I’ve been accused of many things. Half of them are true, the other half help keep the mysterious factor going for me and I’m ok with that.

For instance:

• I have an average voice. But you don’t want me singing karoke unless the evening begins with shots of tequila. Then, I’m really good.
• My height is 5′11 and I have a large frame. The truth is I have big bones and big meat wrapped around them bones.
• Pantyhose are a bit of an addiction to me and I buy them by the bulk. But I keep the ones with holes around JUST IN CASE.
• If it’s in my head is is soon to be out of my mouth. Though I couch difficult things with, “Well…….perhaps it’s true that….”

Ken and I took a parenting class several years ago that made us do a Love Language test and while we were reporting out our first 2 choices I noticed that all the other women said things like “Words of Encouragement” and “Quality Time.” In an effort not to be labeled the Whore of Babylon I lied and said those same things when it was my turn.

Obligatory head nods and smiles all around. The truth? I thought they were imbiciles with the depth of a paper towel but I desperately wanted to fit into this group.

When we got home I burst into a rendition of Yes, My Wife Is Bonkers and spilled my secret to Ken.

“I didn’t want to say this but mine were Receiving Gifts and Physical Touch. JUST LIKE THE MEN. They all chose Physical Touch! I like touch! I like presents! BUT THOSE BITCHES WERE SITTING THERE JUDGING ME AND I DIDN’T WANT TO GIVE THEM ANY MORE AMMUNITION.”

Ken, for reasons crucial to the sustaining of our marriage, is a patient man whose gifts were Words of Affirmation and Acts of Service. Since the time when I allowed my mouth to puke all of these pieces of information to him I’ve been honest. Sometimes brutally so, but he always knows where I stand as does anyone within a 40 mile radius.

This might be too loud or construed as whoring myself out or just being greedy, but my birthday is Monday and I’m going to be a number that looks far better after other people’s names. Not mine.

Dear Kenny,

You may get me a camera or some jewelry or something electronic and cool/hip. You may not wait until Monday night to say, “Let’s go shopping. What do you want?” You must think about all of the clues I’ve given you, search all of the catalogs lying around the house, or just call my sisters. But you will not screw this up.

I love you, snookums.

Kelly

The last time my husband went to the store (he’s in training to be a better househusband and is doing a fabulous job) he bought the cheap brand of cotton swabs.

Can you say UNACCEPTABLE?

We’ve all been complaining about how much they suck and how we really need to get to the store to get the name brand. There’s a certain crankiness in the air at my house and I do believe it all stems from having ears that aren’t properly cleaned.

Ear cleaning is an event at our house. Hell, it’s an event when we’re away from our house. Why is it that every time we go on vacation or to my dad’s house for a visit there is an uncontrollable urge to clean our ears? I feel like a crack addict when this happens and I get all jittery and start trying to find a Q-tip immediately. Hence, we’ve learned to take them with us.

Recently, Ken bought The Good Stuff and came downstairs where I was reading my homework and just thrust 2 Q-Tips at me. Thinking they were the crappy kind I just looked at him and raised my eyebrows.

“What?” I asked annoyed.

“Here. I bought the real ones. Need any?”

Perhaps I didn’t have to throw the book across the room, but there was some force involved as I grabbed greedily for the Good Stuff and cleaned my ears (whether they needed it or not) and began to moan and sigh.

“Hmmmmmm…..ooooohhhhhhh…..aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. YES.”

He was walking away but came back to watch this spectacle I was making of myself.

“No, no. Keep walking, Ken. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

Pay no attention to the zit on his leg, but you may not want to look directly into the eye of Betty, the hot chick displayed in this tattoo. Ten extra credit points for knowing where this is from (prior to further reading).

Why would I begin a photo essay with a tattoo on a hairy leg, you ask? Because, it begins the freakish tale I will tell that concluded with a St. Patrick’s Day Parade that took place 8 days late due to tornadoes and winter storms in the Springtime. The Midwest is fun, no?

Ken and I attended a going away party for Dave and Mary and didn’t know anyone there besides….well, Dave and Mary. However, this tattoo made for a great ice breaker. As I was discussing the state of education with a lovely gal named Penny, Ken beckoned me to the kitchen with his jaw open and his eyes wide to say, “Hey, Kelly! Come look at this!”

Sometimes, that’s followed by someone mooning me, but this was a pleasant surprise. This guy (whose name escapes me because I was so fascinated by ogling his bare leg) was such a fan of The X-Files that he had this forever imprinted on his leg.

That was pretty much the highlight of this party, except for the fact that Mary offered to sell me her treadmill and Ken got my hopes up to buy it and then waited until the next day to say we didn’t have any room for it. He insists we keep Mallory’s room for her even though she lives in it for barely 2 months out of the year. (Dear God, please don’t let her read that.)

Then we went to the St. Patrick’s Day Parade that was so cold IT MADE ME DROP AT LEAST 12 F-BOMBS IN COMPLAINTS. I did get a kick out of this gal who really decked out her golf cart and zoomed through the parade, not stopping to throw beads or candy or anything. Granny had someplace to go.
Oh, yeah. This was my adorable hair (not done by me) prior to the parade. I like the hair. I hate the forehead. Officially, this is the First Good Hair Day of 2006. Kind of pathetic it took until March to happen.
Luckily, we ran into an old friend of Ken’s (Seriously. We ran. It was cold.) and had a blast chatting with him and catching up with the theme of Where Has The Time Gone. Joe was three sheets to the wind by the time we saw him.

He got that way from the Pub On Wheels that was the most popular float in all the parade. Can you see it behind him?
Here. This is a better picture of it. My hands were nearly frozen and I dropped another F-bomb here:
I should at least mention why we go to this parade. Mason plays trumpet for his school band. First chair, too. Think he cares? Not a bit. Doesn’t even practice. He’s so good it’s annoying.
For some reason, after a few Guiness, these guys were HILARIOUS. (”Is the plural of Guiness ‘Guinessessssess?” note: not the best question to ask when drunk early on a Saturday morning.)
By the end, I was beaded up, all cussed out, and my hair was straight. STRAIGHT. And still with the forehead. Geez. But the highlights, they look good, no?

This mutually beneficial relationship I have with my husband is of no use if he doesn’t get my funny jokes. This symbiotic affair just won’t work if I must explain things to him.

He’s really cute, though.

Sunday’s requisite nap was much needed after a depressing weekend of failed exams and too much work to do. Upon waking I reached for my glasses while Ken walked into the bedroom to see if I was up yet. He jumped on the bed and I missed putting them on my face. Instead, they landed directly on my chest and I looked at him sullenly (much as I could ‘look’ with my terrible eyes) and said, “HA! Look! The hills have eyes.”

Nothing. Not a snicker. Not even a glance at the glasses sitting on my boobs. Nothing.

“Hello? The hills? They have eyes?”

Nothing.

“It’s a movie. In theatres right now?”

Nothing. For at least 5 seconds. Then a very lame, “Yeah.”

It loses something in the translation when I have to tell him it was funny.