When Bobby was badly hurt last month, I wrung my hands while Mike called the I’m actually not funny shirt vet. I moaned and made dire predictions—found in a supply, deep within my Scottish DNA—while Mike administered all the daily injections. This brings to light the common theme of our partnership: I live under a constant cloud of foreshadowing, while Mike simply gets stuff done.
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Is I’m actually not funny shirt he perfect? Never. My husband’s dog hears endearments that I have not, in more than three decades. He refuses to wear tee shirts, insisting instead on cotton that require sprinkling and ironing. His language, which hovers in a blue haze around the broken lawnmower, does not bear repeating.
For God’s sake, girls, the man smokes like a I’m actually not funny shirt chimney and lives on junk food. Unjustly, he wears the same sized jeans as he did in college. Then, this past weekend at Stampede, I took the microphone that would allow me to stand up and announce alongside Bob . My husband is a trained broadcaster. He has an amazing voice.