We have recently learned that my husband has a celebrity twin.  I can’t tell you who the celebrity is, or I will give away my husband’s identity–because they actually truly identical–face, height, build, everything. It’s quite uncanny. If they stood side by side, people could think they were twins. I am not exaggerating. (I wish I could name the celebrity, but my husband insists that I keep him anonymous since I make fun of him and share mean things he does on this blog. I feel that’s fair.) Anyway, I think I have mentioned that my husband looks a little like a terroristy version of Andrei Agassi–and he does–but that is a slight resemblance. The person I am talking about in this post is not Agassi, and the resemblance is not slight–it is striking.

The funny thing is that this celebrity is one of these WEIRD celebrities. He’s cute enough, but it’s his profession. He’s not an actor. He’s not a politician. He’s in one of those…how shall we phrase this…one of those sport-related activities that most of my cousins from Tennessee enjoy watching. Now, my cousins from Tennessee might beat me up if I named the activity AND made fun of it, therefore I will not do so. But suffice to say, it is not really the type of thing people are going to brag about doing (unless you’re one of my cousins). Also, the celebrity lives close to us, which makes people even more convinced they’ve seen this guy when my husband walks by.

SO, the celebrity who is my husband’s twin won some award recently and got more famous than before. So people keep coming up to my husband and asking for his autograph. If you knew how anti-social my husband is and how freaked out he looks when approached by random strangers, you would really enjoy imagining this. The first few times this happened, my husband was very freaked out. The people just walked up and said “Hey! Can we have your autograph?!”

My husband didn’t know about the lookalike at that point. He responded by wrinkling his eyebrows and nose in a confused gesture (but one that looked angry and mean–he can’t help it…He isn’t angry or mean, but he looks like he is). So with this horribly scary expression on his face, he asks, “What?” And they ask for his autograph again, and he walked away confused.

Then he finally did an Internet search for the name they were saying, and he found the guy’s picture. We were both stunned at the resemblance. SO, people continue to approach him, and now my husband responds, “Oh, I’m not him.”

This is the part I love most–the people get ALL OFFENDED thinking that my husband is LYING! And they say stuff like “Oh, well, we aren’t trying to bother you. Sorry. Just thought you could take a second.”  My poor husband–he’s just not the type of guy who is equipped to deal smoothly with this type of situation. But he does his best, and we think it’s fun.

It’s ON, baby. Let’s compare the photos of Barack Obama and Vladimir Putin shirtless. Here are my immediate thoughts:

What I would say to Obama about this photo (if I could):

1. Those sunglasses give you an edge. They make you look like the evil guys in the Matrix. I like it a lot.
2. Nice swim trunks, and they are the perfect size for you.
3. Do you do sit ups? Obviously you do. Also you lift weights.
4. Where’s Michelle? Cause if I were her, I wouldn’t let you out of my SIGHT without your shirt on ever AGAIN!!!!

Words I would say to Vladimir Putin about this photo (except that I’m terrified of him):

1. Your hat makes you look kind of like the guy from Crocodile Dundee. The fishing pole sort of goes along with that theme. Was that your intention?
2. Are you able to breath comfortably? Also, just to confirm–in your opinion, it is okay to pull one’s pants up to his rib cage. (Right?)
3. Were you reeling in a fish at this moment? If so, what kind of fish was it?
4. Do you feel that you could benefit from a tan? I am asking only because I feel that I could benefit from one–just wondering if you feel the same way about yourself.

Moving right along, I just need to get this off my chest: Obama is really, really hot. And I find it pleasant to have such a nice-looking president. If you think about it, most of our presidents have been pretty good-looking. But not quiiiite as handsome as this one…

I am assuming that both Republicans and Democrats and everyone in the entire world feels this way–whether or not they agree with Obama’s politics. But for those readers who feel sad that this post is starting to sound like a Democratic convention (for middle school girls), I got two words for ya: Mitt Romney. I don’t even need to say it–you already know it in your heart: Mitt Romney is the Brad Pitt of the Republican party. Man, if a shirtless beach photo of Mitt ever even dreams of surfacing on the Internet, PLEASE let me at it. (I feel a little ashamed of saying that about a Mormon, but one of the things I love about Mitt is how he handles dumb stuff people say–he takes the high road. Now that’s a real man for ya).

Well, I fear I am making myself look like a shallow and somewhat loony tuned fanatic. I don’t have any good excuses for the content of this post–except to say that I am glad I got all of this out in the open, and now I can move on with other posts. My husband just got home, and I want to show him this post. He might try to make me take it down, but it’s not coming down. It’s crazy, and I like it.

Okay, there are six of them: cute Maddox from Cambodio,  sassy and adorable Zahara from Ethiopia, Pax from Vietnam. Then the biological Angelina Jolie kids–twins Island Marcheline and Amiele Jane, and of course, Shiloh. (Read this wikipedia entry under children for more details on the Angelina Jolie Kids.)

ANYWAY, in my dream, basically I applied to be a teacher for the Jolie Pitt family. For the kids. But for some reason, instead, I ended up teaching Angelina. What was I teaching her? Russian language. Why? I have no idea.

The dream gets stranger from here. I was really excited to go to the Jolie-Pitt mansion. I thought, “How awesome, I get to see the kids and stuff. I get to get all chummy with Angelina! COOL.” No, no, no. First of all, there were no kids anywhere. BUT there were many attendants. They were all young, beautiful foreign girls. (I’m happy to say that I became good friends with two of them within one hour of being in the mansion. My dream didn’t reveal details on how these friendships developed, but they did, and that makes me feel popular.)

SO,  what was it like teaching Angelina? Well, it was rather demoralizing. First, Angelina insisted on walking around as we studied Russian together. Plus, she insisted on walking in front of me. Therefore, as I kept trying to teach her, I was looking at the back of her head. This felt very embarrassing, but it’s Angelina Jolie–what was I going to do, threaten to quit teaching her? Don’t think so.

I kept saying things like “Here’s how to say ‘my name is Angelina’…now repeat after me...” But instead of repeating what I said in Russian, she just would sort of look back at me with an expression that clearly indicated she’d prefer if I just shut up. So finally I DID shut up. But then she started screaming and crying. (I was thinking “Man do I feel sorry for Brad Pitt.”) Then I asked my new best friends why Angelina was crying, and they said, “Oh, she always screams and cries.”

This dream clearly indicates that I have a complex–some sort of inferiority thing going on. Or maybe it’s a “women get upset when their husands are gone for long periods of time” thing due to my husband working out of town right now. However, there was no indication that Brad was gone for a long time. Also, Brad is not Angelina’s husband, technically speaking. So, in a nutshell, very strange dream and no logical explanation.

For some reason, I decided to take a few moments to contemplate ways Barack Obama and John McCain would irritate me if I were married to them. Don’t worry–I am perfectly aware that their standards far surpass anything I would have to offer them–but this blog is about making fun of husbands, not myself (plenty of other people do that), so here are a few of my thoughts:

Ways Obama would irritate me if he were my husband:

1. He would begin sentences slowly but finish them too  quickly for me to keep up with him. Kind of like the way he says, “Now,” (slowly)…”Here’s what we gotta do”  (at the speed of light)…
2. Arguments would be embarrassing. I’d scream, curse, and cry, while he’d stare at me with the same strange-looking fake smile he had throughout each debate with John McCain.
3. If I tried to brag about being Salutatorian in high school in 1991, he’d say stuff like, “Big deal. I also graduated in 1991, magna cum laude from Harvard law school.”
4. He would refuse to talk about race, yet people would stare at us a lot because we’d be a biracial couple.
5. I might start smoking on the sly again (like he does), and that would really make me mad.
6. If I tried to talk about how hard my life is, he’d say things like, “Excuse me, but did you ever try to run for US president as a black male with the middle name Hussein during the war with Iraq? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
7. If I tried talking about how ugly my hair looks, he’d say, “Take a look at these ears on my head, and then tell me about your hair.”
8. He’d pretend to view me as an equal, despite that he’s a millionaire and I’m painfully un-rich and un-sophisticated.
9. He’d always want me to dress nicely. Therefore, he would most likely disapprove of what I like to call “my fall outfit”. (That’s the outfit I wear almost every day during the fall). He’d probably try to make me go shopping. That would REALLY get on my nerves.
10. My name would be Holly Obama, which sounds like some type of holiday decoration rather than a person. (I can clearly imagine Hillary Clinton yelling, “HONEY! Do you know where we put the Holly Obama’s??! I can’t find them anywhere!”)

Ways McCain would irritate me if he were my husband:

1. He wouldn’t remember how many houses we own. That would really annoy me.
2. He would get angrier and act crazier than I would during arguments. That would frighten me.
3. If I tried to talk about difficulties, he’d blow me off and say “Oh poor martyr. Try being a prisoner of war.”
4. If I tried talking about physical pain, he’d say stuff like, “Try breaking BOTH of your arms and one of your legs in a plane crash when your military jet is shot down in North Vietnam, sissy girl.”
5. If I acted like I knew more than him, he’d say, “Um, I’m almost 80. I think I know more than you do.”
6. If I tried to say mean things about female friends or relatives, he’d say, “Ever tried to deal with Sarah Palin? Didn’t think so.”
7. He would use quote signs with his hands, despite that usually only women do this (and that even for females, this gesture really looks geeky and out of style.)
8. When we’d go on walks, he’d move a little too slowly for me. Okay, much too slowly. (I walk a lot, and I walk fast. And let’s face it–McCain can barely move.)
9. If I tried to brag about knowing Spanish language, he’d say, “Big deal. I was born in Panama.” (As he said “Panama,” he’d make quote signs with his hands.)
10. When I get on his nerves, he’d try to make me jealous by muttering stuff like, “Too bad you can’t zap people with your florescent blue laser eyes like my ex-wife Cindy could.” (He’d make quote signs with his hands as he said “zap.”)

How would they irritate you? Can’t WAIT to hear.

Assuming you are much more “with it” than me, you have probably long known about the famous blogger Dooce, right? She’s a Southern girl who grew up Mormon, but then decided not to be Mormon. In case you don’t know who she is, to make a long story short, she worked in LA with internet stuff, got fired from her job for her blog, got famous for that, actually coining the term “got dooced” meaning “got fired for something blog-related.” THEN she had horrible post partum depression and had to go to a hospital and blogged about that too…Now she lives in Salt Lake City, Utah and writes notes to her daughter each month. She’s very open and curses like a sailor. She makes a lot of people mad, but tens of thousands of people read her blog (literally).

Well, her latest post says that she’s about 2 months she’s PREGNANT with her second child!!?

Little known fact: Dooce (or Heather Armstrong) grew up in Barlett, Tenessee. I lived in Bartlett too, till the ripe old age of 8.  It’s possible that Heather and my sister could have been in kindergarten together, as Dooce’s blog says she graduated high school in 1993, the same year as my sister. If Heather weren’t so famous, and if she didn’t get thousands of emails every day, I’d ask her if she by any chance remembers my sister–the girl with three boyfriends, including one who threw up every day at naptime.

Even lesser known fact: The due date of Dooce’s baby is my sister’s birthday, June 14. That’s also Flag Day. he he. A very fun day, indeed.

So with Flag Day, Barlett, 1975, and boyfriend throwing up at naptime…Do you think Dooce and my sister have a cosmic connection? I doubt it. I’m the only one in my family who keeps up with blogs–my sister has no idea who Dooce is.

Perhaps if I kept up with blogs just a little less frequently I could make more progress on the horrid writing project that I am suppose to be working on. THANKS.