when chris said his wife can't sing

Yesterday, I wore my glasses because I think I'm going to be doing a big amount of it over the next few years and I had to get used to the adjusted depth perception and how it pinches my nose and such. Ouch face.  I also immediately regret not paying for anti glare stuff. But really, that should be just all jiminy-crack-dandy included, don't you think? Scalawags, those opthomalogists.

Topher and I have this weekend tradition.  We venture out of the house and do something goofy.  At some point in the car, I say something very Kate-ish (that is, completely wack, uncouth and/or incredibly brilliant after a moment's pause) and make the hubs giggle.  He says I should blog about it and then I say, what if I blog about this funny thing you said seven years ago that I remember perfectly because I'm an elephant, I mean, I have the memory of an elephant and I think it will be funny now that we're all married and the like?

Topher does not enjoy this tradition very much, because then he gets posts written about him, or threatened to be written about such things as the fact that he does not believe in pms.  I do not think this is quite so true, but it is the draft title I jotted down to input into this here blog someday.  Only problem is, I don't quite exactly remember what he did or said that led me to that title.  But, obviously, the husband does not believe in pms.  The scoundrel.

So here we have this post.

After much thought, I've decided to keep the title of this post the same as it was when I saved it as a draft idea a month ago, as it very nearly essentially sums up nearly all I'm about to say.

Some time ago, when Topher had more hair and I weighed a hefty lot less, he told me that some day he wanted his wife to sing lullabies to his chill'ens.  I batted my eyelashes and sighed so pretty, because he was obviously alluding to me singing such sweet hymns to his future spermies.

Wouldn't you know, just the very next day, I was doing the best Gwen Stefani you ever did hear, and what did he up and say?

"Oh, that's just terrible, please stop singing."

Mine eyes did screw tight and mine eyes did well up and mine brain did scream out:

"He doesn't want to marrrryyyy meeeee!"

Touche, dear husband, you threw me off your tracks for some six years or so.  Touche.