Ever have so much to do that you don’t know where to start? This has been me lately: I walk to the bathroom look at the mess, walk to the bedroom look at the laundry, walk to the kitchen look at the dishes, the counter, the floors and then repeat because–by damn– there’s so much crap everywhere my brain can’t even process it.

This has been one of those weeks for me. What with our upcoming camping trip to Yellowstone I’m so overwhelmed with things to pack, buy {such as bug bite soothing ointment, a cute water bottle [preferably purple], a girly swiss army knife, and magnesium [what? I've watched Survivor Man], not to mention all of the other things that have been waiting for SOMEONE {me} to put away, sweep, disinfect ah! there’s! just! so! much! And it keeps on piling up!! And of course OF COURSE! G-monkey decides that this be the perfect time to teeth, growth spurt, whatever phase that is causing him to never want to leave my side, to want to eat independently, to not eat independently, to pull, to yank, to pinch, to decide 3am is the perfect time to wake up and want to play and stay up and crawl all over me, and and and to whiiiiiiine 24-7 for his momma duck. I’m flattered, honey, really. But just. sit alone. for two seconds. PLEEEAAAASSE!!! I love my baby but he’s for sale. Prize goes to the highest bidder, even if it’s only for two hours so that I can nap, my husband would appreciate it. Thanx.

Aside from auctioning off my baby, I make lists. Lots of them. Because, well, they keep me from doing exactly what I’m doing right now… which is nothing. Oh, and cleaning. Hey! Making lists is a productive way to pass the time! Don’t lie.

Okay, so I’m avoiding it all.

But I made a list! And it’s, like, done! And I even got something crossed off the list, which was to make a list! See?

And because I’m me, and I have issues, I had to add puns and then make a copy for the husband {puns included} so that we were, you know, on the same page. But why not just email, you ask? I thought of this, you see emailing is way too efficient and I needed a decent excuse to not do the things on the list because, as you very well may know, writing out lists takes that much time.

I should have added blogging to the list.

• Blog

And now I’ll take a break because I am that tired. And it’s midnight. The boy will be up in three hours. God help him.

So what do you do to avoid the things you should be doing?

So through a conversation with my sister-in-law today I realized just how much I enjoy making Rustin tick. Before today I hadn’t realized just how often I do or say things just to get under his skin. And not in a I-hate-you sort of way, because truth be told, I actually quite like my husband very much. No, this is in a watching-you-wiggle-makes-me-giggle-are-you-uncomfy-yet? sort of way. I do know that sometimes I can cross the line. Ok I actually cross the line A LOT, but it’s only because I enjoy watching him squirm. Other times, I just enjoy bugging the hell out of him.

Now, since I’ve met Rustin he’s been quite outspoken for his distaste in tattoos. Errr, tramp-stamps as he likes to call them. I never much cared for tattoos. Except, when I was 16. I had walked into a parlor ready to get stuck, thankfully I had to be 18 or have a parent’s consent to get one. My mom consented AFTER I no longer wanted one. I never revisited the subject again, it never appealed to me after my rebel years. I got a henna on my wrist during an outing to Santa Monica Pier once. But that’s about as far as my dabbling in real body art has gone.

About twice a year I’ll say something to Rustin along the lines of: “Would you still love me if I got a tattoo?” Of course with no intention of actually getting one, or wanting one. I just wanna get his goat.

And then he’d say verrrry slowly and quietly, as if carefully choosing the right words without knowing quite what to say because he’s a ticking time bomb, would end up with something like: “Well, why would you even want one?” And that’s how I know I have him! Whatever I say after that doesn’t matter. He’s startled, and for a moment he doesn’t recognize me. Tee hee! See, it’s fun huh? Okay, so really it’s just the little girl in me and it maybe it’s not as funny to you. But then there’s this…

A few months ago I took it a step further:

We were sitting around, quite bored actually, and the inevitable happened. It’s inevitable because once I get the tickle I can’t shut it off, people!

What would you do if I came home one day and didn’t tell you I got a tattoo, and so you didn’t even realize it until after a few weeks have gone by? Would you be so mad at me?

Yes.

Well, would you rather I tell you about it before I go out and get it?

You’re dumb. You wouldn’t go out and get a tattoo because you’re a chicken.

But would you absolutely hate it? Even if I told you I really really wanted one? And came to you, and talked with you, and told you how much I loved you and that this was something I just really wanted to do for myself?

Janey, I would hate it.

Guess, I shouldn’t tell you about the cross I have on my ankle then, huh?

You’re such an idiot.

And then I pull my ankle up and there just above the little bone that sticks out, is a very faint, but noticeable (if you’re looking for it) blue cross that is unmistakable.

OH MY GOSH, YOU DO!! WHEN THE HELL DID YOU GET THAT???

Tee hee!

Now, before you judge me too much, you should know that I did in fact tell Rustin about this BEFORE we got married (he’s just forgetful). Yes, it’s true there’s a teeny tiny permanent cross on my ankle. No, I would not permanently mark up my body without him knowing about it just to get some kicks. This was the act of a very young, very impulsive, very bored girl who just happened to have tattoo ink in close proximity (yea, I did it myself). Dumb, I know. This is not one of those things I am most proud of; I did it, it was dumb, it was a looong time ago, and I wouldn’t do it again. He wasn’t mad at me, quite the opposite, I think he may have giggled. I think he may have been impressed with my being able to still surprise him after all these years. Or, maybe it was a nervous laugh. I don’t know, he didn’t seem too displeased anyway.

But then there’s this…

A few days ago we’re sitting on the couch enjoying some very infrequent, highly valued quiet time:

So, you would absolutely hate it if I told you I wanted to get a decent looking tattoo, one that professes my love for you, somewhere on my person where nobody would see it? Like my armpit.

That’s dumb. *He takes a moment, and I think I got him!* Tell you what, decide what you want, draw it out, keep it in your wallet and if after 6 months you still want it, you should get it.

*This time, it was me that didn’t know what to say. This isn’t supposed to happen! He’s not supposed to agree! Who IS this person???*

So… Um… you’d be totally ok with it??

If after 6 months you decide you still want it, you should get it.

*Aw, crap! I may actually have to get a tattoo now!*

Just not in your armpit.

*He’s even making jokes!*

How about behind my ear?

People would see it. Didn’t you say you wanted it to be hidden? How about on your foot?

Nah, I wear sandals. What would I even get? I don’t know what I’d get.

How about my name on your ass?

No. I know! Will you design it for me?

Oh Janey, I don’t know if I could do that…

Got him!

This may be really mean of me, but I have to keep him on his toes! How else would I keep him shaking in his boots? As far as the tattoos go, I’m dropping this subject for the foreseeable future. Keep it in moderation ya know?

So tell me, what do YOU do to get people to squirm?