Don't Even Ask

Why did I even ask?

It's not like Dave is one of the Property Brothers.   

He's NEVER had opinions of my home decorating projects.  The only reason he knows I'm redoing the powder room is that he tripped on the ladder.

"Why is there a ladder in the bathroom?" he asked.

I had to remind him that I was stripping the wallpaper.

"Oh."

And I could have totally predicted his answer anyhow, when I attempted to show him the canvas art print I was thinking of buying for the "new" powder room.

"You don't need a picture in the bathroom."

Actually, it reminded me of my late Dad.  After visiting my sister's new home he told me how impressed he was with it.  "You know, Loulie, she's got a picture hanging in her can!"  He chuckled, shook his head and said, "Imagine that.  A picture in the can."

I looked at Dave and flatly told him that I was absolutely hanging a picture in the can bathroom.

He grumbled, "What a waste of money."

I wonder what he would have said had he actually looked at the picture that I attempted to show him.

I think I'm going to go ahead and get it.

He'll never notice it, anyhow.

The Bad Loser

Dave called me a bad loser.

I AM NOT A BAD LOSER!!!!

I'm, actually, a very good loser.  I'm so experienced at losing that I've gotten quite good at it.

But this time the judges got it wrong.

Okay.  Technically, I did lose.

But the thing is, I really should have won. 

The judges made an egregious error.  Not unlike the referees at every Bills - Patriots game since 2000.

Perhaps the idiots judges did not understand that they were judging an "Ugly Holiday Sweater Contest."  

Not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt Contest.

Please believe me when I tell you that the competition was rather lame.  There were many very Cute Holiday Sweaters, one Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt, and my Ugly Holiday Sweater.

I was not even aware that there was a prize for the ugliest holiday sweater that afternoon, when I randomly carefully attached garland and Christmas ornaments to one of Dave's old sweaters.

(I am quite the seamstress, after all.)

But when I stepped back to examine my masterpiece, I realized that it looked kind of cute.

Like Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.

So I search the house high and low for some way to make my cute holiday sweater ugly.


When I found my bag of assorted plastic bugs I knew that I'd hit pay dirt.  What could be uglier than a cute holiday sweater with bugs crawling all over it?

Nothing.

(Certainly not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.)

And it was not an easy feat sewing those guys on that sweater.  Especially the ones with all the legs.  Let's just say that there's nothing more frustrating than a tangled mess of insect legs and thread.

(Except, of course, unfairly losing an Ugly Holiday Sweater contest.)

When the drunken blind judges announced that Tiffany was the winner, I stepped back gracefully to let her own the spotlight.

Then I wandered back to Dave, informing him that my sweater was way uglier than Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.  Which is when he called me a bad loser.

"I want a recount," I whispered to him.

But then I looked at Tiffany.  She looked so happy in her cute holiday sweatshirt, basking in the glory of having unfairly won the Ugly Holiday Sweater contest with her counterfeit ugly sweater.

I remembered that this is the holiday season.  The season of giving.

And those imbeciles judges just gave Tiffany the gift of the Ugly Holiday Sweater award.

Merry Christmas, Tiffany.

The Fish Spa

I approached the Phuket Fish Spa with determination, prepared to stick my feet into an aquarium containing throngs of tiny scavenger fish commissioned to nibble and suck away my dead, dry skin.

In preparation for my visit, I had consumed two large Changs. 

I should have had eight.   

The Fish Spa attendant greeted me and I shrewdly negotiated a price of $400 Baht for 10 minutes. 

She took my money and motioned for me to take a seat at the edge of the aquarium.

I dangled my feet above the murky water.  The fish looked up at me, their tiny, greedy mouths watering.

I tentatively moved my feet closer to the water.  One millimeter at a time.

Dave was like, "Stick'm in!  You're wasting money!"

I inched my feet downward.

Closer still.

I was about 7 minutes into my 10-minute Fish Spa treatment, and still about 2" from the water, when the Fish Spa Attendant reached over and SHOVED MY LEGS INTO THE WATER!

I screamed.

And my feet responded like a jack-in-the-box, catapulting several fish into the seedy looking bar across the street.

Meanwhile, daughter Linda and brother-in-law Mark were thoroughly enjoying their fish exfoliations in the adjacent aquariums.

And they began to apply peer pressure.

Calling me a wimp.  And other unfair, unnecessary names.

I tried.  Oh, how I tried.  I really did.  But every time my heels touched that water, and I locked eyes with those flesh eating monsters, I screamed.

A crowd began to form.

I had an audience. 

And I realized that I had to give the performance of my life.

From out of nowhere came an unexpected surge of Adrenalin.  I took a deep breath and lowered my feet into the terrifying tank.

And I successfully achieved my goal.

Just kidding.  

I'll get a Fish Spa next time I'm in Thailand.  

But I'll need a LOT more alcohol.