I Set My Husband Up.
No, not like my grandmother attempted to set my grandfather up with a possible affair so she could divorce him. Poor sap didn't even go for it.
No, I set my husband up to display his amazing story telling prowess. My husband is a born story teller. This is not so much a secret since the woman running the performance gig has been after Mike for over a year or so to get him on her stage. He has told excuses. He has backed out. He hasn't done it. It's ridiculous since all he ever does is tell stories. He tells jokes. He has re-enacted 1930's vaudeville with ease since he was 18 years old. One elaborate slap stick he performed was while he was walking down the aisle to get his diploma from high school. The whole thing involved lots of falling and several folding chairs. His mother was looking away at the time and missed the entire choreographed performance.
So Dixie La Tour has been wanting him to perform for her Bawdy Story Telling.
When I found out he was all like "Yeah yeah, I know. She has been wanting me to do this for a while, but I don't know....."
Hmph.
I think that may have even be what I said.
You see, I can't stand watching the people I love not live up to their potential. I know. It's terribly codependent of me. They don't have to be stars. They just have to do "it". No one ever sat on their death bed and said to themselves, "You know, I wish I hadn't tried those few time to pursue my amazing talent."
Anyways, last weekend we saw Dixie at a craft fair while waiting for miso from a food truck. She said hi and introduced us to Midori who said she had the same flying mouse thingy I had on my sweatshirt in her house. I felt it not necessary to explain that it was actually a rat. Mice have smaller balls and I thought the flying rat genre was a joke on pigeons. I also didn't even tell her that an ex-girlfriend of hers mistook me for Midori from the WFW advert I created to find women to play with a few years ago on Craigslist. I'm like that. I don't say much to people I don't know very well and then they end up assuming I hate them. Then when I am actually comfortable with people they end up holding their bleeding ears and screaming "Why? Why God won't she just shut the fuck up?!"
I could tell she actually wanted to get away and eat a sandwich. And who am I to stand in the way of a woman and her snacks?
As a result of being a singularly snack obsessed person, I cannot even say the word "snack" without Mike going into fits of hysterics. I love a good snack above a great many things. And by good, I mean I am picky. I won't just go for any snack. I want novelty! I want class! But I'm kind of a snack slut. I won't stick to just one snack, no. I must avail myself to a variety of snackage. Sometimes several throughout a single evening. I am that gluttonous.
Tamales with strawberry salsa!
Check!
Pistachio French Macaroons!
Check!
Potato and cocoa infused beef pasties!
.... etc, etc, etc.
This is the reason I am no longer a waif anymore.
Snacks.
And also the ability to afford them. I think that may be a larger aspect of the waistline.
I used to be poor.
"How poor?"
I used to be *so* poor I could either afford a Taqueria Cancun Veggie Super Burrito or a week's groceries. Fortunately, I was *so* skinny that the burrito would last me the entire week. When I lived in Italy I could only afford 15 Lira a week for food. That's like taking 15 US bucks and dividing it in half. I think I was 89 pounds when I flew home.
Not pretty. But I *did* fit in with the local girls!
Anyways, back to Dixie and Mike and the Bawdy Story Telling.
So, Dixie says "hey" and then there are some words and then I go for the kill with - "So, I know you have been wanting Mike to do the Bawdy Story Telling! Mike has lots of stories. In fact, there is "This" story! And there is "That" story! When can you fit him in?"
Mike kicked me in the illusory knee caps but I continued on bravely, smiling and undisturbed.
Dixie was all like.." Next Bawdy Story Telling! Let's get him a time when he can rehearse with me with all the props!"
And then Mike kicked me under the hypothetical table, again.
I said, "Yes! Yes, that will be great!"
I soon posted that he will be doing Bawdy Story Telling on that thar Facebook thingie. At least ten friends seem to have already purchased their tickets. This is why I suspected Dixie pursued him in the first place.
Verrrry clever young grasshopper!
Mike whines after the 11th person describes peeing in their pants with joy at the prospect of seeing my husband perform a saucy storytelling theater piece. He turns to me and says...
"Why are you doing this to me?!!!"
And I said, "What? So, it's my fault now that everyone loves you?"
Hmph.
I'm not sorry.
No, I set my husband up to display his amazing story telling prowess. My husband is a born story teller. This is not so much a secret since the woman running the performance gig has been after Mike for over a year or so to get him on her stage. He has told excuses. He has backed out. He hasn't done it. It's ridiculous since all he ever does is tell stories. He tells jokes. He has re-enacted 1930's vaudeville with ease since he was 18 years old. One elaborate slap stick he performed was while he was walking down the aisle to get his diploma from high school. The whole thing involved lots of falling and several folding chairs. His mother was looking away at the time and missed the entire choreographed performance.
So Dixie La Tour has been wanting him to perform for her Bawdy Story Telling.
When I found out he was all like "Yeah yeah, I know. She has been wanting me to do this for a while, but I don't know....."
Hmph.
I think that may have even be what I said.
You see, I can't stand watching the people I love not live up to their potential. I know. It's terribly codependent of me. They don't have to be stars. They just have to do "it". No one ever sat on their death bed and said to themselves, "You know, I wish I hadn't tried those few time to pursue my amazing talent."
Anyways, last weekend we saw Dixie at a craft fair while waiting for miso from a food truck. She said hi and introduced us to Midori who said she had the same flying mouse thingy I had on my sweatshirt in her house. I felt it not necessary to explain that it was actually a rat. Mice have smaller balls and I thought the flying rat genre was a joke on pigeons. I also didn't even tell her that an ex-girlfriend of hers mistook me for Midori from the WFW advert I created to find women to play with a few years ago on Craigslist. I'm like that. I don't say much to people I don't know very well and then they end up assuming I hate them. Then when I am actually comfortable with people they end up holding their bleeding ears and screaming "Why? Why God won't she just shut the fuck up?!"
I could tell she actually wanted to get away and eat a sandwich. And who am I to stand in the way of a woman and her snacks?
As a result of being a singularly snack obsessed person, I cannot even say the word "snack" without Mike going into fits of hysterics. I love a good snack above a great many things. And by good, I mean I am picky. I won't just go for any snack. I want novelty! I want class! But I'm kind of a snack slut. I won't stick to just one snack, no. I must avail myself to a variety of snackage. Sometimes several throughout a single evening. I am that gluttonous.
Tamales with strawberry salsa!
Check!
Pistachio French Macaroons!
Check!
Potato and cocoa infused beef pasties!
.... etc, etc, etc.
This is the reason I am no longer a waif anymore.
Snacks.
And also the ability to afford them. I think that may be a larger aspect of the waistline.
I used to be poor.
"How poor?"
I used to be *so* poor I could either afford a Taqueria Cancun Veggie Super Burrito or a week's groceries. Fortunately, I was *so* skinny that the burrito would last me the entire week. When I lived in Italy I could only afford 15 Lira a week for food. That's like taking 15 US bucks and dividing it in half. I think I was 89 pounds when I flew home.
Not pretty. But I *did* fit in with the local girls!
Anyways, back to Dixie and Mike and the Bawdy Story Telling.
So, Dixie says "hey" and then there are some words and then I go for the kill with - "So, I know you have been wanting Mike to do the Bawdy Story Telling! Mike has lots of stories. In fact, there is "This" story! And there is "That" story! When can you fit him in?"
Mike kicked me in the illusory knee caps but I continued on bravely, smiling and undisturbed.
Dixie was all like.." Next Bawdy Story Telling! Let's get him a time when he can rehearse with me with all the props!"
And then Mike kicked me under the hypothetical table, again.
I said, "Yes! Yes, that will be great!"
I soon posted that he will be doing Bawdy Story Telling on that thar Facebook thingie. At least ten friends seem to have already purchased their tickets. This is why I suspected Dixie pursued him in the first place.
Verrrry clever young grasshopper!
Mike whines after the 11th person describes peeing in their pants with joy at the prospect of seeing my husband perform a saucy storytelling theater piece. He turns to me and says...
"Why are you doing this to me?!!!"
And I said, "What? So, it's my fault now that everyone loves you?"
Hmph.
I'm not sorry.