We had just had one of those really uncomfortable talks.

The one where I explain that sometimes I want a back rub because my back hurts.  And, not because I want to have sex.

How, for women, it’s 80% mental.

That I need wooing and hand holding and talking about things that aren’t 24 or robots or hockey.

I’m an engine that needs to be warmed up.

A coursed meal.

Wheels that need greased.

I don’t know.

You need to make love to my brain, Andy.


And then, he gave me a light punch on the shoulder and went to go play Madden while I went outside to garden.

Well, not so much garden as spend four hours pulling out plants that looked spikey or smelled gross and running away from bees.

I’m not a botanist.   I don’t know the technical terms.

But, I do know that I don’t like bushes that look like they’re made of Christmas tree.

Plus, I have this weird sap phobia.

So, I dragged Andy outside to dig them out while I drank kool aid and looked at my tan lines in the bathroom.

I don’t really know the specifics about what it took to get the bushes out, I just know that he asked me where the saw was twice, and that he came in swearing and covered in dirt.

I, of course, felt horrible, and sent him off to his friend’s house for a few hours to relax, because every moment can be a teaching moment.

See, Andy, this is me being super thoughtful and amazing.

You go shower and have fun with your friends for a few hours to recharge your batteries.

I’ll stay behind and watch all the kids by myself.  Alone.  At night.  Even though I have a sunburn.

Look, I even started your car for you and turned your air on so it would be cool when you got in.

Because I know romance isn’t just about making sure my hands are warm and my rings don’t get caught in your hair, but rather, stimulating your mind.

This is me having sex with your brain.

So, he left.

And, I ordered pizza and talked the kids into playing Cowboys and First Americans so I could eat licorice and watch Buffy Season One on Netflix.

Everything was going well, until I hit the mandatory point of the evening where I am convinced someone is outside, and probably going to try to attack, kill or rape me, and I simply can’t be left alone for one more second.

So, I called Andy and was like, Hey, sorry to bug you, but Wyatt says he might, maybe, throw up, he has a big fever.  And Andy is like, oh my God, did you call the on-call doctor? and I was like, No, I mean, no use in bugging him on a holiday weekend, I am sure it’s just some weird virus, but, you know, he said he’s going to throw up lots and lots of vomit, sooo…And Andy’s like, that sounds bad, maybe we should take him to the emergency room? And I was all, NO!  Christ, I mean, um, wait, he looks fine now, must have just been a passing thing, you know how dramatic he is. But Andy just won’t let anything go, and he’s like, how can he be really sick one second and fine the next, what’s really going on there? And I am like, stop treating me like I’m a bad mom, Andy, everything is fine here, nobody is probably going to die here tonight, why are we even still on the phone?! And he’s all, right, well I guess call me if he gets sick again, and I just remembered I left a couple tools outside on the front porch, can you bring them in for me in case it rains?

And, while my brain was all, Why would you leave tools outside?  THERE ARE KILLERS OUT THERE!  My mouth was all, oh yeah sure, no problem, it’s only 10pm, the dark is totally not scary at all.

So, I woke Jude up and made him stand by the door with my cell phone and the 9 and the 1 pre-dialed.

I open the front door and see this.

For sawing off heads.

And this.

Dangerous for lots of reasons having to do with stabbing and organ removal.

And this.

Escape, shmescape.

And this.

Seriously. I don't even know how this relates to bush removal.

And, finally, this.

Oh look, I broke your favorite kitchen shears so that it's way easier for you to be stabbed.

Not pictured:  Chloroform, Japanese throwing stars and piranhas.

So, either, Andy is mad at me for making him pull the bushes out and getting stung by bees.

Or, we have two very different definitions of foreplay.  Mine includes foot rubs, romance and conversation.  His includes murder.

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