My husband walked in on me vacuuming the ceiling of the master bedroom the other day, and what is so supremely awesome about that statement is what followed. He came in the room to get Elise who had wandered in to watch the freak show that is her Mom, saw what I was doing, batted not an eyelash, and walked out.
The reason I was vacuuming my ceiling, besides the glaringly obvious fact that I am insane, was because I looked up there the other night and noticed the copious amounts of dust that had collected on the space that hung over my head while I slept. You see, we are unfortunate owners of a house with a popcorn ceiling. And the dust collects up there on the pebbled surface; holding like barnacles to the side of a boat.
On a side note, I would like to travel back in time so I could meet the guy who thought popcorn ceilings were a good idea and give him a good, swift kick to the groin.
Anyway, if you know me, you know this little dust collection was causing me to obsess to the point of not being able to do anything else until I got rid of it. So I got the vacuum out and did my thing.
Which brings me to the part about Fred walking in on me. What I love about the fact he didn't think it weird that his wife of nine years was vacuuming the wrong surface, is that we have gotten to the point where he is totally okay with all my weirdness, all my quirks, all my idiosyncrasies, all my foibles; and it doesn't even register with him that I'm doing something that most people would think is bizarre.
When I asked him about it later, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "it was just Joanne, being Joanne."
My husband gets me. I'm glad somebody does.
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