last time I had coffee from a black-lidded cup.

Tears for Fears

My wife and I went to Advance Auto Parts today because we hate happiness. Since I didn't want to burn myself working on the car, we went to the Five Guys next door to have lunch. While we were eating, we noticed that most of the songs played were completely unfamiliar to us.

That is when they played Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."

This was the highlight of my day so far.

Yes...it's been a rough day.

Home Alone

So this happened last night.

100 Days of Blogging

One hundred and two days ago, this blog did not exist. It was created so I could participate with my wife in NaBloPoMo. Since its creation at the beginning of November, I have written a blog post almost every day with one exception, which I followed up with two posts in one day. Yesterday's post was my hundredth.

It may please some to know that I have been thinking for the past day of how to form an English word meaning "100 days." Something in the category of 'centennial' but for days instead of years. The closest I've been able to figure is 'hekatemeral' (from the Greek 'hekaton' meaning "hundred" and 'hemera' meaning "day").

Apparently I shall have to coin that word.

As I performed a hekatemeral review, I found that my favorite humorous posts were probably the first seven posts I made. Apparently I'm just funnier when talking about my health, my wife, and my niblings, particularly when it has to do with how my wife or my niblings will ruin my health.

Mocking me as they do so.

Potty Policies III

When I was a senior in high school, I entered into an alternate dimension.

Our school was going on a trip to Pensacola, FL, which was about a 20-hour drive. We stopped around 9:30 at night for dinner somewhere in I don't know where. I simply remember that at 9:30 at night, Denny's was closed but Subway was open.

True story: a Google Images search for "Denny's open all night" turned up this image (Mud Bay Blog)

From that night on, my life has been one bizarre mystery after another apparently.

Potty Policies II

A friend posted this on Facebook today, and I thought it well explained my confusion expressed in my original post.

The Lamentation of the Women

What is best in Mario Kart?

Also strangely true on the Capital Beltway.

If you've never played Mario Kart before or seen Mario Kart being played, then you need to understand. If the Dalai Lama, Gandhi, Confucius, and Nelson Mandela were put into the same metaphysical room and made to play it, the Dalai Lama and Gandhi would be throwing their Wiimotes in frustration while Mandela laughed and Confucius asked them how it tastes.

It's a little intense.

Potty Policies

There's a question that's been bothering me for over a year now, and it's tragically related to bathroom etiquette. Never in my life have I come across this problem before, but I started noticing it first with my wife and then with our tenant and now with my wife again. Let me show you.

Observe the toilet paper not on the toilet paper holder. Ignore the duck.

The problem I've noticed is that when one roll ends, both my wife and our former tenant, the Airport Llama, leave the empty tube on the holder and use alternative methods to support the new roll.

This has happened often.

Triumph of the Catnipvore

Allow me to remind you that this is The Minion Underfoot.

Rolling in a bag of catnip I had forgotten about.

Last night, the Space Monkey advertised that she needed a night out for my protection. No, really.

The Sweet Sound of Typing

Last night as I typed up my previous post, the Space Monkey asked me to turn the volume on the football game back on because she couldn't stand the sound of my typing. Tragically, the remote controls were way over there, so neither of us was in the mood to get them to turn the volume back on.

Normally, if I were going to be done relatively quickly, I would just put something on YouTube that we both liked until I was done. But I wasn't that close to finishing up, so I wanted something I wouldn't have to refresh or think of something new every few minutes.

So I gave her Nyan Cat.

After 420 seconds, she decided typing sounds were preferable.

She then started playing Elf City Online on her phone with the volume up to WAKE THE NEIGHBORS as a not-so-subtle way of getting back at me.
I regret nothing!
Author's Note: It wasn't until several hours later that I realized I could have chosen Pandora. Oops.

Transition

My parents are returning home from their vacation way up here in the North. For me this marks the transition between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My wife's family deeply enjoys the fact that I hate Christmas trees. It's that whole thing where I don't like wasting money on trivial things like decorations, relatives under 13, and my health.

So where'd this come from?

We've Had This Discussion Before

Whenever the wife wants to go outside, for some reason she wants me to go with her.

I believe this is a plot to undo me.

Penny Arcade

Because there are bears outside.

The Statue of Liberty is Kaput!

The Space Monkey has been harassing me for "copying her posts" lately. I would point out two things. First, three of my posts were related to my hospital stay. You don't get to claim copyright on my ill health!

Even if you caused it.

The second thing I would point out is that three of her most recent posts were about crushing me for all to see. Complaining about me responding to her allegations is like the prosecution whining that the defense has a case.

So there.

The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Space Monkeys

As I previously noted, the wife has been spreading propaganda against my junk good name. Much as I expected, this has resulted in the Sisterhood of Humans being horrified at the crimes I have committed against humanity. And I quote:

• H.H.B. - "(B)tw, I'm pretty sure I would kick [husband's name omitted to protect the innocent] in the junk if he laughed at me like that" (emphasis added).
• The Space Monkey - "H.H.B.... it has crossed my mind. But then, there was the whole drugged thing... ;)"
• Defense Against the Language Arts teacher - "This blog post is an excellent example of why it's a good thing that you're married to him and not me. XD (I would probably have punched him in the nose.)"
• Mom - "He is his father's son....lol. He's 66 and just starting to mature."

To think, I compared that woman to Iron Man....

Having, of course, read the posts, I can see where this righteous indignation is coming from. I mean, I laughed at my wife while she was crying! Who does that?!

It gives me no joy to have to answer my wife's post with cold, unfeeling truth. Nevertheless, the junk must be defended.

Why Toddlers are Terrorists

I shall preface this by saying that I do actually love all my drooly little disease-bearing relations niblings.

Before she began defaming my character, the Space Monkey posted about the day we babysat the niblings.

In general, her account is accurate from what she experienced. Hindsight reminds me that I am still so glad I slept through 6 of those paragraphs. I just thought I would supplement it with my recurring nightmares account.

The Tragic Tale of the Anatidaephobic Space Monkey

So...that happened. Since my wife so expertly gave her account, I figured I would supplement it with my own tale of woe. Initially this was to be one post, but then it got to be a little TL;DR, so I decided to break it up.

Be thankful.

This goes back to July. I had been having a fairly constant problem with back spasms throughout June and July. Then they stopped.

The absence of pain is the prelude to suffering.