By: Ann Brown
Evidently, Bear Grylls drinks his own urine, were you aware?
Now I happen to know for a fact (because Robin said so) that it isn’t a stellar idea to actually drink urine, even if you are dehydrated and especially not just because you lost your car keys and you’re out of Coke Zero. Robin says that what you are supposed to do, actually, is pour your urine over your skin to cool you off.
These are the kinds of conversations we have, Robin and I, that have kept us going strong for thirty years (this month).
Valuable marriage advice: When the conversation topics begin to wane, simply ask your spouse, “so, drinking urine or bathing with it? Where do you stand?” and the years from The Seven Year Itch to Midlife Crisis will verily fly by. Add to that a few great pasta dishes, the ability to “listen” to your spouse while surreptitiously ordering clothes online from JJill, and the weekly blow-job, and before you can say, “what the fuck do you mean, weekly blow job?” you’ll be celebrating thirty years together.
Now I can hear all of you muttering; I see you shaking your fists at me (well, the men are high-five-ing me), so let me clarify my position:
1. Don’t give a blow job to a man who is an asshole to you or to the wait staff at restaurants. I just have a thing about that. How a person treats wait staff tells you everything. And don’t forget that – like a food server and flight attendant – you have the right to shoot boogers into the soup of the person who is mistreating you. It might be in the Constitution. I’m pretty sure it’s in the Old Testament. I am certain it’s in the Food Handlers license test because I took the test and passed. (Yes, I have a Food Handler’s license. I have it proudly displayed on my kitchen wall next to my college diploma.)
2. Don’t give a blow job to a man that you dislike. Oh, I don’t mean when you just benignly hate your husband because he insists on pooping in the upstairs bathroom ten minutes before your book club is going to arrive and, let’s be honest, Glade just hasn’t made the candle that can take on that kind of challenge; I mean, when you really hate him. Because his waist size is smaller than yours.
Other than that, I just think that life is easier when Robin is on his once-a-week regime. It’s either that, or crushing the dog’s tranquilizers into his brown rice at dinner. And trying to not get the tranquilizers mixed up with the dog’s tic medicine. Again. Although, to be fair, Robin’s undercoat is GORGEOUS and tic-free.
But my point is that I lost a Facebook fan this week.
I know, right?
My cousin Adam warned me not to obsess about this kind of shit when he helped me set up my blog. He told me that Google Analytics was going to be crack for me and soon I’d be spending all my time tracking fans and following numbers and before I knew it, I’d be offering lap dances to dirty cops if they’d join Facebook and become a dr. strangemom fan. I love how Adam gets me.
But I couldn’t resist tracking, and now I can’t unknow what I know. Someone bailed.
It’s cold comfort that my friend Shira lost a FB fan this week, too. (Her fan page is called “Tiny Talkers”. I think it’s about baby sign language. I hope it’s about baby sign language. I mean, maybe it’s some sort of female answer to Theater of the Penis or something.)
Claire had a Facebook fan bail, as well (from her FB page, “Claire LaZebnik Writes”), and she even does book giveaways. I could do book giveaways, too, except that I haven’t written any books. Because, um, my manuscripts have all been rejected. And I can’t get an agent.
America’s Least Wanted. Poor, poor, pitiful me.
Oh, and get this:
The surprise twist ending to my last post about not being able to find the nice man from Sag Harbor? Well, I found him! Claudia suggested I look for him on Facebook, which I did, and there he was! Unbefuckinglievable. I sent him a friend request and a message telling him that I have tried to send him a letter and I am so sorry he must have thought I was ignoring him and isn’t this great, and I even sent him a link to the blog to prove that I have been thinking about him.
I got this response yesterday: You can use my P.O. Box for snail mail.
And he ignored my friend request.
So I re-sent it this morning. With just a wee bit of a threatening note.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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