Currently viewing the tag: "bad drawings"
As a newbie blogger–barely two months old, y’all!–I’ve been overwhelmed by how friendly everyone has been. I could get all serious on you and tell you that blogging brought me back to life when I was feeling lonely and blue, but that seems like a bit much for a Monday, right?
So instead, I’ll just say thanks. If you’ve ever stopped by, commented, subscribed, followed me on Twitter, added me to your blogroll or become a fan of the Mrs on Facebook, thank you. I celebrate every comment, every subscriber, every visit, because the idea that anyone reads this blog absolutely blows my mind. I feel like I’ve been welcomed to a pretty great party at a time when I needed new friends. And the generosity, kindness and good humor of everyone has been more than I could have hoped for.
In what was probably the most unexpected act of generosity I’ve received as a young blogger, the self-proclaimed mayor of Fordeville invited me to be a guest blogger on her site–or house sitter, if you will–while she enjoys some rest and relaxation on the beach.
Before I give you the link, I need to apologize to the good people of Publix. When I got the invitation to be a guest at Fordeville’s place, I was checking my e-mail at the grocery story–like a self-important jerkface–and I was so excited that I may or may not have knocked over some apples. (Hint: I totally did and it was ugly.)
So Publix: I’m sorry I ruined your produce.
OK, now go visit me at The Fordeville Diaries‘ house (the bad drawings are over there today) and read my response to the lady of Fordeville’s questions: What’s my must-have vacation cocktail? And what show must she DVR this week?
When I got married, a friend of mine hosted a beautiful bridal shower in my honor. Knowing that I’m not much for shower games (I crack under the pressure of staged merriment), she kindly skipped the typical trivia and clothes pin fun in favor of a little “advice for the bride” session, where guests anonymously left notes of marriage advice in a basket for me to read aloud to the group.
The notes said sweet things like, “Always accept a kiss from your hubby, even if you’ve just applied your lipstick” and “Never go to bed angry.” How nice.
I read about 30 cards, all authored by women whose “mrs” tenures ranged from a few months to decades. And not one of those cards said: You are entering into an eternal game of ‘Mother, May I.’
So, you can imagine my surprise when that was exactly what happened.
For those of you who are not familiar with Mother, May I, it’s a game children play. One player is designated as the “mother” and all of the other players have to ask permission to move, in hopes of advancing toward a specific destination. In the version we play at my house, I am the “mother”, but I’m not really sure what we’re advancing toward. Perhaps insanity?
Please understand that this is not a passive-aggressive jab at the Mr. He is a wonderful man. He even endorsed today’s post (sort of*).
But seriously, does this ever happen at your house?
How about this?
Does this look familiar?
What about…
OK, maybe that last one was a bit of an exaggeration.
But, for reals, how does this happen? And, more importantly, how do I undo it?
I love the Mr, but I need to empower him to wash his hair with out me nodding in approval.
So I think the next time, he’s like “I’m going to get my oil changed this week”, I’m going to be all “No.”
See what I did there? By denying him permission, I might actually be able to bamboozle him into hiding the performance of these mandane chores from me. It’s a little feeble, but it’s all I’ve got. I’ll let you know how it works out.
*Here’s how I broke the news of this post to the Mr.
Me: Hey, would you be offended if I wrote about how sometimes marriage is like deranged version of Mother, May I?
Mr: What do you mean?
Me: You know how we’re always announcing what we’re doing to each other.
Mr: I don’t think you do that.
Me: [Awkward silence.]
Damn! His legal training has made him impervious to mind tricks!
If you’re reading this, then I have totally failed to reach my self-imposed deadline of creating a new post for Monday.
If you’re reading this, then I’m really, really, super-duper sorry.
If you’re reading this, I’m begging you not to be all “No update since last Thursday?!? NEXT!” Please, oh please, don’t get angry and go away. Let’s still be friends, OK? I think you’re so great. Have I told you how much I like your hair today? Because, I’ve been meaning to say: You look fab.
I have an explanation for not meeting this make-believe deadline.
Our dog, Winston, has been having some health problems lately. He’s been diagnosed with a ruptured disk. (You can read more about Winston’s disk issues here, but be warned that this link will take you to the first thing I ever drew for the Internet.)
So instead of working over the weekend, as I had planned, I spent most of my time curled up next to my dog waiting for him to blink or cry or ask me for something in plain English.
There are plenty of different kinds of people in the world, and they all feel differently about pets. Some people like to hoard pets; others are happy to wave to other people’s pets but would prefer not to have any of their own. I am the kind of person who can’t sleep if her dog can’t sleep. So I didn’t draw you any cartoons today or yesterday, because I’ve been staring at a dog, willing him to get better, which has made me sleep deprived.
I did try, but everything I tried to draw looked like this:
I’m hoping to make you something hilarious soon, but as you read this, I’m probably laying on my bathroom floor, exhausted and trying to remember how to brush my own hair.
I promise to be right back. Like maybe tomorrow even, provided I don’t have to drive to Jacksonville to take Winston to the vet.
Don’t hate me. I think you’re so pretty!
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