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    Here’s to hoping that living off the grid will prove lucrative

    January 29, 2008

    My husband.  He kills me.  He’s all, “let’s live off the land, and make our own food and have chickens.”

    I would like to maintain I knew NOTHING of this bizarreness when I married him.  Before him?  Dated venture capitalists and VP’s of health insurance companies and television directors. 

    Then I succeeded in nabbing my brilliant husband in law school.  Which should have been my first red flag.  But if you personally are a red flag, you tend not to notice other red flags.  We marry.  We have a child.  He loses his mind and begins to squirrel away 50 pound bags of rice in the basement. 

    We proceed to move into a neighboorhood that is riddled with deer that would LOVE for us to garden and the chickens?  Three letters for you.  HOA.  No chickens.  None.  Not a one.

    So he continues to get books about windmills and solar energy and then I get the first electric bill and it’s about 20 cents.  He gets depressed because he needed it to be about $700 a month to justify putting up a windmill in the middle of 3 acres of trees.  Or solar panels in the middle of 3 acres of trees.

    I go on my merry way.  I bust my ass making t-shirts in the basement.  Up all day with the kids, up all night with the printing press.  I fly to the West Coast to give my shirts away to people that don’t even stick around to here my clever little schtick.  Nothing.  I come home.  I kiss a ridiculous number of asses in order to promote my stuff.  I give away MORE free stuff in hopes that MORE people will buy stuff.  I think that maybe, just maybe, I can pay the bills this month.

    Then my husband posts his disaster preparedness tome on the internet today on one of his blogs.  He hears from the editor of the LARGEST ONLINE SURVIVAL BLOG mere hours later.  A blog that makes Celebrity Baby Blog’s traffic look like my traffic.  His disaster preparedness tome will be cited on that BIG ASS BLOG tomorrow morning.

    Only 11 hours to figure out how to market Mommy Needs a Cocktail shirts to the End of the World crowd.  Because when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, Mommy’s gonna need a cocktail.  You know it. 

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