... having just read my last ranting post, I realize that I was a ranting dick.
AM. Sorry. I am a ranting dick. sometimes. But most of the time, I'm cool.
Anyhow, skip the previous blog entry. Written quickly, and poorly. I was in a snit, and you see what came out. I actually went to bed in said snit.
Luckily, HotForeignWife called. Perhaps the best part of being married to her is that she can pull me out of bad moods without effort. Well, when she's not the one who put me in them, anyhow. Every now and again, it amazes me that she didn't just marry me for the green card. She married me for my money. Joke's on her, I have none.
I joke. Seriously, although I could now digest a Harley-Davidson with all the stomach acid that I produce as a byproduct of worrying, My life is blessed for her presence. Next step is to get what she calls english under control so she can make more money than me, and yours truly can relax.
I wondered, when we were dating, if, when she got really, really mad at me, she was going to sound like a Brazilian Rosie Perez, minus the NYC nasality... 'cus, you know, there is nothing less attractive to me than that there... Obviously, she doesn't, as we're now married.
I just want to say here that the cook's helper in the next room has a ridiculous booming voice. Whatever African language he's yelling into his cell phone just now is keeping me awake. I'm trying to wait him out and writing is filling the time. Nice guy, but loud. Very African. Great sense of humor. He always doles out little shitty portions of dinner to the crew though. I accused him the other day of mistaking us for Ethiopians. He gave a good belly laugh, said "You crazy, son," or "You gravy gun," maybe. It's hard to say. My ears were ringing from his lack of volume control. Seriously, the guy should have been a singer. Wouldn't need a microphone.
OK, I'm giving him 2 minutes, then I'm going all Rorke's Drift in his doorway.
Mad points for anyone under 40 who gets that one. My best obscure reference in a week.