and yet he loves me

This post began when I answered one of those silly facebook quizzes. If you want to know how girly I am, I am 0% girly--totally tom boy! I made some cheesy comment about needing to pass gas and scratch myself to show what I thought of those results. My husband, who may possibly have made comments previously about my sometimes passing gas (topic #782 I never thought I'd write about. . .), just had to say something smarty. I may or may not have had to respond with something smarty, and he may or may not have been in trouble for the rest of the night.

Enter the next day, where we are driving home from church. In Arkansas, we have horseflies. (You may call them something else. . .) Horseflies bite. They are especially keen on biting horses (hence the name, I guess). Considering I spent a lot of time horseback growing up, I had to learn to handle horseflies. Many people just swat them, but that can be dangerous. Horses don't like horseflies (They hurt when they bite.), so they can get jumpy when the horseflies are around. Imagine hitting a horse that's already jumpy. It's not always a good idea.

Therefore, my dad has always ripped the heads off the horseflies. When I was little, I would catch them, and he would kill them for me. When I got older, I had to do the ripping myself. My husband thinks this is the grossest, most disgusting thing I've ever done. Even worse than the flatulence issue. . .You know, growing up, you don't know that things are weird. You just do as you're taught. I blame my parents for all my weirdness. . .so far, I think that's valid.

(And yes, my dad is doing better.)