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Happy anniversary, Victor.

In a few minutes it will be the 4th of July.  It will also be mine and Victor’s 17th anniversary.

I usually celebrate anniversaries with giant metal chickens, or unexpected sloths, or tiny kangaroos in the house, but this year I’m celebrating quietly and with dignity.  Mostly because the live llama delivery place said they don’t work on holidays.  And also because murderous gallbladders are taking up too much of my time this week.  And because I think my husband deserves one small day of respite without dealing with the assorted insane shit that comes with being married to me.

See this picture?

Me and Victor. And Victor and me.

It looks like a before-and-after picture done in reverse but it’s actually me and Victor at around 20, and me and Victor nearer to doubling that number.  We’re older, less skinny, and we’ve perfected the art of bickering to the level that it’s a damn point of pride.  We’ve traveled halfway around the world and back.  We’ve seen howler monkeys in the deep jungles, canoed blindly through swamps, and watched entire seasons of Game of Thrones in a single night.  We’ve seen each other at our worst and at our best, and whenever things seemed at their darkest one of us always said, “It will get better.”

And, somehow, it always did.

We’ve watched each other develop (and occasionally been the cause of ) new grey hairs and wrinkles as we wander this strange path with our wonderfully curious daughter, with our baffled families, and with you…our friends.  Yes, you.  If you’re reading this you are a part of our odd journey and I thank you for joining us on it.

Here’s to another 17 years.

I’ll see you on the other side.

PS.  On the other side there are llamas.

19 years is angry men making you feel bad about peeing.

Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary and that means that Victor and I have been married for 19 years.

15 years was giant metal chickens and I think 17 years was when I rented that sloth and a tiny kangaroo to surprise Victor in our living room (he was very surprised) but I didn’t know what to do for year 19 until I saw this painting for sale in the lobby of a children’s pizza restaurant:


Yes.  It’s the Anchormen, ready for a fight and armed with grenades and guns and  clubs.  And it is majestic.

Victor didn’t entirely see its magic and claimed that it didn’t match anything but in fairness I think that speaks to how uncolorful and non-violent the rest of the house is currently. But turns out that it totally goes in the guest bathroom.  The same one where I stuck a six-foot surprise bear mural on the wall.  So now it looks like the anchormen are fighting an angry grizzly, and that is the magic of our bathroom.


Victor says it’s unsettling to have an agitated Champ Kind’s junk staring him in the face while he’s peeing and I was like, “Why would his junk be in your face?  What are you doing in the bathroom?” and then Victor reminded me that men pee standing up.

And I was like, “Oh, right.  See!  19 years and we still have mystery in our marriage.  We are awesome.”

Victor disagrees that men standing up to pee is really “a mystery” but I think it’s all in how you look at it.  Plus, it’s nice because now when other men are peeing in our bathroom they’ll be less likely to make a mess because now there are four angry news men glaring at them threateningly, plus a giant bear waiting behind them.

Our bathroom theme is: "DON'T PEE ON THE SEAT. ASSHOLE."

Our bathroom theme is: “DON’T PEE ON THE SEAT. ASSHOLE.”

In fact, it might keep people out of the guest bathroom altogether which means less cleaning.   So basically for our 19th anniversary we got the present of people peeing in our bushes because our bathroom is now too intimidating to use.  So it’s a present for us and for our neighbors who I’m certain will be entertained by it all.

PS.  I just turned off the light in the bathroom and turns out that this painting FUCKING GLOWS IN THE DARK.  Sweet baby Jesus, y’all. It’s like if the Mona Lisa smelled of cinnamon rolls and also cured polio.

PPS.  Happy anniversary, Victor.  I love you madly.

UPDATED: The man deserves a damn medal


Today is mine and Victor’s 16th anniversary, which is sort of insane. You might remember last year, when I declared 15 year anniversaries should be marked with unexpected giant metal chickens at the door.

This year I had to outdo Beyonce (the giant metal chicken, not the singer. I try not to compete with her) so I’ve been searching for something similarly unexpected to come knocking at the door.  I considered buying a giant metal egg because then when people asked “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” I could definitively say “The chicken” but it just didn’t seem BIG enough.  Then, after weeks of searching, I finally found the perfect thing.

Victor pretty much begged me to not get him anything because I think he was still trying to forgive me for last year, but then I finally convinced him that it was something awesome and so when the doorbell finally rang I screamed “OMG SHE’S HERE” and Victor was all “‘She?’ You got me a stripper?” and I glared at him because that’s the first place his head went, and then I went to answer the door and get his anniversary present.



Victor was speechless.

Probably because there was an unexpected sloth in the house.  People are hardly ever prepared for unexpected sloths in the house.

I tried to get Victor to hug the sloth and Victor said “no” and then he said some other things I can’t write here, and then he said I was going to get pee all over me, and I explained that A) these are the risks you take when you own a pet sloth and B) we were in luck because the delivery guy said he peed yesterday and they only pee once a week.  


Victor disagreed.  Vehemently.

Then I explained that getting a sloth hug could cure the most vicious of heartaches and then that sloth snuggled into my heart and made me feel awesome for the first time all day (because I was still sad that we had to put our ancient cat to sleep this week, not because I was sad it was our anniversary) and I may have gotten a bit teary, and that’s when Victor started to panic because he already knew that I had a Posey-shaped-hole in my life and that I was more than unbalanced enough to fill it with an unexpected sloth.

They should change "bear hug" to "sloth hug" because sloths give the very BEST animal hugs and you don't end up mutilated at the end of them.

Then Victor started to look a little sick and I admitted that the sloth was not his present because obviously I couldn’t be expected to keep up with a pet even lazier than me, because that’s like giving an alcoholic a bottle of bourbon for a pet.  Nothing good could come of this.  Victor was very relieved and even shakily petted Jilly-the-awesome-sloth until I told him that his real present was still outside.

Knock knock, motherfucker.

“I GOT YOU A BABY KANGAROO!” I may have screamed.  But I screamed it quietly and winsomely because I didn’t want to scare the sloth in my arms.

hop, hop, hop


Then the baby kangaroo jumped all over the house and Victor went into shock when it jumped into the house and ran right to the living room rug, and I was all “You know?  For boxing?”  And Victor was all “WTF?” and I explained that he’d mentioned wanted getting back into martial arts again and that I thought a kangaroo would make great sparring partner.  Then Victor just stared at me and I was all “You’ll have to teach him kung fu though” and then Victor just put his head in his hands because apparently he doesn’t have as much faith in his teaching skills as I do.

Then I finally broke down and explained that it wasn’t a real kangaroo and was only a wallaby, so it’ll stay that little forever and would probably be able to bring us drinks when we were thirsty, but only if we didn’t mind having the drinks splashed all over the house.

“We’ll have to invest in lids,” I explained.

Then Victor mumbled something about not feeling safe in his own house and I finally admitted that the un-kangaroo, Jilly-the-sloth, and the hedgehog hidden in my pocket were just on loan from the amazingly knowledgeable folks at Zoomagination, who were bad-ass enough to help me carry off this entire prank, and who taught me more about sloth pee than I ever would have expected.

Then we called Hailey over and she freaked out in the best possible way and screamed, “THERE IS A KANGAROO IN OUR LIVING ROOM ” and Victor and I both laughed at her glee and it was awesome.

And it was everything a 16th wedding anniversary should be.

At least in this house.

UPDATED:  It’ll probably get changed any second but this is a screenshot from wikipedia showing traditional 15th and 16th wedding gifts:


Victor refuses to open anything addressed to me anymore

I have a public PO box, but I almost never write about anything sent to me.  Also, I never check it, so twice a year the post office gets pissed, throws everything in one box and mails it to me.  Last time, the most baffling package contained an actual kangaroo hand.  No shit, y’all.  Kangaroo hand.  There was also a kangaroo scrotum in there, specifically marked for Victor.  I can only assume the rest of the kangaroo was lost in transit.  It was awesome and Victor said he was never going to open anything addressed to me again.

Yesterday a new box arrived and one package stood out from the rest:

At least it's not a giant metal chicken.

But there’s something that made these towels stand out (even more than the fact that I would finally be able to wear a bath-towel that simply says “motherfucker” on it).  The labeling on the cellophane:

That’s marketing, motherfuckers.

PS. You really shouldn’t send me stuff.  Seriously.  I suck at thank you notes and I almost never write about anything I get in the mail.  Except for the towels.  I had to share the towels.

PPS.  And also this girl, who just sent me an envelope filled with fucked-up stickers.  Victor came home and found that I’d put “FOR VAGINAL USE ONLY” stickers on all of our cups and plates, and there were “EXTRA FANCY” and “MAY CAUSE DISCOLORATION OF URINE” stickers all over the kitten.  Then Victor got all pissy so I put an “AGGRESSIVE ANIMAL. OBSERVING FOR RABIES” sticker on him, and then he stuck all of the “UNDER MEDICATION” stickers on my face.  Which was unnecessary because one is enough, Victor.  Then Hailey asked if she could have some, and it felt weird telling a 6-year-old that I wouldn’t share my stickers with her, so I gave her the foreign-language ones and the meat-product stickers, and she put a “BULK SAUSAGE” sticker on Victor’s shirt.   Then, after she left, Victor shrugged and said, “Whatever.  Bulk Sausage was my nickname in high school”.  I love that man.

PPPS.  “PARA USO RECTAL SOLAMENTE” sounds very pretty, but you shouldn’t let your child bring those stickers to school.  Also, I should probably learn some Spanish.  And that’s why I’m not allowed to join the PTA.