The Great Chocolate Caper
- Fact: Mrs. NFB does not like chocolate (all that much)<-said under her breath
- Fact: Every $mas my dad buys us a big-ass box o chocolates containing, approximately, sixty pieces.
- Fact: This year I have had a total of four pieces. One a day or so since we've gotten the box opened.
- Fact: There are approximately five total pieces left.
Somewhere in there is a missing fact. Here are the possibilities:
- One of our numerous furry critters has found a way to get up in the storage area, remove the box top, carefully pull out chocolates one at a time, wrapper and all, put the wrapper into the garbage, then replace the box top without notice.
- The fish have in fact become fully cognizant, ordered out miniture reversable type scuba gear (water in air) and have performed the above actions.
- One of the neighbors has perfected an extremely precise transporter ray. So precise it can grab one piece of chocolate and its wrapper, place the wrapper in the garbage, and the chocolate into their mouths.
I don't know for sure, but I'll be looking for ways to block ray-based devices around our house in the future.
The Great Sharing
So, Mrs. NFB and I found ourselves very, ah, how you say, googly-teenage-levels crazy for each other over the last week or so. We had one of those wonderful "I can't get up, give me about a half hour or so" experiences last weekend that we haven't had in quite some time. See, she caught me up at the crack of dawn washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen, as I joked to her later, hitting the housewife g-spot. It's not that I don't do those jobs anyway, but she had said she would get it in the morning, and something had told me that since I couldn't sleep I should make myself useful.
After which she found me very useful. Not to say that things have ever been bad between us, but you know. There's standard delivery, and then there's, um, not standard. Yeah.
And so she starts asking questions about all the time I've been spending writing. And I tell her what little I can without just handing over the manuscript because, frankly, it's not ready to be read by someone else yet. Too many missing elements, too many rough edges to make sense to anybody that can't see the rest of the story through my eyes.
But she says she doesn't believe me. That there's gotta be some hot shit going on in this story to get me so worked up.
Ha. HA I SAY!
And so I'm writing away last night, long after she'd gone to bed. Room darkened, nothing but the faint light of my Scrivener full-screen mode, ash gray background, light green-blue letters cascading across the screen as fast as the words come to me, and I suddenly see movement in the corner of my eye. I reach up and snap on the light to see her standing there in her purple robe, reading over my shoulder.
"What are you doing?" I ask as I Option-Tab to another window, fear racing through me. Fear she'd see just how teen-angst, stupid and sappy that particular scene really was before it had been refined past the essence of inspiration.
She stands there looking at me with her eyes wide. I see fear from being caught, and love. Not the love we've had over the past five years or so of our marriage, the peaceful, comforting love that I craved so in my youth. But the love I saw that first night I kissed her, sitting on her tiny couch together, trying to find words and only being able to kiss her forehead, her cheek as she turned closer and closer. That look I saw that day, and every day after until us together just became a common, wonderful everyday thing.
"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes and eerily shy smile telling me she's not.
She hugs me, and kisses me, and tells me goodnight. And I feel warm in her unspoken praise.
And I feel more driven to finish now than I did before, to show her, to let her see.
What I share with you my friends is this: I've found peace with what I am, respect for what I do, and in doing, I found the love her and I share growing deeper day-by-day. We never had problems. But lack of problems doesn't really mean you can't do some fixing anyway. And sometimes, the best fix is the one you didn't see coming.
And this morning she believed me when I told her I'm not writing a sex story. But she told me I'm lying if I try to convince her it's not hot anyway.
And honestly, I'm alright with that.
My name is nightflameblue, and I write sappy love stories. Until today, I found that difficult to admit. And now, with her behind me, I want to shout it from the rooftops.
The Great WTFing
Kitty2's got a fascination with water. He's always had it, even as a kitten. But most of the time it was only triggered if he saw something in the water, like a hair floating, or dirt in the bottom of it or something. And he'd stick his paw in and try to do something about it.
But here lately his fascination has been emptying every water bowl, every cup he can find onto whatever surface it's on. Not by tipping things over, no, never that. But by sticking a paw in and then shaking it everywhere. Over and over.
So, I come around the corner a couple nights back to find him standing in the puppy water bowls. We have a two bowl stand that locks the bowls together. The bowls themselves are approximately five inches deep, and we usually keep them fairly full. Kitty2 is standing with his back paws in one bowl, his front paws in the other, this super determined look on his face as his front paws went up and down furiously fast, little pistons shooting water back and forth as fast as his little kitty arms would move.
And I wanted to get mad at him, as this water thing has gotten ridiculous with him. But you gotta admire that kind of determination. Even if it does mean you're cleaning up water for ten minutes afterwards.
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