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Setting: the bathroom.  Mr. Apron has just exited, Mrs. Apron has just entered, wearing her sock monkey pajamas.  She is brushing her teeth.  She looks down at the toilet, squints, and says, with a mouth full of toothpaste: “Mubby?”

Mr. Apron, in the bedroom, busy changing into his fuzzy robot pajamas, replies, “What?”

Mrs. Apron spits into the sink, but has neglected to rinse off the ring of foam around her mouth.  There is probably a drip of toothpaste on her pajamas, as well. 

“Next time you shave while you’re pooping, can you please clean the stubble off the toilet seat when you’re done?”

 “How did you know it was me?”


Mr Apron thinks I should blog more.  He even nominated me for some distinction on 20SBs to the effect.  He’s out on the town tonight, and I have 20 minutes before I’m out to go visit with friends, so I think I”ll oblige him!

The show was a hit.  I sold tickets to anyone who would listen to me rant.  We hit record audience attendance by our closing, and on Saturday night and Sunday, we earned extra curtain calls.  I was beaming as the curtain closed, and my face hurt from smiling.  The last time it hurt from smiling was at our wedding.  It was a great feeling as we closed the show, and made me feel like I CAN do this again.  Despite all the feelings of inadequacy vis-a-vis my dancing, my singing, my ability to memorize lines, it turned out fine in the end.  The off-stage drama in no way hindered the on-stage magic, and given the amount of backstage insanity, it’s a miracle.  We suffered through unforgivable absenteeism in the women’s chorus, leads and choristers who dropped out, leaving gaps to fill; sickness among cast and crew including diabetes, a car accident, pneumonia, lost voices, and other unspeakables; mishaps with the costumes, disagreements with the facility, and bickering among the cast.  One pirate proudly told the make-up mistress that he was the “boss” when it came to deciding which and how much make-up he was going to wear.  And yet it all happened in the end. 

Now, I have a strange amount of time on my hands!  Mr. Apron and I found ourselves at home on Tuesday evening unsure what to do with ourselves.  I confessed to Mr. Apron last night I was concerned that now the show is over, I’ll sink back into my old routines (when I’ m home alone) of rotting in front of the computer, and rotting in front of the television.  As engaging as the My Aquarium app is on Facebook, and as much education as I’m gleaning from Cash Cab and Spongebob, I feel my mother’s voice in my head, saying, “Do you need a ‘project’?”  Which is code for, “You’re not doing anything productive.  Let me occupy you with mindless tasks and things I don’t have time/inclination to do myself.  And I would find myself sewing sweaters for dogs, wrapping presents for other people’s godmothers, shucking corn, taking out recycling, walking dogs, taking bags of stuff upstairs, and hauling other bags of stuff downstairs.  She anticipates my reaction to the above question now, when I visit ye olde homesteade, and has taken to asking if I”d like a “P-word”.  I still shudder.  I need to occupy myself.  If I don’t, I feel depressed about how unproductive I’m being, which makes me more melancholy.  And then I do even less.

So Mr. Apron had some ideas for me last night, as we lay falling asleep, yet unable to stop talking.  We call these times “slumber parties”, recalling the sleepovers of my youth when no one was able to actually fall asleep and my mild-mannered father would come upstairs several times throughout the night to shush us.  He suggested I take another art class at the art center nearby, or take on some more students to tutor (I’m down to one kiddo per week), or rejoin the JCC to combat the lethargy I feel when I look at sewing patterns and realize how sewing larger sizes than I care to makes me feel.  Since art classes cost $200-300, and it’s late in the semester, that one is out, but I’m digging the JCC idea.  Mr. Apron gets a discount for being an EMT, and we live SO CLOSE to the JCC it’s kind of ridiculous that we can’t haul our asses down there twice a week to feel better about ourselves.  Something to do + something to about the tightness in my pants that has crept up since August and stubbornly not. gone. away = a very good idea indeed. 

I love my husband.  He helps me find ways to feel better about myself without berating me for feeling bad about myself.  I am thankful for him all year round.  Thanks for encouraging me to blog.  I love you.