My husband to me about five seconds ago:

“There’s a glass in the kitchen with aluminum foil on it and ketchup on top. Don’t touch it. It’s mine.”

Righto.

I bought my husband a copy of “Unbreakable.” About an hour into the film, the DVD stopped and wouldn’t play anymore.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

I’ve had country music forced upon me quite a bit lately, and I feel dirty all over. I’ve never been a fan, but I don’t recall that it was ever as much of a parody of itself as it is today. If the country music industry is serious, it should at least pretend it is joking in an attempt to save face.

In order to support my claim, I give you the following lyrics from real country songs:

I’d say this was my favorite, but I have no favorites – I hate all of them equally.

“…I keep my Christmas lights on on my front porch all year long,
And I know all the words to every Charlie Daniels song.
So here’s to all my sisters out there keepin it country.
Let me get a big “Hell, Yeah” from the redneck girls like me:
HELL YEAH! (HELL YEAH!)” – from “Redneck Woman” as performed by Gretchen Wilson

After hearing this particular song for the third time during my workday, I’m so close to snapping you can practically hear me crackle.

This one, I think, proves that Country music is being used as an extension of the long arm of the right wing:

“We take His name out of schools.
The lawyers say it breaks the rules.
Pledge of allegiance can’t be writ,
An’ under God, should not be said.
I wonder how He will take.
I just pray it’s not too late.

What if God quit tryin’,
He just turned away?
There were teardrops on his face?
Tell me, how would you feel?
You’d probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.” – from “If Nobody Believed in You” by Joe Nichols

I take a bathroom break when I hear it on the radio. I have to. It makes me vomit in my mouth.

This one has a subtle message that comes through if you listen closely:

“Back when a hoe was a hoe
Coke was a coke
And crack’s what you were doing
When you were cracking jokes
Back when a screw was a screw
The wind was all that blew
And when you said I’m down with that
Well it meant you had the flu
I miss back when
I miss back when
I miss back when” – from “Back When” by Tim McGraw

It may just be my perception, but I can’t help thinking that he means he doesn’t like slang. Or drugs. Or, you know, black people.

I could go on for days with this, but I’ve almost reached the Toby Keith lyrics, and when you get to that point, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I fear if I stoop to that level you wouldn’t respect me in the morning. Know what I’m sayin’, yo?

If you do, let me get a big, “Hell yeah.” Or somethin’.

It has become clear to me that some folks get a little freaked out by human vegetarians. I guess they’re basically OK with mares eating oats and does eating oats and little lambs eating ivy, but when I ask for no beef on a taco salad it sends them into a downward spiral of fear of the unknown, and they start desperately grasping for the reasons why.

So, in the interest of being a smartassed bitch getting along better with my fellow man, I make the following promises to those who get a little weirded out by my presence on the planet:

1. I will not change my name to Go Veg and make myself look like a complete fool.

2. If I see you wearing fur, I won’t throw paint on you. However, if you see me wearing hemp, please feel free to throw pot at me.

3. I will not tell you how I only eat organic food and how great I feel because of my healthy lifestyle. (I eat just as much junk food as anyone does. Probably more.)

4. I will never offer you yogurt of any kind. Healthy or not, I think it tastes like raw eggs and sour milk. But, if you like it and you eat it in my presence, I will do my best not to visibly cringe or gag.

Your role as the non-vegetarian dining with me, the freak, may be easier than you think:

1. You don’t have to apologize for eating meat in my presence. Unless I fart, I won’t be apologizing to you for eating my bean burrito.

2. You don’t have to mention my being a vegetarian to everyone you introduce me to. In fact, please don’t. Are you always so informative? I don’t recall your being so detailed in your other introductions, and I like to think I would remember if you’d said, “Hey, Debbie, I’d like you to meet Eric. He’s an omnivore! Isn’t that just wild?!”

3. You don’t have to ask me why I’m a vegetarian. Two reasons:

A. It makes for awkward dinner conversation.
B. You probably don’t care. And that’s ok. Really.

Now, if you good people will excuse me, I’m off to download “Mairzy Doats.” Burl Ives was rockin’.

My husband has allergies. Lots of them. He should probably be living in a plastic bubble. At the very least, he shouldn’t be living in the city ranked third for being highest in allergens.

But, we can’t move at present, and we don’t know where to get a bubble, so every day I witness his morning ritual.

Immediately upon waking, Michael plods over to his sink where he loudly coughs up 87 different colors of phlegm of all shapes and sizes. It’s a veritable rainbow of snot.

This, in and of itself, would impress you if I were to take pictures of it, but I won’t do that for fear of the inevitable lawsuits it would spark. Anyway, that’s not exactly what I want to talk about.

See, when I first moved in with Michael, I made few distinctions between one of his morning plegmfests and another. Back then, when I’d witness them, my only thought was, “Jesus, one of these days, he’s gonna cough up something he needs.”

But, all that has changed over the years. Now I notice the subtle differences in the length of each spasm and in the depth of each of his coughs. I’m getting to really know my spouse’s bodily functions. I see this as a sign that we’re growing as a couple.

If a stranger had happened by our bedroom this morning, he would have surely commented, “Gawd, your husband sounds awful. He’s gonna cough up something he needs.” And, to the untrained ear, it might sound that way. But, where the me of five years ago would have simply nodded her head in agreement, the me of today would have responded with a chipper, “Oh, no, no, he’s having a good day today. In fact, he’s almost through.”

This brings me to a conversation we just had.

Me, somewhat proudly – I just coughed up something the size of a nickel.

Michael – When you can snatch the goober from my hand, it will be time for you to leave.

He’s right, you know. I gotta bow to the master.

Whew. Kids today. They take so many things for granted. Last night I had to give Charlotte the “you don’t know how good you got it” speech:

“Charlotte when we were you’re age, the claymation in “Land of the Lost” was impressive shit. We got up early on Saturday morning so that we wouldn’t miss it. So, when you laugh at the waterfall scene and say how cheesy it looks, well, it makes me a little sad. It’s like laughing at someone else because you are wearing better shoes than they can afford to buy. It’s just wrong.

See, you’ve always had good stuff like Toy Story and Final Fantasy to watch. You’ve never had to use your imagination like we had to do.

We had to use our own minds to conjure up images of what the dinosaurs would look like if the animators had bothered to give them tonsils, or for that matter, throat openings. Nobody drew those things for us, you spoiled little punk.

In our day, we had to look beyond the bad dialog and thin plots, and in so doing, we saw what we wanted to see. That was the beauty of the show.

Aw, why do I bother? Watch your cool Batman series where they draw everything for you, but stop sniggering at my misty water-colored memories. They’re all I have.

Oh, and nobody drove us to school either! And it was cold and snowy back then. Even in summer.”

PS – Happy anniversary and thanks to my husband and best friend who got me the coolest presents ever. (Yeah, we’re old.)