Oh, hey there. You’re looking good! Have you been working out? No? New haircut? No? Fillers? No? I’ve got it… knuckle implants? I knew it! I noticed your hands were looking beefy, how very brave of you to go under the knife.

Ha, I’m kidding. Your hands are looking waif-like, as always. Not that it’s a bad thing, really, but it wouldn’t hurt to pay a little attention to your hand girth. A few games of thumb war or maybe a little “This is the church, this is the steeple”-ing wouldn’t hurt, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t underestimate the confidence large hands portray.

Okay, time to get serious. I realize I’ve taken some time off from you beefy-handed masses for the past couple of months, but I’m ready and willing to spread the word vom once more. I hadn’t been able to find the time to both write my book, work full time and blog my face off, so I dropped the blogging.

That was then – this is now! Something happened to me last night that just inspired me to pieces, so I had to share.

First, some context. My husband is a super light sleeper, to the point where even my delicate lady-like snores jolt him from his sleep even though you and I both know they couldn’t rouse a mouse. He pulls the blackout window shades tight, closes the bathroom door to shut out the sounds of the pipes and closes the bedroom door in the off-chance the street noise sneaks in.

I, on the other hand, once slept through 6 reported hours of turbulence on a trans-Atlantic flight where others were paper bag hyperventilating and bargaining with the flight attendants to just open the emergency door “just the one time” so they could go in a more peaceful way. Jealous?

Anyways, he uses sleeping masks and ear plugs to combat his aversion to sleepy town. Over the years, my in-laws have gotten him some fancy looking masks to spice up his sleep-cred, which we both appreciate. Now, they’re all his. This is an important thing to note, because our cleaning lady did not read the situation that way at all.

Rather, she assumed we had “his and hers” style sleep masks – his being an owl, and mine being a reptile.

Exhibit A:

Now, listen, I hide it well, but my forked tongue and lidless eyes make me just the tiniest bit self conscious. They do, okay? I wish I was all evolved like you, all, “look at me, I know who I am, check out my unapologetically waif-like knuckles. They’re home grown, if you don’t like it you can suck it,” but I’m not. I’m less accepting of who I truly am.

I guess what I’m saying is, I just wish for once that someone would mistake me for the owl – wise, feathery, nocturnal, a fearsome predator, occasional letter deliverer à la Hedwig – that’s all I want in life y’all.

But, sigh, I’m the reptile. I should probs accept it.

Oh, also, I know what you’re thinking. “It’s not so bad to be mistaken for the reptile. It’s cute…kinda.” Wrong. See below. That shit’ll give you nightmares: