I love MrBunny. I do. Even though he has some major faults, I am woman enough to see past those things and find it in myself to continue to love him.
(Let it be known that some of these faults are more egregious than others. Example: Last night he declared that Outlaw Josey Wales was the greatest movie of all time. I mean come on — of all the movies in all of time we’re going with Outlaw Josey Wales as the greatest? This is the kind of thing I have to deal with on a daily basis.)
The issue that rears its ugly head the most often is his “here and now” outlook on life. His idea of thinking of the future is perhaps thinking about next week, maybe next month. This could not be further from my outlook. An outlook that is most often described by MrBunny as “swinging for the fences.”
Perfect example: My best friend is of the same mentality as I and we always have big plans in the works. Currently we have been discussing how we are going to somehow (she is in law school and I don’t really make big money) purchase land somewhere and start an organic farm complete with horses and livestock. And a couple of greenhouses. And two separate houses for our respective families (yea it’s just the three of us right now but in our minds our families are much greater in number) with a “common house” with a great room with a big industrial kitchen that we can make and can various preserves and chutneys that will of course fund this great adventure.
We talk about our farm quite often. Without fail whenever it comes up MrBunny just starts shaking his head in disbelief. Always the realist/debbie downer, he feels the need to ask us how we are going to come up with the start up costs involved in our farm.
BFF and I were talking about it the other day when MrBunny suggested that I try and write the next great American novel. That would knock out two birds with one stone: a.) He’d be able to retire and pace around the house with Bronco; both of them just trying to figure out how long it would take before I start going nuts by the two of them staring at me waiting for me to move before they start pacing again, and more staring, and did I mention the pacing? I can’t stand the pacing. Nothing drives me crazier, faster, than pacing. Aggghhhh! Just thinking of pacing makes me want to rip out my hair. b.) We’d be able to afford any farm we wanted, plus a few people to keep on staff to take care of all the cows and chickens (one of which will be named Foghorn, the rest named after chicken dishes — fried, a la king, cordon bleu, you get the idea) when we decide to go tour the world.
Always thinking, BFF pointed out that I really didn’t need to write the next great American novel but in fact just needed to find something that middle=aged women would clamor over, causing Hollywood to come calling and next thing I know there’s a movie with my name attached that I probably have no part of writing. Big money to use my name?
Now I just need to find my storyline.
I’m thinking “teenage jail bait falls in love with vampire in wizard college* while having to murder three members of each class in order to appease Mickey Mouse look-a-like (Disney always seems like a safe bet) with a dragon tattoo on his back.”
* Please don’t think that this inclusion suggests that I think Harry Potter is crap literature; wizards are just good money makers. Well, that’s what my hairdresser says. And by hairdresser I mean homeless guy outside Publix.
Someone find me a publicist; I’m onto something here!
Foghorn and fricassee — we’ll be together soon!