Before we get started this week, something needs to be addressed. And snickered about. But cleared up.
It has reached my ears, from more than one source, that there has been some confusion abroad about the identity of The Police. I heard that someone thought he was my dog, and from others who thought I was calling the police department on a regular basis, or maybe just hanging out with a large group of cops all the time. Hehe. And for all of you who were confused, I would like to first profusely apologize, and secondly thank you for giving me a good laugh. Seriously. I would make you cookies if I knew who you were. And give you a hug. If you didn't mind.
Sooo ...The Police is my husband. My studly, handsome, sweet but macho, hardworking, and generally yummy husband. Actually, you could call him Sergeant Detective The Police, but that seems like a bit much to me. Moving on ...
The Police and I have moved into our new house. It's not quite finished, and it is certainly a furniture and box-strewn disaster, but we're in it and we're not budging. And we're crying tears of joy.
Connected to that subject, I would like to present you, my friends, with an offer. Or perhaps it's more like a desperate cry for help. Or maybe I just like to exaggerate. You be the judge.
-- Obviously, be devoted to you until the day I die. We could even hold hands and skip, if you want.
-- Bring a chocolate milk shake to you every Friday afternoon or Monday morning for the rest of your life.
-- Offer up my firstborn to you for a period of indentured servitude. Of course, who knows when and if we will have children, so you may end up just getting my dog Ellie as a servant -- and I have to tell you in advance, she's worse than useless. But very cute. It's a trade-off.
-- Call you up and tell you how good looking you are every day, even if your hair is all jacked up or you've just vomited on yourself, or whatever.
-- Probably not rub your feet, but will at least pay for someone else to do it.
-- Give you one of my most-prized possessions, which would either be a large plaster elephant given to me by The Police, or an extensive collection of Nancy Drew books. You pick.
-- Take you out for sushi and karaoke, or pasta and pottery painting, or hummus and underwater basket-weaving. Anything that tickles your fancy.
-- Take you to Walmart and sing "You Are My Sunshine" to you over the intercom system. You may have to bail me out afterward, but hey, that's what friends are for.
-- Take the time I normally waste reading fashion blogs and spend it instead posting all kinds of wonderful things about you all over the Internet. Unless you think that's creepy. Then I won't.
-- Take you with me straight to the top whenever I become rich and famous (raise your hand if you think I'm delusional -- it's OK, I can't see you).
So, you know, just holler at me whenever you make up your mind, OK?
sharris@blythevillecourier.com