Putting out Fires

I imagine that most people are like us.  We do completely insane things when its just the two of us in our house.  Things that if people caught us doing them, they’d be either mystified or mortified.  We call each other weird pet names.  We have strange rituals.  We dance like monkeys in the kitchen.

This week we’ve been packing up in preparation for our floor replacement.  That involves MOVING OUT of our house.  I kid you not.  Almost everything.  So when we started moving on Sunday, this is how it started:

And then there was Red Bull.  And vodka.  mmmmmm.  And then there was the  New Years 2000 mix CD (BEC!).  All was going well until about the third drink and then Ice Ice Baby came on.  Then we had the running man:

And then whatever this is (I swear there were no Ryans injured in the taking of this picture):

I love my crazy life!  And I love my husband who actually gives me permission to post embarassing pictures of him on the Internet.  Oh, and I love that I have complete control over the camera so you couldn’t see me do a drunken version of the chicken dance to Back that Ass Up.

If you don’t want to be affected by TMI, stop reading now.

I have to come clean about something.  Yes, I do have a huge bruise on my back, and yes it did come from falling on the corner of a plastic crate we’d packed up in preparation for the big Floor Job, but I didn’t, um, just fall, or, um, have an accident while playing with the dogs.  So if I complained to any of you about my injury and it was attached to one of those stories, I apologize. 

Now normally I am a total clutz.  I can run into anything.  Wall?  Yeah, I’ll hit it.  Filing cabinet?  I don’t stand a chance.  Coffee table?  Bye bye shins.  But it has recently come to my attention that my clutziness is significantly increased by alcohol.  Big finish off the karoke stage in Mexico = very long 4 hour trip to a US hospital after much tequila to kill the pain.  Gin and tonics and jumping around the living room = crutches for a week.  Red bull and vodka combined with other, um, ‘activities’ in the bedroom = big fat nasty bruise and inability to bend over.  So there it is. 

But hey, don’t get me wrong.  I’m completely comfortable talking about this subject (the ‘activities’, not the alcohol, although I’ll talk about that if you want).  All married couples should be as ‘active’ as we are, you know?  I just don’t think its worthwhile advertising the fact that I actually injured myself doing it. 

So, are you grossed out?  Well if so, shame on you!  I challenge YOU to get a little bit crazy with your significant other.  And if it happens to end up in a bruise or two:  war scars my friend.  Love it. 

I haven’t posted in a while, but only due to my lack of anything interesting to say.  You might argue that I never have anything interesting to say, but yeah, shove it.  So should I blog about the firefighter party we went to where grown men were peeing on walls?   Should I write about how this week I received absolute proof that I am, indeed, a nerd?  Should I write about how I have to move myself and everything I own out of my house for a week (and I mean MOVE) because the devil dog has forced the flooring issue?

Yeah, no.  Nothing too interesting to say.  Maybe I’ll feel inspired later.