At the end of the earth with a loin cloth eating terrorist

Domestic terrorist

The readership might not think that looks like a domestic terrorist, but I promise you, it is.

This animal is essentially trying to eat our entire house, despite being (self-limited) to one room (she will not cross the threshold of the living room, which apparently indicates the end of the earth to the bunny).

Perhaps she's just practicing self-control. Perhaps she won't venture out into other parts of the house until her Work is done here in the living room.

House Protector II surveys
the end of the earth

Sometimes the bunny makes out with the house protectors. We have two in the living room. Thankfully they are positioned such that they cannot see each other so they don't know about the bunny's promiscuity.

She has eaten both of their loincloths and most of the hair on the one that has hair.

I'd call the Humiliation and Sexual Enslaving of the House Protectors the bunny's greatest exploit.

Cuckolded House Protector I

Sometimes the bunny hops onto the couch (the leather of which is dotted with holes courtesy of unfortunate sessions during which were not practicing enough care in the supervision of the bunny) and attacks the Goat's newspaper, tearing it into shreds.

Your humble hostess enjoys those proceedings immensely. 

The bunny's other big project involves the table next to where I usually sit. We have essentially conceded this table to the bunny, which she furiously gnaws at like a pint-sized power tool.

Despite how much wood is associated with said side table, I'm pretty sure one day, whilst the Goat and I lounge in the sweet velvet of the morning sipping coffee, I shall set my mug upon the table in order to type a missive on my laptop and the whole thing will clatter to the ground.

And the bunny will silently glare at us, vindicated.

*  *  *

Things they don't tell you about marriage

Photo by humble hostess.

* * *

A week late and who cares?

The Goat and I got married on November 28, 1992 in my parents living room. A pastor performed the nuptials, which were followed by an open house reception. Mom made all these great appetizers and we had a beautiful cheese board. My dad smoked a couple of salmons. My new mother-in-law made Greek pastries. Two caterers tended to serving and clearing the food and we had a professional bartender as well.

It was small and intimate and casual and elegant all at once--perfect, really. Let it be known that I negotiated up from the justice of the peace and a can of beer and the Goat negotiated down from a church wedding and formal hall reception. Looking back now, I guess that sort of meeting-in-the-middle was a harbinger of good things to come.

We spent the night at the Ritz. I was 27. My magnificent groom was 35.

This photo was taken the next day at our house (we'd purchased it together about a month earlier). It is my favorite photo of us because it exactly captures the two people we were on that day. All the family came over for leftovers and ham. We opened the wedding gifts and had the best party. We honeymooned a year later in Reno and Tahoe.

Side story: The Goat and I took my parent's minivan to Illinois to buy the booze for the whole weekend in order to avoid our sizable state and local taxes. Of course there were tons of side orders as well. We loaded up a couple of carts with about $1,500 worth of hooch. After we checked out, we asked the clerk for boxes.

"We don't have any," she said flatly.

!

No, we did not capture the attention of any law enforcement representatives on the ride home. Yes, every drop of sin made it back to Ohio. No, the Goat did not have a good time as I sweated bullets and screamed at him every time he changed lanes or tapped the brakes as all those the bottles rattled and threatened in the back of the van.

Yes, he married me anyway.

Tonight we will celebrate said nuptials with a fine dinner at Luca. Sure, it's a week late, but after 21 years, what's a few days?

Happy anniversary, Goat. I wouldn't change a thing.

*  *  *

Fathers Day Eve

Sometimes, Lil' OB talks about being on the "struggle bus," or worse yet, driving said bus. Lil' OB spent a good amount of time on the struggle bus courtesy of the Mini Cooper, for instance, while she endeavored to master its manual transmission.

Having a difficult time interacting with the seven different remote controls in your living room? You're on the struggle bus. Squirrels and chipmunks can often drive a grown man onto the struggle bus.

I've logged a few miles on the struggle bus myself, whenever I try to find an empty sour cream container and its matching lid for instance, or corralling the evil pet bunny back into her cage (a floor show you have to see to believe), even trying not to mar freshly painted nails with those silly toe separators. The list goes on and on.

The Goat frequently drives the struggle bus, mostly suffering in silence. I'll find him sitting before the computer, brow collapsed in consternation as iTunes glows before him.

"What's the problem, Hon?"

"How do I know if it's downloading?"

I click. The download screen magically appears. The struggle bus pulls back into the station.

Last week, however, 'twas Lil' OB and your humble hostess on the struggle bus. Not sure how this happens in a world of ubiquitous advertising, but we somehow thought last Sunday was Fathers Day and gave the Goat his gift--a tumbling compost bin.

Perhaps because I was on the struggle bus myself, I did not get a photo of the Goat assembling the compost bin, which was pretty much wall-to-wall struggle bus material that even included a spate of Universal Repair (a method by which the operator repeatedly impacts an incooperative object with a hammer).

In the end, however, the Goat triumphed.

And as you can see, we wasted no time in putting our new apparatus to use.

So happy Fathers Day Eve to all the dads out there. Have a beer. Stay off the struggle bus and know we love ya 365 days a year.

*  *  *

The sweetest face?

The Goat and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary in November. To commemorate the occasion, the Goat gave me a gift.

"ooh!" I exclaimed as he handed me the wrapped package.

Inside were three bags of m&m's, about six or seven ounces each. But these weren't like other m&m's. They had little pictures on them--pictures of me and the Goat!

The m&m's won't last forever, we all know this. No matter how long they do last, however, one thing's for sure: eating m&m's with your picture on them never ever ever gets old.

* * *

The following is a true story

* * *

Wife and husband lie blinking awake in their nuptial bed as the velvet blue of predawn blooms in the east.

Wife: I often have dreams in which I cannot understand or use my cell phone at the most critical moments.

Husband: I often have realities in which I cannot understand or use my cell phone at the most critical moments.

* * *

Upon a bed of roses

Up until just a few days ago, your humble hostess had never laid herself down to sleep upon a new mattress. Ever.

Each of the beds I have occupied were either handed over, under or down. In my mid-teens, I graduated from a single bed of unknown origin to a full that had previously serviced the guest room. As for the history of that bed, I have no idea; but a move to the guest room is surely a demotion in the life of any mattress.

Serta sales representative

In those days, my parents hosted frequent and notorious parties and the guest room bed was often piled with coats and wayward guests with dubious intentions (they were probably lined up outside the door--this was the 70's for chrissake). Hence by the time I inherited the mattress, it was duly humped into submission, but I soldiered on undaunted and eventually moved out, weary bed set in tow. As for its employ during my single years: thank god mattresses don't talk. That bed endured through all of that and the first few tender years of holy matrimony with the Goat.

Then one day while blinking at the ceiling next to my dearly beloved, the extent of the sunken depression that cradled our bodies moved me to action.

"Honey," I said, "let's change out our bed with the guest room bed."

Portable Serta representative

Our "guest room bed" had been the Goat's bed during his bachelor days. One would normally associate its (ahem) "economy" grade with a roadside motel and the last occupant's lingering cloud of Aqua Velva. So it went with another atrocious mattress for four or five years until the Goat's parents purchased a new bed set and did we want their old one, which was a top-of-the-line-Sealy-when-we-bought-it or should they just throw it out even though it's practically like new?

Um, okay. Sure. Thanks. And the Goat and I did deliver unto that bed twelve more years of experience.

Detail from Judy O'Brien's original Jane Avril quilt, which now graces Lil' OB's bed.

Now for a sidebar: Save for one uniquely stunning bed ensemble that was inspired by Toulouse-Lautrec's muse Jane Avril, and that my mother designed and hand stitched, all of the bed linens associated with this sad, sad tale were (of course) mismatched, handed-down, purchased on sale, or from the "seconds" bin.

Good Christ.

Cut to a few weeks ago. Once again, I lay blinking at the ceiling next to my splendid king. Wrapped in threadbare sheets and pilled blankets, our bodies were barely suspended by the beleaguered and creaky springs beneath us.

"Honey," I said at the advance age of 46 and with nearly 20 years of marriage behind me, "we're buying a new bed." He didn't argue.

New bed of Goat and humble hostess as displayed by portable Serta representative

I shall not include the litany of traumas one encounters while shopping for the components of a complete bed ensemble in this already exhaustive account. I did, however, wholly adore the two mattress delivery men who were so beautifully matched to their chosen careers, it nearly brought tears to my eyes and earned them each a ten-spot for their superlative service.

Enter karma, six degrees of separation gone bad, kismet, irony, poetic justice, or whatever you want to call it; sometimes just desserts come in blossoms of two: one white, one black. For I surely deserved that lovely new bed and all the trimmings, but did I deserve what comes next? Let the reader decide.

The lush bed that moved the Goat and me as we lay upon it in the showroom in our jeans and coats,with my head resting on his torso and the saleswoman giggling at my quips, comes by way of my sworn enemy. Must I type his name? No matter, I shan't.

Behold the acrimonious details of our relationship at your own risk.

Sleeping with the enemy indeed.

Woeful label detail from humble hostess's new mattress

Your wife

Your wife, being your wife, is your wife.

Your wife will determine what is right. Your wife will determine what is wrong. All disputes concerning your wife's decisions will be settled by your wife.

Do not expect your wife to behave rationally.

Your wife knows things about your socks that are damaging, but not as damaging as the things she knows about your underwear.

In the kitchen, your wife's authority is absolute.

Your wife owns all the stuff over there. Your wife own's all the stuff over here. Your wife owns all the stuff in between. You can have the lawnmower.

Failure to adhere to these posted ordinances regarding your wife will severely limit your access to this.

* * *

It was a beautiful and unique way to get to know someone

I could not stop watching this captivating footage featuring two positively darling newlyweds: Doug Hutchison (51) and Courtney Stodden (17). You will remember Hutchison's disturbing role as sadistic prison guard Percy Wetmore in The Green Mile.

A few notes:

--2:57 "There is a joke: sixteen will get you twenty ... " I was so mystified by the weirdness of Hutchison's mouth movements that I paid no attention to his response.

--3:42 "I was a virgin when I married him." How inspirational to learn that Courtney protected her chastity all those years so that it could be tenderly gifted to her virile groom on their holy wedding night.

--4:46 Did she just eat some gummi bears or is that a fellatio preview? Dunno.

--5:00 "Courtney's plastic surgeon was God." Clearly, the Lord's breath inflates every part of this charming new union.

Good luck to the happy couple. They were married in May.

* * *

Sexy

Smoking might have been the dumbest thing I ever did. I looked awful whenever I stuck a butt in my mouth and smelled worse for the entire 10 years. But when you would lean over and flick your Bic at the tip of my Marlboro Light, the sideways smile I sent over in return had nothing to do with that filthy habit and everything to do with a different little flame that ignited between us.

The way you handle your money: sliding bills toward the bartender to cover a round when no one's looking. Slipping an extra five under the sugar bowl despite the bad coffee and hamburgers that taste as though they haven't said "moo" in a long, long time. You don't hold on to your money too tightly, yet you always have enough. It's about the same with a woman.

The fact that you don't take that for granted makes it even better.

Although I laughed until tears squeezed from my eyes when I pulled it out of my Christmas stocking, I was thinking that when a man like you buys a toy like that for a woman like me, baby, that's saying something.

Don't say that. I disagree completely. In fact, I love your work clothes. I love the way the rough chinos hug your hips. I love the striped shirt and the way the embroidered name patch rests just over your heart like a promise.

Come over here. I'll unbutton it for you. Let me look at you: the shape of your lips, your eyes when you smile. Dear sweet Jesus, just let me look at you.

My god, how I love this bed. I'll take thick comforters, lush sheets and soft pillows over a chest full of diamonds, rubies and gold any time. Nestle in here with me and I'll show you a real treasure.

When you take both my hands in your hands like that, pull them up above my head and hold them there until all the tears I've ever cried evaporate.

The perfect velvet blue of dusk will be gone in an instant. It's slipping away already. But I know a secret way to hold onto it: Lace your fingers in mine and put your mouth on my mouth until the edges between us blur.

Don't think too hard, just make a wish. Now close your eyes and I'll make it come true.

* * *

Little known Goat/O'Brien facts

When the Goat shovels the drive (winter) or mows (summer) or rakes (fall)*, the O'Brien sits on the couch and peers over the back cushion and out the window, watching him covertly. The O'Brien fancies her surveillance as mysterious and interesting behavior.

The Goat: tall; the O'Brien: short. (see photo insert)

The Goat's desire to save everything (case in point: inoperable 8-year old HP laser printer taking up entire drawer of file cabinet in laundry room**) is tempered by the primary O'Brien directive: When the shit I do not need is in the way of the shit that I do need, something has got to give. (further to case in point: otherwise perfectly usable file cabinet drawer space is rendered unusable by inoperable 8-year old HP laser printer).

The Goat: wine; the O'Brien: whiskey.

The O'Brien signals her interest in conjugal activity to the Goat by leaving the bed unmade.

The Goat wanted a big wedding and reception, while the O'Brien lobbied for the justice of the peace and can of beer. They negotiated and ended up with a pastor in the living room of O'Brien's parents with the reception in the dining room.

The Goat: tea/newspaper; the O'Brien: coffee/laptop.

Sometimes the O'Brien places her mouth on flat areas of the Goat's body and makes noises evocative of flatulence.

Sometimes the Goat refers to the O'Brien as "Irish."

The O'Brien enjoys Goat whiskers immensely. Unfortunately (for the O'Brien) Goat whiskers are a rare phenomenon as the Goat prefers to be clean-shaven (which the O'Brien finds ironic, the Goat being a goat and all).

*Yes, the O'Brien helps with leaf removal and clears the drive of snow when obliged. The O'Brien rarely, however, cuts the grass. Lil' O'B, conversely, seems to relish the task of lawn-mowing.

**At this time, the O'Brien is not accepting questions about why the file cabinet is in the laundry room.

##

A step-by-step guide on how to use your spouse as a personal heater

1. Walk the earth for a while a-lookin' for a mate. Pick you a good, thick, hairy one with lotsa sap.

2. Throw him/her in the bed and make sure they heat up real good under the covers.

3. Get hitched.

4. Lead 'em on for a while, telling 'em you're going to work at your high-paying job for a long time and bring in plenty of cash.

5. Quit the job. (tee-hee!)

6. Take up the thankless low-pay hobby of writing.

7. Even after it is apparent that the writing will frustrate the hell out of you, pay you next to nothing and make you half crazy, keep doing it.

8. Despite the fact that you have no real job to speak of (and your spouse works all day), do no cooking, cleaning or chores while your spouse is at work. Instead, just keep writing tons of useless crap!

9. Allow the writing to become so important in your mind that it starts to wake you up at night.

10. Allow the writing to become so important in your mind that it starts to keep you up at night.

11. Allow the useless writing to become so important in your mind that you get up out of your soft comfortable warm bed in the middle of the night to go write it all down, effectively abandoning sleeping spouse.

12. Pay no attention to the fact that the house is heated to just 52 degrees between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. because you quit your real job and have no money to speak of. Just keep writing!

13. Allow your body to freeze solid while you idiotically type away, digits spider-like before the ghostly glow of your computer screen.

14. As the minutes of the wee morning tick away, take note of the creeping urge to sleep as it eventually increases and threatens to overcome your need to continue writing useless crap.

15. Turn off computer when the toothpicks that are propping your eyelids open snap in two and surface temperature of flesh is at or below the ambient temperature of 52 degrees.

16. Creep with stealth back into bedroom where warm, furry spouse is sleeping blissfully.

17. Smirk.

18. Crawl beneath covers, spending no time on your side of the bed, but instead moving directly to spouse's side of the bed.

19. While imagining you are a multi-legged sea creature surfacing from the murky-depths, completely insinuate your frozen self around toasty spouse.*


*Spouse usually wakes at this juncture in the procedure.

20. Take good care to find warmest places on spouse and, in those places, nuzzle coldest parts of self.

21. Purr.

22. Ask spouse, "Was it worth it?"

23. Interpret his/her angry grumbled response in any self-authored, self-serving delusional way you see fit.

Eighteen is porcelain **UPDATED**

The Goat is in possession of a mysterious list that advises him on the material with which each marital anniversary gift is supposed to be constructed. For example, the one year anniversary was paper (I got tiny paper mache Christmas ornaments). I suspect the 25th year is silver and 50th is gold.

The internet undoubtedly could reveal the mystery list to me. Due largely to my profound belief in hubris, however, I do not seek this knowledge.

The Goat and I were married 18 years ago today and this morning I discovered this venerable year goes to porcelain.

Despite my magnificent photographic skills, its difficult to see that the rose is porcelain (it is). Happy anniversary Goat.

I swear I can hardly keep my pants on.

*  *  *

UPDATE 7:10 p.m. EST Nov. 28, 2010: That ol' Goat had a little dark blue box for me at dinner.

I love my Goat when he gives me porcelain roses. I love my Goat when he gives me little dark blue boxes.

And I love him when he doesn't.

*  *  *

If you really want to turn me on

Wife: What the hell are you doing?

Husband: You know what I'm doing.

Wife: What the hell are you doing?

Husband: I'm just trying to turn you on.

Wife: You really want to turn me on?

Husband: Yes, I really want to turn you on.

Wife: If you really want to turn me on, tell me about how you're going to replace the dimmer switch in the kitchen and fix my vacuum.

Husband: I'm going to replace the dimmer switch in the kitchen and fix your vacuum.

Wife: No, not like that. Tell me about the dimmer switch.

Husband: I'm going to replace it with one that has a slide mechanism.

Wife: MmmmmMMMMmmm.

Husband: Hoover Bagless Windtunnel Upright.

Wife: Upright?

Husband: Upright.

Wife. Very nice.

Husband. I'm going to replace the brush roller casing.

Wife: Purrrrr.

Husband: 12 amp.

Wife: Oh my god say that again.

Husband: 12 amp.

Wife: C'mon over here baby and getcha some sugar.

*  *  *

Being married, vol. 4

HUSBAND and WIFE sit on the couch, newspapers strewn about them, coffee cups upon the side tables.

WIFE: How about some scrambled eggs?

HUSBAND (from behind newspaper): Sounds great.

WIFE heads into kitchen, where the shuffle of cooking begins: the refrigerator door opens, pans clatter and .... the sound of breaking eggs. Then all falls silent.


HUSBAND turns page of paper.

WIFE (from kitchen): Hey Hon?

HUSBAND: Yeah?

WIFE: Did I tell you about the study I read the other day?

HUSBAND: What study was that?

WIFE: The one about the eggshells?

HUSBAND: What about eggshells?

WIFE: How consuming eggshells was shown to increase the size, hardness and duration of a man's erections?

HUSBAND: No. You didn't tell me about it.

WIFE: Well there you go. Some ... um ... enzyme or something. In the eggshells. Eggshell enzyme kicking up erections.

HUSBAND: An eggshell enzyme? Imagine that.

WIFE: Yep. Enzyme. Right there in the ol' eggshell.

The clatter of plates comes from kitchen.

WIFE: Breakfast!

* * *

A Goat post

People like the Goat. When people meet me and I'm with the Goat, they say, "Wow! It's the Goat!" or, "Hey! Is this the Goat?" and I say, "Yeah, this is the Goat." Then the Goat says hi.

"Hi. I'm the Goat."

I like the Goat plenty myself. I like the Goat regular. Regular Goat, that's what I like. I'm a simple girl. Hence you can imagine my dismay when the Goat came home after a routine check-up and I found this.


See that bare spot in the center of his chest? What you have there is a shaved Goat. I don't want any shaved Goat. I understand that the doc had to put stickers on my Goat in order to check out his ticker and all, but I don't have to like it. When I rub my boobies on my Goat, I want nice warm goat fur, not some lousy razor stubble.

I wonder if there's something I could feed my Goat that would make his fur grow back faster than normal--not that I have any idea how fast his fur grows usually. A regular person doesn't regularly keep track of their Goat's fur growth. It's something a regular person takes for granted.

I guess that's the point of it. You don't realize how much you love something until it's gone. Every time I've gone to rub my boobies on the Goat's fur, the fur has been there to rub. Now that it's AWOL, here I am, pining after goat fur.

Looks like I'm going to have to find another fur patch on my Goat to rub until the regular fur grows back.

"Come 'ere, Goat."

* * *

Being married, vol. 3

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Being married, vol. 2

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Goat archives vol. three: photo phantasmagoria

For those who visit this blog regularly, that I refer to my Splendid King as "the Goat" is no surprise, nor is it unusual for me to have a bit of fun at the Goat's expense. But there are things you do not know, people.

The Goat has come a long way in these nearly seventeen years of marriage. And the best way to demonstrate that of course, is in pictures.


In the year of our Lord, 1976, two years after his own high school graduation, my Dearly Beloved attended prom, making him one of those older guys that no one knew. It was a double date affair. He and "a buddy of a guy that I worked with" escorted the ladies in a "souped-up Cutlass."

I like the ruffles on the shirt cuffs.

"I can do pink."

Sure you can, Starsky.


This strikes me as a casual outfit worn either before or after a night out at the famed Utopia dance club. Doesn't he look like one of Tony Manero's gang from Saturday Night Fever?

*** Stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Just stayin' alive! ***



Here we find the Goat relaxing on his vehicle: either the "Plymouth Fury or the Chrysler Newport;" further determination unavailable as "those were some lost years."

Wonder if he found what he was looking for.


This photo is notable as it was taken before the festivities began. My Dearly Beloved was on his way to perform the duties of Best Man ("Yeah, I think I was the Best Man. Yeah.") at what "must have been Charlie's" wedding.

Is it just me, or are his posing techniques uncanny?


This picture was shoved between the pages of the all-Goat album that the rest of today's pix came from. I don't know why. That's me at about the same age as the Goat was in the last photo. I, too, was at a friend's wedding.

Maybe it's here for contrast. Dunno.

* * *

Goat archives vol. two: gentlemen's accessories

In the above photo, my husband of 16 years is donning a wide leather watch band that he recently unearthed from a box in the attic that, according to the photo and text on the lid, originally housed a set of Craftsmen screwdrivers.

"I threw everything in here when I changed dressers."

My brain, perhaps in denial, did not immediately recognize the item. With knitted brow, I took it from his hand and blinked at the curious leather strap and tarnished buckle. When I realized what it was moments later, I fell into a gut-wrenching fit of laughter. As I was dabbing at the resulting tears, the Goat explained to me that he often wore the wristband with his tan bell bottoms and a tight print Qiana disco shirt when he went to the bar at the local Holiday Inn with his associates for an evening out.

"So Starsky," I said, "Get laid alot?"

"No."

He then produced an Speidel I.D. bracelet engraved with ERIC in a triple-line engravers font. The item was slightly corroded despite Speidel's proud claim of RHODIUM ELECTROPLATE on the interior of the clasp.

"What was the purpose of this?" I said. "Have trouble remembering your name?"

"You were supposed to give it to your sweetie," he said.

"Seeing as you still have it at the ripe age of 52," I said, "I guess you didn't do so well in that department."

"I don't know about that," he said. "After all, who's got it right now?"

* * *