There's Nothing My Husband Loves More . . .

than when I . . .

. . . well, come to think of it, no . . . I guess it's more like the SECOND best thing he loves, is when I talk--in plentiful detail--about green living, recycling, composting, landfills, water conservation, and community volunteer-ism. Combine that with politics--again, drenched in as much minutiae as possible--and he just LOVES it.

I returned earlier this evening from addressing the Mayor and City Council about implementing some of my, dare I say, genius ideas for attaining Utopia, right here in my Utah city. That was a first; not wholly unpleasant, but eye-opening. When I told my husband that I had planned on doing this, he smiled an impish smile and said, "It's nice that you think you can affect change."

At first, I was hurt by his implication that I was clearly incompetent and uninspiring. Ouch, Honey. Really? Did you just say that?! He assured me--after I broke down in violent sobs, or, maybe it was more like a muffled whimper; hard to remember; it was definitely one of the two--that he meant to call me an optimist, an optimist facing the challenges of politics and bureaucracy. I guess that's okay. To be an optimist.

Wait, so, when we're talking about "green" stuff, does that mean I see the recycling bin as half-full or half-empty? I think to be able to figure that out we need more details.

LOTS more.

(Like, how big are the bins? are the contents crushed? or are they not? does it mean that there's more that can be recycled and that I'm not doing it and the rest of the bin space goes wasted? or does it mean that I have already cut down more the amount of "stuff" that I have and therefore don't need the other half of the bin at all? or should we, if we're being completely ideal, not even use recycling bins because we should live in a society that doesn't produce waste, even if it's technically "recyclable?" or is the process of recycling not the environmental benefit that we thought it was because it uses fossil fuels to transport said recyclables and more fossil fuels to complete the whole process of turning old junk into new stuff?

. . . am I missing something?)

I'm Pretty Awesome

I just saved us a trip to the repair shop and the ensuing fees. Why is that, you may ask?

I. Fixed. The vacuum.

I know! Awesome, right? It wasn't working properly . . . and now it is . . . because of me. And my awesomeness.

I am so empowered by my demonstration of fix-it prowess; I am manly puffing out my chest to exhibit my grand magnificence.

What's that? Well . . . ahem . . . I am.

Trust me.

If my husband gets wind of how fixing things makes me feel On-Top-Of-The-World-Amazing, I can foresee how our next anniversary might play out:

"I love you, honey. These past years have been amazing together. I wanted to give you something special to honor our love. So . . . there's a slimy hairball clogging the tub.

And it has your name on it."

Aww, how sweet is he?!

I'm on it!!