I'm a lefty. For the most part, I have learned to navigate the right-handed world with few difficulties. However, scissors elude me. Certain pairs just will NOT work for me.

Just tonight I was trying to cut open something and couldn't find my usual lime green handled scissors. So I grabbed the other pair from the drawer. Knowing they wouldn't work left-handed, I still tried. And tried. Feeling stupid for attempting, knowing that all I was gonna do was caress the paper softly.

Yet I switch awkwardly to my right hand and snip, snip, snip. WTF? How is that even possible.

Because we are valued cable customers, we have a free 4 day trial of Showtime. The only thing even remotely worth viewing at this point is Twilight. So I will watch it.

I admit, I read the books. I keep reading all these things about how AMAZING they were, so I figured, hey, I like a good vampire story as good as the next girl, what the heck.

I mean, once I commit to a series, I am compelled to see it through. I have stuck with Laurell K. Hamilton this whole time. And what started as a pretty cool series about a kick-ass chick vampire executioner slowly and painfully slid into a story about a former kick-ass chick who hops from one supernatural orgy to another. The last 4 books have had little plot and zero character development. Bloor Noir was pretty good, if you can get past the fact that the book starts with a multi-room threesome ... that's sole purpose was to make one of said threesome feel better. Yeah, skip the first hundred pages (she's already covered it before, trust me) and it's not bad. But the rest, well, I have basically skimmed through them and gotten the whole story in about an hour. Sad really.

So, keeping that little quirk of mine in mind, I embarked on Twilight. I will not go into what a horrid mess these books are. My one year old Minion could write better. Seriously. But I read them. I figure if the movie is half as bad as the books, then it will be a good laugh.

On what planet is a super strong, possessive, stalker boyfriend a good thing?

About the only good of that whole 4 book mess was the summary I found on Mimi Smartypants' site. Eclipse was described as "yet another 700 pages with no fucking". Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

Not that any of this matters, since Hell has apparently frozen over with the passing of the healthcare bill, and an apocalypse is imminent. I know that there is no way to please everyone, but I can't help but wonder how different things would be if Obama was a Republican. I am almost certain that death threats against Republicans supporting his bill would be on every media outlet demanding justice, wire taps, arrests, life sentences, etc.

The fact that Republicans are basically telling the Dems to walk it off and suck it up is just disgusting. And their lack of action to quickly and loudly condemn those actions is basically a passive-agressive way of condoning it. It makes me sick. I am over politics for a while.

On a happy note, the Minion is walking now. He made it all the way across his bedroom yesterday and today without any help. And he also has a full on Spring Snotty Nose. This has required several snot sucking adventures with the aspirator thingy. Which he finds hilarous. Only my kid.

So, today's been a busy day here in the Land of QoE. First and foremost, it's The Queen Mother's birthday today. Her gift request - a container of my homemade guacamole. No, really. So that's what I gave her. (I am going to her house tomorrow to eat half of it. Shhhhh - don't tell)

[Flashback to this past Friday, as my mother and I are dusting in her computer room ... "I really like your blog, but I think if you write anything about me, you should call me The Queen Mother. But you know, that's just a suggestion."]

POF was finishing up a job and didn't get home till just a little bit ago. He came in, he was excited to see the Minion, and the feeling was mutual. He had given the furry minions a brief hello, but we were distracted. He was holding the boy, doing his best to work on some wings from Hooters that he'd brought home (no lie people, the Daytona sauce is AMAZING - and I don't even really like chicken wings). He's holding the Minion, telling us about his day, asking about ours. Well, apparently we weren't paying enough attention to the precious baby girl.

That's her and her crazy brother there at the top of this blog. She is my most precious angel, My Baby Goose, and she is e-v-i-l. Also hateful and demanding. Sometimes she smells like pancakes and we can't figure out why. She eats poop and if she deems you worthy of a cuddle, you will be asleep within minutes. She will be 15 in July and I love her more than I can even say.

So, in an effort to get her point across that Hey, Peasants, you are not paying attention to My Needs here, I have to go OUT, she pranced in and took a big shit, right in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was awesome, and totally hilarious. In a really disgusting kind of way. That's my girl.

That wasn't really how I planned to start this post, but it was too amusing not to share.

This past weekend, my Godmother was in town for a brief visit. (Hi Godmother! *waves*) She is in the military and has what one might call a commanding presence. She's also all of 5 foot nothing, so this makes her intimidation even more outstanding. She was always sorta bossy, but she has tolerated my horrible jokes about her lack of stature since I was like 10, so that's cool. Big manly military men quake in their manly military boots in her presence (or at least I like to think they do, cause it amuses me). She's also an Indian.

While POF's family is of the more laid back, Plains variety of Indian - you know, they own casinos and either wallow in their lust for the firewater, or go the other way and found churches, but either way pretty much a peaceful lot - Godmother is a Mean Indian. Of the We Will Scalp You In A Heartbeat variety. I think this has something to do with the fear factor mentioned above.

Cause really, what would be more awesome than a tiny Indian woman in a uniform scalping an insubordinate underling?

Besides all this, for some reason we can't quite fathom, she's also a conservative Republican. The Queen Mother ... is not. She's basically one Pro Choice petition away from being on some sort of government watch list for the Left. I was going to make some sort of joke about being a hairy legged, braless hippie, but well .... never mind [love you Mommie Dearest]. Politics is something they just cannot find a middle ground on. And boy, do they love to push each other's buttons. They've been friends longer than I've been alive, so they've had many years to perfect their skills.

And naturally, it was bound to happen. We were having a nice chat about New Orleans (Godmother considers it home, and I was discussing the trip POF and I made there several years ago). Which of course led to the whole Pre-Katrina and Post-Katrina comparison. Then came the Katrina stuff itself. And then, out of the blue, there it was. Politics. Buttons start being pushed, and they are off.

Now, left unchecked, this could escalate to shouting and go on for hours. It's like a sport for these two. But by golly, we were not going to have a family brawl on this day, during such a short visit. So I forcefully, but still nicely, told The Queen Mother to let it go. To stop. To leave it alone.

She didn't listen.

So I had no choice. I had to get her attention. I walloped her one on the shoulder blade/back area. After her exclamation of pain, she shut it. I didn't hit her THAT hard, I swear. She is convinced that she will have a big purple bruise to show for it. I am waiting to see it. I don't believe it.

But in the event that I did commit maternal abuse, I vow to post a photo of my crime, along with an apology. She didn't mention it today at dinner, so I think she has recovered nicely. Stay tuned for the results.

I am sure she's hoping for a photo to add to her collection. It will go right next to the hot tea burn over her boob that looked like a shark.

My little Minion is going to be a year old in a couple of days. I can't believe it's been a year already.

This mom thing is pretty cool. And I've made it almost a year with no visits from Child Services, and the kid hasn't packed his bags and run away yet. Not that he can run. But he can crawl pretty fast, so there is a small chance he could escape if he wanted to.

We've had a busy few days, and I am tired. Last night, the kid was actually wide awake, playing in the playpen, and I was on the couch fighting to stay awake. It was 9 PM. I lasted to approximately 9:15. POF finally got the boy to sleep at 10:30.

Obviously this whole time change business doesn't have an adverse effect on the toddler set. The Minion was wide awake and ready to go at 5:30 this morning. Crazy kid.

Hopefully I will find time to post something funny and somewhat improper later. But for now, I have two pitiful sets of weenie dog eyes begging for dinner, and one toddler patiently awaiting his. If I wait much longer the screeching will start, and we've had a good day so far (complete with massive poopy diaper that POF had to change. heh. that always amuses me).

I feel almost embarrassed that I threw POF out here and didn't actually make an introduction.

As mentioned, POF is my beloved husband. We've been together close to 20 years. He loves me, even the mean parts, and for that I am grateful.

POF stands for Pookie One Feather, and it is a cute but derogatory nickname I gave him some years ago. He is an Indian (casino not convenience store, feather not dot, etc), so I jokingly turned his nickname Pookie into his new Indian name. He's not exactly thrilled with it, but he can't really do anything about it. For me, it's a win-win.

Originally, once we because a couple and were proclaimed "cutesy", it was decided that we needed cutesy nicknames. Jokingly we tried out as many stupid ones as we could think of. One day I happened to think of Garfiend and his little teddy bear Pookie. So I tried that one out, so did he, and ultimately it stuck. We both became Pookie. We are both still Pookie to this day.

On occasion I will go with POF as a tribute to his ancestors. I am sure they are just as thrilled as he is. His great-great-grandfather was sort of a big deal in his tribe, so I am sure he's up there at the big Pow Wow in the Sky, getting blitzed on the old firewater, trying to erase Pookie One Feather from his memory. Sorry about that. But you might as well stay good and drunk, cause I am sure it doesn't get any better from here.

I rarely call POF by his actual name. I mean, I do when I am talking about him to someone else. But when I actually need to address him, it just sounds weird to say his name. And he rarely uses mine. I hate when he uses mine. It usually means I am in trouble.

So, there. Now you've met POF. The little Minion is just as much a wild Indian as his daddy. There will be lots of stories to share.

I must first warn you all that I have had one Mikes Hard Lemonade, so I am officially out of control. Or as out of control as I allow myself to be. Which isn't very.

So, I have a follower. And it isn't one of the people I would have expected to be the first one. It's a friend from the high school days. And she is a very Born Again, homeschooling type of chick.
Which makes me immediately think "Uh oh" and hope she decides not to read.

The thing is, we were sorta friends. We ran in a group that hung together. I never disliked her or had any problems with her, but we just never really clicked on a one-on-one basis. I always thought she was sort of an airhead and a little unruly. We saw each other at the 10 year reunion and then basically lost touch. In my head, she's still that same 17 year old dingbat.

I admit, I laughed when I heard she went all Born Again. I mean, I know some stories from back in the day that make that pretty amusing. And when I heard she was homeschooling her kids, I thought, "Oh dear Lord. Now that IS funny."

Then, a few months ago we sort of reconnected on Facebook. And I realized something. She grew up. She's not that flaky 17 year old. In fact she's a pretty cool chick. And her lesson plans and field trips for her kids schooling are creative and interesting, even to me. I admit, I still roll my eyes when I see she has bread baking (who does that?!?!), but it's with humor and affection now.

We have absolutely nothing in common except being moms. But I like her. Most importantly, she hasn't even tried to Save me yet. And she was the first to sign on as a follower to support this blogging endeavor. Which I figure is gonna go one of two ways ...

She read the first one, realized I am still EXACTLY the same, and has decided I am a lost cause, destined to roast eternally in Hellfire. But she can't really be rude and unfollow, so she will just act like she doesn't know this thing exists, and maybe one night if it's late and she's had too much Jesus Juice (heh - see, eternal Hellfire), she might pull this up and have a chuckle. Then immediately repent the next morning and vow never to look at it again.

Or, maybe she will hang in there and get this far. Regardless, she will add me to her daily prayer list and pray for my soul. Which is kinda cool I guess. It can't hurt at this point, that's for sure.

Maybe someday we'll even manage to be in the same place at the same time and get together. It will be awkward and weird cause we're both all grown up and parents and not at all teenagers anymore. And I will be so self-conscious of the bad words that will no doubt come out of my mouth. I hope that I don't make too big an ass of myself. And I hope she will keep me on her prayer list.

Two in one day - amazing.

Actually, I had to come back and say that in reference to my very first post, a friend informed me that her coworker told her that Man Stores like Lowe's and Home Depot do in fact have the capability of pulling up info by a credit card. I will not tell POF I know this.

(Though I will say - well played J.D. Robb. I will see you your futuristic cyber commerce capabilities, and raise you one AutoChef. Man, having one of those things would be so neat.)

It will no doubt lead to a heated discussion where he points out the Cletus the slack-jawed yokel at the Man Store register can pull up POF's entire shopping transaction history with the click of a button, while FiFi LeSweet at the Girly Store can barely ring up an order while smiling and smelling good.

At which point I will have to remind him that you can't swing a dead cat in a Home Depot around here without hitting at least a handful of lesbians. Granted, half of them will be sporting full on Achy Breaky mullets and wearing cut off flannel shirts with cargo shorts and Crocs, but technically they are women, so I still claim a victory for my gender.

Now don't get me wrong. I love the gay people. It's just a fact that this area has a large amount of them, and most of them are apparel challenged. In fact, one of my best pals during my Music Row years was gay, and whoo boy! did we have us a mess of fun. So much fun one night that he ended up being defended in court by Sister PeeWee. Who was actually PeeWee's sister and a hell of a lawyer. So there.

And while I do live in a more, well, upper class, suburb of The Big City than some, not too far down the road is something called The Country. And The Country is very rural and sometimes scary and goes right on up to the state line.

Now, up there we have what might be called a serious Uncle Daddy type situation in some parts. So trust me when I stereotype here. These are the people in wife beaters, with no teeth, usually half drunk, who always end up representing our fine state on Cops or the local news. Usually it involves the description of what the tornado sounded like, while they stand in front of the twisted wreckage of their trailer park. These people are real, and they live down the road.

In fact, we have the special privilege of knowing a couple who appeared on Springer. The part that makes that so damn amazing is that their real true story is ten times more twisted and entertaining than the made up one they did for TV. Yeah, sorry ya'll - Springer and wrasslin are both fake. Bummer.

So, to avoid that whole inbred battle of the sexes, I am just keeping my mouth shut.

Now it's time to go eat some pork chops. I am Southern. Though I draw the line at turnip greens. That's just wrong.

All I can think of is Miss Doxie and how funny she is, and how I want to totally be her when I grow up (minus the sleep deprivation of all that lawyering), and how I have absolutely nothing to say now that I am here.

I mean, I have stuff, but it's just random bullshit. Does anyone really care about that?

I keep seeing that stupid My Baby Can Read commercial. That's great and all, but it is really a good thing? Do I really want a 6 month old baby reading? That just seems a little bit, I don't know, extreme. It seems like everyone wants their kid to be "gifted" these days. I decided I want my kid to be a kid. I have read the What to Expect books, and I keep milestones in the back of my head, but for the most part I don't worry about it. He's happy and healthy and growing. I really don't worry if he walks at exactly 12 months or not.

At this rate, I am debating giving him coffee in his sippy and teaching him to smoke in an effort to stunt his growth. The kid is gonna be a total freak of nature if he doesn't stop with the tallness. He needs 18 month pants for the length, but when I put 12 month pants on him, they just fall right back off. Apparently he was not blessed with my hips and butt. Or, as his goofy aunt that has some serious word confusion says, "he's a silicone". Meaning cylinder. She has issues.

We went to the park today and even took the dogs with us. It was 70 degrees and I felt the need to be out in Mother Nature. We spent an hour there. The dogs tried to chase the tree rats and kill the other dogs that stumbled across their path, and the Minion spent the whole time with a death grip on me, peeking around at the other chilren with an unsure look on his face, trying to eat handsfull of the bark mulch stuff they put on the playground.

His look of contempt didn't exactly have the same effect with bark hanging out the corner of his mouth. And the fact that he was clinging to me like a spider monkey. But the eyebrows, they totally said, "Bow to me, peasants, and worship my awesomeness."

I am feeling the urge to be outside and get myself into some form of shape. I have decided that while round is definitely a shape, it's not the best one. This means I will have to force myself to exercise. Which I loathe with the white hot hatred of a million suns. The treadmill is the worst. POF can jump on there and knock out 4 miles like it's no big deal. I get on there to walk and it's like the freaking Bataan Death March. It lasts forever and it totally sucks big hairy balls. I loathe it. But I have got to be a better role model for my kid, so I am gonna try.

I say this, knowing that today after we got home from the park and our nice walk, we rewarded ourselves with a piece of cake and some ice cream. The pieces were small, and the ice cream was only a scoop, but still. Not exactly what needs to be happening. Then we lay like broccoli on the couch for an hour while the Minion slept, watching Madhouse. Again, not really the goal we are working toward. The whole healthy thing should be interesting - and a constant struggle.

The dogs are comatose on the couch. The park was too much for them. POF is sleepy, the Minion is up and wanting dinner, and I just really want to lay in the bed alone and read a book. I don't see that happening. Time to get dinner started and play with my kid. Gotta make sure he can read the directions to me when we get ready to travel/build/cook. That's what minions are for after all. I will start my own program: My Minion Can Read. I'm rich.

So, who is The Queen of Evil? What lies at her core? (Spoiler: it is NOT strawberry nougat. I checked.)

Well, I've been called bitchy, cold, standoffish, and unapproachable. Coincidentally, this has been by people I didn't like. I can usually tell within 5-10 minutes if I am gonna like you or not. But once I decide that I like you, it might take me several days or weeks to actually open up and let you in - past that big wall of evil I build around myself sometimes. If I do consider you my friend, I'd do just about anything for you. I keep my list of friends very small. Piss me off, I will probably forgive you. Do it again, and I might not speak to you for weeks, months or years. Keep pissing me off, and I am liable to say very, very harsh things to you before filing you in the Dead to Me file.

I wouldn't say I am really religious, per se, but I do believe there is something bigger than me. If you want to label that God, that is fine. I think evolution is a scientific fact. I believe the events in the Bible happened, but I don't think that what is in the Bible is the end all, be all. Other religions have books, and their stories and points of view are just as valid. I don't think that any one religion or section of a religion is special or chosen or more worthy than another. We all worship the same thing, we just call it different things, whether you are saying Our Fathers or dancing naked under the moonlight.

I grew up in a denomination that I refer to as The Cult, and really don't have a lot of use for organized religion. My problem isn't church, it's the judgemental, two-faced hypocrites that attend it. But, I feel like my child does need to have a foundation in religion, so I have made an effort to take him to church. When he's old enough to make his own decisions, he can choose if he wants to attend or not. But at least he will know what the Bible is and what it says, etc. What he chooses to believe is his choice.

I think everyone should have the right to own a gun if they want, or feel the need to. I do not see why anyone needs to own a fully automatic machine gun. That's just not necessary.

I don't care if you are black, white, or purple ... or gay or straight. That really doesn't have anything to do with me. Every person should have the right to be who they are and live their life as they choose. To be a country that prides itself on its Godliness or Christianness, we sure are a judgemental, persecuting lot. Isn't there something in the Bible about not judging others? I think that judgement is God's job, and what he decides is between him and that person. It's not really my place to do it for him. And God doesn't really share his opinions with me, so it's not my place to decide what his opinions might be.

I think that there is a very Special Hell for people that abuse animals and children. There are times when I'd like to send those people there myself.

I have really bad language, though I am making an effort now that I have a kid - a kid that will no doubt start to mimic bad words in the very near future.

When I was 15, I said no marriage before 30 and no kids before 35. I stuck to that. POF and I have been together for 17 years and I made him wait 13 before actually marrying him. It took threat of divorce for me to get on board with the kid thing. But I agreed to it, and within a few months the Minion was on his way. He's the best thing I ever did. And now we have at least one person to threaten us with the nursing home when we get old and mean(er).

I love dachshunds. I am a voracious reader. I love Joss Whedon's brain. I love Heathers, Anchorman, Twister and Rosencrantz & Gildenstern Are Dead. I am quirky. I have a quick temper and not a lot of patience for bullshit. I tell it like it is and don't sugar coat much. Sometimes I am too blunt. If you don't want the truth, then don't ask my opinion ... you'd think people would learn this by now, but sometimes they just don't get it.

The best thing POF ever gave me was a Valentine's Day card. It had a picture of a candy heart on it with all the pieces of chocolate in it. And there were little arrows drawn to the pieces with labels like "your smile", "your laugh", mushy shit like that. And he drew an arrow of his own to a piece and labeled it "Your Evilness". That is why I love him.

Why am I here? People always tell me I that I should write. I've never really tried it, though I admit I am much better in print that in person. Do I have lots to say? You bet. Lots of shit pisses me off, and I have volumes to say about it. Does anyone care? I have no idea. But we're about to find out.

Hello Internets ...

So, here I am. And now I have no idea what to do. I am sorta terrified of throwing stuff out here. Especially if it involves my slightly crazy husband (referred to as POF). But here goes ...

I am taking this from an email I sent out this evening, featuring the story of my day. It finally inspired me to get off my butt and write something.

--------

Everyone always says I should write. I think about it, but never do. Today was one of those days that deserved to be documented though. So here it is. I call it Got Milk?



“Oh crap, I forgot to stop and get the milk“, I say.

He smiles at me and says, “I knew a long time ago that you forgot the milk.”

I glare. “When? When we drove by the grocery store and I didn’t say ‘Stop so I can get milk’?”

He is now smiling with nothing short of devilish glee.

This might just be the day I finally brain him with a heavy object. But let me back up.

It’s been a long day. We’ve been sniping at each other over something stupid - returning some items to Bath & Body Works.

It all started last weekend on my birthday. The big day happened to fall on a Sunday, so after church we were scheduled to meet my sister (half-sister actually, who also has the same birthday - but that is another story altogether), our dad and stepmother for lunch to celebrate. We ended up skipping church because we were doing some household projects that needed to be finished before company came over for cake and presents after lunch.

And then, at 11 AM, suddenly my husband needs to go to Home Depot and get a part to make the toilet stop running. Riiiiight. Like I don’t realize that what he really needs to do is go out and buy me a birthday present. Like I have not in seventeen years put two and two together - that he has to go run some random errand and then, upon his return, suddenly presents appear. It’s always the same for birthday, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day. But bless his heart, at least he tries.

So, he meets us at the restaurant, with a bag full of Bath & Body Works stuff and no toilet part. I look, and while he made a great attempt, he picked several scents that were way too flowery. And of course when I told him that I appreciated the sentiment, but I needed to return the stuff, he got his feelings all hurt and went into a pout. Poor baby.

Almost a week later, such a beautiful day, and we get the kid (our Minion) all packed up and head out to the dreaded mall to make the return. I drive. He’s too busy with his mind on his gig tonight to concentrate on anything else. We get about halfway there and I ask if he has the receipt. No, of course not. Andsomehow it’s all my fault because I didn’t remind him to get it, or ask him if he had it before we left. Silly me, I just assumed that since we were leaving to go and specifically return the items, he would have gotten the receipt from wherever he hid it. What was I thinking(sarcastic eye roll)?

So we turn around, both irritable now and starting to snap at each other over everything and nothing. We go all the way back home. He can’t find it. So I say that is fine, let’s just go do our other errands and worry about it another day. He gets all mad. No, by golly, we are doing it now, today. Without the receipt. We don’t need it anyway, he says, they can pull it up in their computer with is credit card number.

(Now, I don’t know what futuristic universe he lives in, but I have yet to have a store that can do that. He swears that he returns stuff ALL THE TIME and they do it, no problem. Apparently we shop at very different stores...in totally different realities)

So, back we go to the mall. Still sniping at each other. Every little thing irritates us. No patience at all. Happy, happy family. As a side note, I should mention that our Minion is by nature a pretty happy kid, and he is just happy as a clam, riding in his stroller, checking out all the people in the mall. There's a lot to look at here people. This is the South, and our local mall has no shortage of rejects from Freebird Trailer Park and Gangstas R Us.

We get to the store and the lady at the door greets us. She is very nice and asks what she can do to help us today. He says we are here for a return. She asks if we have the receipt. He says no, but he has the credit card. She looks at him with a puzzled expression on her face. He tells her that she should just look it up in her system with his card number. She still looks a bit confused, and tells him that they don't have a computer system that does that kind of thing - the register is just a register. He gets angry and says yes they can, stores do it all the time. He has That Tone. Things are about to get ugly.

I step in and say what I really want to do is just exchange for some different scents. Fine, that can be done. He leaves the store, angry about the whole computer thing. I run around the store to make my exchanges, trying to hurry in the crowded store, and finally I am through.

We are still a bit grumbly on the way out to the car and he won’t let that poor lady off the hook about the receipt thing.

“I’ll drive from here,” he says as he puts the Minion into his car seat.

Of course he will. Now that we are heading to the music store so I can buy him a $50 bass drum head, his mood has much improved. We head in, let the Minion bang on some drums for a bit, buy what he needs, and leave, all without really saying much to each other at all. It’s time to head back home so he can get ready to leave for his gig tonight.

He still insists that they can pull up his info in their computer without the receipt.

"How do they do it with the receipt?", he asks with this sort of smug look on his face. "They can do it, they just don't want to, because it's not convenient."

The debate over this is what causes me to forget that we need to stop at the grocery store and get milk. And of course, his not stopping, when he did remember, is his way of paying me back for the receipt thing earlier. He gets mad when I don’t take his side. Especially in public.

I love him. I do. But he’s crazy sometimes with his left field logic. Lucky for him he has a gig tonight - cause it’s possible that there’s a heavy object with his name on it.

And this is part of the reason I don't write. Most of my stories involve him in some way. And he would be mortified (either embarrassed or mad or both) if he thought that the whole universe was reading about him.

When we are with our two best friends, who are married, and in fact got the two of us together, he gets all red in the face and leaves the room if my BFF and I even hint at the subject of sex. Like he doesn't want anyone to know that the two of us actually have it. Which, at this point, is pretty obvious - well, at least that we did it the one time.

He's still iffy on Facebook - he doesn't want pictures or anything up that people might be able to use against him. I swear we are one step away from digging a cave and building a militia on this hill sometimes.

(mental note: don't tell anyone about this that might tell him. and p.s. - don't ever let him read it)