My husband got me a stand for my banjo.
Trouble is, I sold my banjo to get him this:
I thought he’d like it, but instead he broke down crying. Then he confessed that he sold his ass to get me the banjo stand.
Upon realizing the irony, we both laughed. Then I got him the ointment out of the medicine cabinet. He went to bed early, and as long as he sleeps on his stomach he should be okay.
So… um… yeah. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
This morning as I was backing out of the driveway to head to work, I saw something on the front lawn that I hadn’t noticed before. A lawn statue. Specifically, a three-foot high statue of a little boy holding a cup of water, with a small songbird perched on his arm.
On one hand, it was the most trite, sickly sweet thing I’ve ever seen. On the other hand, it had poorly defined features and the eyes of the undead, which lent it a surprising creepiness. So at least it had that whole other level of yuck going for it.
My husband Brian likes to do yard work on his days off, and he was off yesterday, which explains the sudden appearance of trite zombie bird boy — Brian actually likes little knick-knack garden things like that.
I, on the other hand, hate them with a passion that burns hotter than a thousand suns.