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Anything but that

April 30, 2012
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Upon approaching the computer and seeing the blogging screen:

Mr. Sparky:  That’s a blank screen.

Me:  I know.  All I can think of is things I don’t want to talk about.

Mr. Sparky:  You can talk about me.  That’s always fascinating.

Me:  Well, yes.  There is that.

 

I don’t know what it is with these nights.  It’s not that I can’t think of anything to write.  It’s just that I can’t think of anything I want to write.  I could make lists of things I don’t feel like talking about.  But I don’t feel like making lists, either.

Of course, I really could talk about Mr. Sparky.  He makes great poppycorn.  And he scoops the cat boxes.  Sometimes he brings me flowers, just because.  His Penne ala Vodka is delicious, and even more so if he’s made homemade focaccia to go with it.  He leaves me coffee in the morning because he knows I don’t know how to make it and really don’t care to know.  He tells me I smell good.  He does dishes.  He has the nastiest bicycle helmet on the planet, but I never have to fret about him not wearing it while riding in traffic.  The pets think he is St. Francis.  He likes stinky foods, but he’s kind enough to not kiss me right after eating them.  He doesn’t fuss if I order my food “Thai hot” even when we’re planning to switch plates halfway through the meal.  He likes my purple hair.  He’s not afraid of baby messes.  He checks my tire pressure and windshield wipers before I go on road trips.  He’s a good egg.

That’s a weird saying, you know.  That someone is a “good egg”.  I tend to think it’s not because an egg is so good that it’s a Wow Thing to be compared to it, but that a bad egg is so awful that in comparison, it’s a glorious thing to be a good egg.

But I don’t really feel like talking about eggs.

 

 

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. Mr. Sparky permalink
    May 1, 2012 6:08 pm

    There. See? Now, wasn’t that fascinating?

    However, I do occassionally smell like a bad egg…

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