We Just Need One More Frog to Film Our Own Budweiser Commercial

So there are some new changes to the blog tonight.

Again.

Because apparently the old new background and I were having some issues together that threw me back to being a girl in the days of junior high, when everything was filled with drama and Ralph Macchio was king. Today, though, the drama with the background pushed me entirely too far, and I snapped, and I said, “Fine. Listen, Background, you’re not coming to my slumber party,” and that was that. I picked out a NEW new background, and I pleaded with Hubs to work his computer magic, because I may have mentioned once or fifteen times that I never progressed much beyond the simple DOS commands that I learned in that one computer class that I took my freshman year in high school. Html codes send colonies of hives marching down my back and make me want to sit in a root cellar in a Midwestern state, waiting for the tornado to pass.

Hubs simply cranked up the AC/DC on his laptop, and he had a party going on over at my blog in just a few minutes. It should be noted that I did ask him, “Could you please turn Angus and his screaming guitar down a notch or nine?” He replied, “Yes, I could. But I’m not going to.”

People, having Hubs around is like living with a fourteen year old boy.

It should also be noted that two days ago, as we were driving in downtown Small Town, Hubs shivered and said, “That just makes me sad.”

Yep. He just made this comment, out of the blue, and I began to worry that the Alzheimer’s was settling in rather early with him.

I said, “Honey, what? What makes you sad?”

“The lift job that was done on that poor Chevy truck we just passed. It was a horrible piece of work — something that was probably done in the darkness of a back alley somewhere, by amateurs. I can’t stand to see a good truck ruined because people don’t know what they’re doing when they install a lift kit, and everyone knows that if you lift a truck, you put some Dick Cepek wheels on the thing!”

Yes, people, it’s true. Hubs is horribly bothered by Democrat policies, musicals, burned steaks, and lift kits gone bad.

Hubs was also the boy who drove the jacked-up, shiny black truck, which he parked at an angle, taking up seven different parking spaces, so that no one would give him a door ding. Apparently his lift was done properly, and the Dick Cepeks and the Mickey Thompsons were proudly displayed for all of Small Town to drool over. I remember the time that my dad told me I needed to buy four new tires for my 1982 Honda Accord. Buying tires is something that every girls dreads — all tires are round and black, and they all look exactly alike. I dished out $140 for four tires (all round! all black!), and I ached at the thoughts of what I could have purchased with those funds. College-aged girls are not thrilled to buy new tires, shingles, or parts for an apartment’s furnace. However shocked I might have been to spend $140 on four tires for my car, I nearly fell over dead when Hubs laughed at me and said, “Honey, I had two grand wrapped up in my wheels and tires on that black truck!”

Two large. Two thousand dollars. Hubs had invested more in his all black, all round tires than I had spent on my entire car.

Clearly, the boy had no idea about thrifty spending.

And also? Not long ago, we passed a jacked-up truck which Hubs whole-heartedly approved of. He sighed as we drove by it, and he whispered to himself, “That guy’s single.”

Mmm-hmm. Because once a guy is married off, his wife lets him know that $140 for four tires is entirely too much money to spend; $2,000 is the black sin of death.

Clearly, I’m rambling this evening. It’s because I stayed up rather late again last night, but it wasn’t entirely my fault.

Oh, the part where Hubs and I watched Knowing until after 11:00 was all my fault, and I kept shouting out to Nicolas Cage, “Alright, already! Run! Run faster, and stop leaving your boy alone in the car, because can’t you catch onto the fact that the men in black are going to show up every single time that you do?!”

Talking to movie characters is one of my specialties.

Knowing made my blood pressure soar, and I kept telling Hubs, “This is the wrong movie for me to be watching smack before bedtime; it’s stressing me out!”

After Hubs and I wrapped up the movie, I shut the lights out, crawled into bed, and was just about to drift off when we heard what sounded EXACTLY like the neighbor’s nice black lab sobbing at the fact that his family had stuffed him into his kennel again.

His outdoor kennel, which is the equivalent to a five-star hotel. The nice neighbor dog is not overly fond of being left in the kennel. The large outdoor kennel, which is shaded completely, and has all the amenities of high class living. Because of his feelings of being left outdoors alone in the kennel, he sobs when his people put him there. It’s a horrible, mournful sob, which breaks my heart, and I am constantly telling Hubs, “That poor dog! I just want to bring him into our house when he cries like that!”

But listen, people. The nice neighbor dog is spoiled and well cared for; he just cries like a baby when he’s sent to the kennel for some alone time. And after he’s sobbed it out and had a good cry, he usually settles right down and behaves himself.

So at midnight last night, when we heard THE NOISE, I immediately assumed that it was the nice neighbor dog voicing his displeasure with the world.

Except THE NOISE seemed to be coming from inside of our house.

Which totally reminds me of the old psychological thriller that we all watched in high school, where the babysitter kept getting the crank calls, where the man would whisper into the phone, “Have you checked the children?” And then the police traced the call, and the guy was in the house with her, calling from another line! Mmm-hmm. How many of us didn’t sleep or babysit for six years after seeing that little flick?

But truly, after Hubs stood outside on our deck for a while at midnight, we officially concluded that the nice neighbor dog was not in his kennel crying, and that THE NOISE was coming from inside our house.

I began to fear that one of the cats was choking, but that turned out to be a theory that we laid to rest, when we realized that both cats were pacing around the house, trying to discover the source of THE WAILING NOISE themselves.

It took Hubs and I a solid fifteen minutes, but we finally (finally!) figured it out.

People, listen. The boy got a frog for his birthday, because our darling friend, Cody, thought that it was a brilliant maneuver on her part to gift him with a live animal. Naturally, he immediately fell in love with the little exotic rain forest creature, and he named him Yoda Joe.

Because everyone needs a middle name.

And honestly? We adored Yoda Joe.

In the beginning. Until last night.

And then, last week, we were at the park, and the boy caught a frog native to the Yankee territory, and his name is now Gru. I cannot say that Gru is entirely pleased with his newfound captivity, and I swear he looks at me with the look that says, “I want my lawyer. I want to appeal this incarceration. I’m innocent!

Gru and Yoda Joe have their own tanks, which sit, side by side, on the top of the boy’s bookcase in his bedroom, and at midnight last night, they began (for the first time ever) to speak to one another.

Gru was pushing out a very low, very baritone, very manly croak, which was almost indistinguishable to the human ear. We could barely hear him, but yes! He was softly croaking to himself. And then our little bright-green-and-red exotic frog, who would never survive a winter in the wild in Small Town, USA, was singing back to him, and he sounded like a whining black Labrador puppy!!

Croak (softly).

WEEEEIIIIIIIIIEEEE (loudly)!!!!!!

People, it went on all night.

At one point, I told Hubs, “Listen. I’m going to get a shoe from the closet and smash Yoda Joe, if he doesn’t shut up!

Hubs replied, “Jesus made him, and he’s singing praise songs to Jesus.”

Mmm-hmm. We all know what Yoda Joe was bellowing.

“LAAAAAYYYYDDDDEEEEEEESSSS!!!!”

Yoda Joe was hollering for some girls to join the party in his tank.

Yoda Joe hollered all night long; he finally gave up when the sun crested the horizon, and he piped down and went to sleep, after having realized that all the girls still live in the rain forest, and no sorority of fire-bellied frogettes was going to show up for the Bud Light at his place.

And because of his yammering, I think I managed to get about three hours’ worth of sleep last night.

Gru and his quiet, barely audible croaking moved into the top spot on my list of favorite frogs.

Yoda Joe fell to the top of the list entitled Frogs I Wouldn’t Mind Stepping On.

This morning, as the boy and I were running errands all over Small Town, I felt like I was fading, and fading fast. The light at the end of my tunnel was a 25-watt candelabra bulb, and it was about to flicker itself plum out.

However, I got my second wind when Sister and Regs both showed up early this afternoon, with all of their kids in tow, and plopped themselves down at my dining room table. People, we had the very best afternoon! We made roasted raspberry chipotle and cream cheese dip, and we ate it on crackers, and we cracked open a tub of miniature powdered donuts, and we sat around my house, laughing our heads off, discussing serious problems of the world, and putting fake fingernails on the ends of my ten digits.

They’re a little longer than I’ve ever had in my life, but they were a whopping $5 from Walmart, and I am now equipped with the Claws of Death, so look out. I think I can throw down a good scratching faster than Mike Tyson can toss an upper cut into the ring.

And also? Our children played and played and played outside, and they ate the majority of the powdered donuts.

Dang hungry urchins.

And now, since it’s past 10:30 already, I’m going to take myself and my plastic nails to bed, because my head is a little foggy with the lack of sleep.

And if Yoda Joe decides to sing tonight, he’s going to do so beneath the heel of my boot.

I’m so over Yoda Joe’s songs and every AC/DC song ever recorded.

Happy Tuesday night, y’all.

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