This Is Where Being A Concerned Non-Self-Absorbed Spouse Will Get You*

So, the other night, there I was, tucked away in the furthest corner of the family room, hiding from my kids, and, well, Jon, because, if I don't hide, people, I'd actually have to help bathe, change, brush and read my children ready for bed and, anyway, I had way more interesting things to do. (Quit judging me.) What, you ask? Oh, tons of things. Very important things. Things like, trying to choose which picture to have printed on my personalized M&M'S**.

I could go with quirky and embarrassing:

Or, my candy could be an artistic triptych about that time I realized I needed a brain in my butt:

Or I could commendate that time I was a fashion trend setter:

Or I could go with just plain awesome!

Then, before I could really sit down and hash out a firm decision, Jon found me.

Jon: Um, Martha? I think I need to go to the ER.

Me: (flipping between pics on my computer) Ha. Ha. Funny. Funny. You threw out all my Lounge Lizard Esssspressssooo LooOOoove Gu weeks ago.

Jon: No. Really. I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something.

Me: (still flipping) It was probably the Sliders you had a work. I think the cows are implementing some sort of covert biological warfare tactics now.

Jon: (sighing) Fine. I'll drive myself.

Me: (finally turning around) Holy Bumpy Tomato! What did you eat?!?

And, six hours later, with Jon full of intravenous drugs, we're home. Something good did come of the night, however. I picked a photo for the M&M'S:

Printed on the red ones of course. Because grotesquely personalized M&M'S are for everyone. (Don't worry. You looked nothing like this, Jon. And, you can trust me on that, because, as you can see, I typed that with my concerned spouse facial expression intact.)

*It will also get an unconcerned self-absorbed spouse to the same place. But one of them comes with candy!

**For reals:

My Thanksgiving Post About Chickens Because Turkeys Simply Don't Have The Gams For The Dance Moves I Choreographed

My town recently passed an ordinance that allows you to keep up to four chickens on your property. When Jon heard, his eyes lit up and he began to imagine the scritch-scratch of little chicken feet running around our backyard and a non hormone free range chicken dinner in his future. When I heard, my eyes lit up and I promptly named one Ticky and the other Tacky and promised to love them and hold them and squeeze them forever and ever and ever!

After 10 years of marriage we finally hit the traditional "I want a pet/I want to eat our pet" impasse.

Unfortunately, this means I will not be able to relate to you the crazy antics of Ticky and Tacky, the chorus line dancing chickens. However, it does mean that YOU can go find some cute little balls of yellow fluff, dress them in rainbow sequined gowns and teach them to peck to the tune of the Do-Re-Mi song from The Sound of Music. But keep your sticky fingers off my chicken names. (I'm giving you an intimidating glare here-just like the one you'd get if you tried to touch my coffee. Seriously. It's scary.) You never know, Jon may become a vegetarian any day now and get over this insane idea that he wants to eat the cutest and most talented chickens EVER and realize that computers are evil and will someday take over the world. He will then chuck it all to hike the Appalachian trail with me from terminus to terminus while performing our favorite show tunes from Glee with Ticky and Tacky in order to earn money to buy gallons of ice cream. We will then consume our massive amounts of Baskin-Robbins Gold Medal Ribbon in one sitting, wrapped in our smelly sleeping bags at the laundry mat, while we watch every stitch of clothing we own tossed against the window of the industrial sized front loading dryers. Dude. I think I just wrote my Christmas list!