best of 2009. (this is what my husband has been following me around for three days to share.)

This is a repost from October 4, 2009.
After reading this post months later,
with fresh eyes, I can't help but think:
NO WONDER HE DOESN'T TALK TO ME . . .

this is what my husband has been following me around for three days to share.

My husband never speaks.

Unless it's senseless and utterly of no importance. Or humorous and of no importance.

If I put a gun to my head and demanded that he share his feelings . . . or what he ate for lunch-- or he could opt out by me blowing my head off . . . well, let's just say he would probably only think twice because of the children. They would require much more work if I weren't around.

He has been following me around with a Men's Journal for three days to read me THIS (which I only agreed to listen to if I could blog about it as he reads-- he refused-- then I showed him my right nipple, which is homing a community of bulging, purple blisters-- yes, again-- and he agreed-- that's how important this article will be):

• there is a race in Vermont
• the race takes a day
• throughout the race you have to carry an axe and a bike frame
• first you complete mud crawls under barbed wire, locate a tree stump with your number on it and dig it up-- and carry it the entire race
• run three miles through a rocky creek to retrieve a single match, followed by a one-eighth mile barbed wire crawl
• using your axe, you have to chop twenty log chunks into firewood and carry it to the top of a two-thousand foot hill (still toting stump, bike and axe)
• memorize a list of first ten US presidents, return to the bottom of the hill and recite in order.
• study a multicolor Lego cube then crawl more than a mile under barbed wire and reconstruct the cube (after retrieving pieces from a pond-- while carrying axe, bike, stump and DRY match)
• another barbed wire crawl, then run a mile and a half through a shallow river and find an egg hidden in high grass
• use your match to start a fire that will boil a tin-can of water to cook your egg-- which is your only meal for the twenty-four hour race.
• retrieve bike wheels from woods and dive into pond for chain-- assemble bike, ride around pond
  
• last task: weigh yourself on a scale, then carry twenty percent of your body weight in rocks up an eighteen-thousand foot hill-- repeat with water-- sprint two and half miles to finish
• winner gets two-thousand dollars-- everyone else gets nothing
• fifty-four idiots did this last year and eighteen finished

My response to this?

When do they poop?

Then:

What is it that men are trying to prove?

This is obviously not for money, is it simply to say: I did this? I wasted twenty-four hours of my life completing meaningless tasks that were created by retarded lumberjacks that are gay for barbed wire?

Pat me on the back, I can't birth a child, but I can spend my life trying to prove . . . ummm . . . something.

Fortunately, my husband is no hero, no bucket of testosterone and most definitely not a sadist woodsman.

But he is a wee bit sore about me making fun of him in my blog today . . . and yes, I will pull out my nipple if he chooses to share his feelings on the subject . . . but no need to worry about that.



(p.s. While searching for an image of the "Race for the Biggest Balls", I realized that women also compete-- and a woman even WON this race one year. My response: when did she poop? THEN: my head exploded. Sorry.)