Happy Friday

We have a busy weekend so I won't be back until Monday. I'll have to spend hours catching up on every body's business (I mean blogs!).

Tonight we have our parish festival. There are not many things better than the parish festival (I know, I need to get out more). But really, lots of Catholics with lots of kids, drinking beer with the priests, standing in line for cheap carny rides, and spending loads of money on junk food. Who needs the state fair?

Tomorrow we have a day trip to be spent boating and fishing a few hours from home. The weather is supposed to be glorious in Ohio, so it should be a great time (I hope to spend it in a lawn chair looking like my Meez).

And I leave you with a poem today. As I was going through my shelves of book to be catalogued at Library Thing, I came across some books of poetry. These were actually bequeathed from an elderly priest, which is a real hoot considering one is selected Ogden Nash poems -- he must have had quite a sense of humor. As I was reading through them last night I came across this poem. I chuckled at some, especially this one, and then put the book back on the shelf and went to bed. I fell asleep before Doug (since he was reading), but then was awakened by him no less than three times before he fell asleep. This poem came to mind and I had to share it today.

The Problem With Women is Men

A husband is a man who two minutes after his head hits the pillow
is snoring like a loaded omnibus.
Particularly on those occasions between the humidity and mosquitoes
your bed is no longer a bed but an insomnibus,
And if you turn on the light for a little reading he is sensitive to the faintest gleam,
But if by chance you are asleep and he wakeful, he is not slow to rouse you with the complaint that he can't close his eyes, what about slipping downstairs and freezing him a cooling dish of pistachio ice cream,
His touch with a bottle opener is sure,
But he cannot help you get a tight dress over your head without catching three hooks and a button in your coiffure,
Nor can he so much as wash his ears without leaving an inch of water on the bathroom linoleum.
Indeed, each time he transgresses your chance of correcting his faults grows lesser,
Because he produces either a maddeningly logical explanation or look of martyrdom which leaves you instead of him feeling the remorse of the transgressor.
Such are husbandly foibles, but there are moments when a foibles ceases to be a foible.
Next time you ask for a glass of water and when he brings it you have a needle almost threaded and instead of setting it down he stands there holding it out to you, just kick him fairly hard in the stomach, you find it thoroughly enjoiable.

Ogden Nash