Random, Ridiculous and Rhetorical Parts of This American Life.

Hey y'all. Well. I don't have much going on today. This will be random. Extremely. Proceed with caution.

How 'bout we start out with this EXTREMELY awesome picture of Tounces and Poopdeck circa 1966?  Don't mind if I do.

Dad was fully prepared for a flood. Or a bike ride. And Mom? Well. She just looks adorable and I can see how she turned the head of that big time senior engineering frat boy despite her freshman status.

Hmm. What else?

Let's see. Somebody was telling me that I'm always positive and always seem to like everything. I am proud that most would think of me as positive. That said, 'tain't true that I like everything. Nope. Don't believe me? Quick! I'll name you five things that I DON'T like or that SUPER ANNOY me. (And it won't include CHEESE because y'all already know that CHEESE smells like feet to me and does not touch my lips.)

Okay. Here's your five:

1.  I don't like it when people finish sentences when talking to another person. You know. The kind where they're listening so carefully to you that they try to predict the last three to four words of every sentence you say? Like it's name that tune. Don't like that. To that I say: Cut. It. Out.

2. I don't like the anti-reflective coating that they put on eyeglasses. Because if you're like me and get new glasses only once every two years, that coating gets streaky and leaves you with this perpetual chicken grease appearance on your specs. Not. Cool. Even worse is that even when I say NO CHICKEN GREASE REFLECTOR STUFF they do it anyway. Like they're doing me some kind of favor. To that I say: Cut. It. Out.

3. I don't think I like it when someone calls my outfit, hairdo, shoes, etc. "fun." There's this woman I encounter regularly who always looks at me and squeals, "Oh my gosh! Your outfit is so FUN!"  Then a few days later she'll say, "Oh, what a fun hairstyle!" My bright green coat was also fun, as were my purple jeans. To that I say: Cut. It. Out.

4. I don't like it when the BHE asks me rhetorical questions. Such as, "Sooooo. . . .are we just . . .no longer eating any fruits for snacks or. . ?"  (That's his way of telling me that we are out of fruit.)  The more annoyed with me that he is, the worse they get. First a preamble: "Sooooo. . . I'm confused about what our gameplan is about keeping our room clean."  Then the question:  "So are we just completely saying EFF IT when it comes to our room in the two days before our housekeeper comes?" Lastly the commentary: "I mean, let me know if that's how things are working because right now it seems like that's what we're doing."

Uggh.

It doesn't help when I reply with, "I was wondering the same thing about the fruits! Because those plums you wanted and those bananas you asked for all went bad. Hmmm. Good question." And the room part, which is clearly referring to the things I have left around and not his military-neat side, I just sort of ignore for as long as possible. Then I try batting my lashes at him to see if I can distract him with my feminine wiles.

Hee.

But mostly, in my head I'm all like: Cut. It. Out.

5.  I DO NOT like it when little boys and grown men remove pants and underwear together and then leave them intertwined in hampers. Nothing about that makes me happy. In fact, it kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. But on a scale of one to ten, it's only like a three, yet still annoying.

See. I don't like everything. See? Oh. One more. I don't like it when people send text messages that ask for some immediate response on every day unimportant things. Unless it's the kind of thing that is important and genuinely deserves an immediate response, it can be slightly annoying.

Only a two on the annoying-scale of one to ten. But still.

Like, in medicine, we have something called "open ended questions" that we're supposed to ask our patients. Like, "What brings you here today?" or "Can you tell me more about that?"  This is meant to get a verbose answer that allows you to expound. But see, text messages aren't for all that. It's fine sometimes but mostly, I need it to be like a unidirectional tweet for one. I can chime in if I want or keep it moving if I need to. Or respond like two days later. These are the very best kinds.

Disclaimer:

This doesn't apply to my very best friends. Or immediate family. Or my friends, you know who you are, that have text message bonding as an unspoken part of our bonding rituals. For those people, do whatever you want.

Otherwise: Cut. It. Out.

Ha ha ha ha ha. I am cracking myself up.

I was in the mall with the kids today to see a movie. We walked past the Santa Claus display and I realized that I am a horrible mom who has never taken her kids to get their photo taken with Saint Nick. So I decide to try to right this wrong. "Hey dudes. Want to go get a picture with Santa?"

Zachary looked intrigued for a bit. Only for a bit. Because Isaiah gave the whole concept the GAS FACE. "That dude is SO not the real Santa. Mom. It's December 23. What would Santa be doing up in a mall lobby?" I replied, "But look. He has real white hair growing out of his head and a real beard." Because this mall Santa, like, totally did.

Maaaan. Isaiah waved his hand at the whole display like whatever, man. And walked right on by.

Of course, his baby brother followed his lead. "So not the real Santa," Zachary repeated.

Wow.

I started to launch into that whole biz about Santa having a bunch of look-a-like helpers that work in malls and yadda yah, but honestly? It wasn't that serious. I'm no Scrooge but I also don't bend over backwards to keep the dream alive. At least not the mall Santa one. So I kind of shrugged and kept it moving.

As far as the Manning boys are concerned, the mall Santa can kick rocks. So if you know any of them, tell them that Isaiah says: Cut. It. Out. (And Zachary does, too.)

My husband doesn't drink red wine. This is annoying because I love red wine. But since I am not a wine-o and I have a job, I can't just bust through a bottle of red on a whim. And. Even when I try to store it as correctly as possible, I never like the taste after a couple--okay one--day after opening-slash-uncorking. Oh well. One of y'all will have to come and drink red with me one of these days.

Yep. What else?

My husband, despite his rhetorical questions and non-red-wine drinking, is a keeper. That man is the BFHE. He so is. Let me tell you, ladies. The other day I was rubbing the under side of where my neck meets my chin and felt what I am certain was some kind of whiskery thing. Yes. This? This was not good. 

Now. If you are over thirty-five, you know that one lone terminal hair growing from or near your face becomes an obsession until it is sho nuff plucked. Let's be clear. I am forty two years-old, so this was NOT the first whiskery thing I have discovered and attacked. But. It was in a very odd place so I couldn't see it even with acrobatic mirror juggling.

Oh just admit it. You're laughing because you've been there with one of those suckers.You rub it. You try to grab it with your finger nails. You almost wreck your car trying to see it at stop lights.

A whisker is worse than texting, I tell you. And don't EVEN judge me as you read this because the only ones who are appalled by this confession are a.) under the age of thirty five and have yet to discover a whiskery renegade, or b.) in complete and utter denial about those things they keep plucking out  every month.

Mmm hmmm.

So y'all! I couldn't get it no matter how hard I tried. It was making me crazy. So guess what I did? I told the BHE. And do you know what that sweet man did for his wife? He grabbed a pair of needle nose tweezers and went to town. Like it wasn't nothing. Yes! He plucked a hair from the under side of my chinny-chin-chin.

Awesome. And so, so very blogworthy.

"Dude. You totally love me. Totally. Wow." This was what I told him. Then we both stared a little bit closer and realized that the hair he is holding in the tweezers appears to be grey.

"Wait. Did I just pluck a grey whisker from my wife's chin?"

And I nodded with pursed lips. "Sexy, huh?"

He just laughed and walked away. And I yelled behind him, "You know you love it!"

Hey. I just thought of something. I think that was on his birthday that he did that for me. Damn. My bad. Hey--what horrifically awesome things have you done for your honey or has your honey done for you? Oh come on. . .you can tell me.

Oh that man of mine. He is something special, rhetorical questions and all. Thank goodness he is now forty two also. His cougar jokes get very old very fast. Ha.

The BHE's birthday was good. Mostly uneventful, which was how he wanted it. "I just want a boring night at home with my wife and kids. That's it, that's all."  We came through big time! Ha.

Oh yeah. He also baby sat our almost two year-old godson last night so that me and Jackson's mama-slash-my bff could go and have us some good girlfriend time. And red wine.

Yay-yuuuh. That was fun. On this picture she was telling me about the Ugg boots she'd just bought earlier that day. And then we talked about the wonderful cocoon they wrap your feet in.

Lawd.

I love my Ugg boots. They are so, so, so comfortable. But The BHE calls my Ugg boots GFD. That's code for "grounds for divorce." In other words, he really doesn't like those things. And did I mention that I have a black and a brown pair? We don't hold grudges in our house. But if he makes me mad, my passive aggressive stealth move always involves my Ugg boots. They also work if I have a headache that night.

Ha.

Another non-African American person wished me a Happy Kwanzaa. To that I say: Cut. It. Out. (Because the secret is that hardly anyone I know really celebrates it. At least not enough to be wished a happy one more than anyone else.) That made me remember this funny top ten post about cultural holiday celebrations. And of course the holiday post where this whole Happy Kwanzaa thing first came up. Check it out for a good laugh.

Oh! And I went to another Target to find the $99 off camera and guess what? Now it's $149 off. And they had one in stock. Shut the front door. See? Told you it wasn't the end of the world. 

Oh Lord. What a ridiculous post. Completely. Utterly.

Yawn.

I think that's all I've got for now. I'm fixin' to play with my kids. Because Christmas time with a six and a seven year-old is just a whole bunch of fun. Sure is. My friend, Ms. Moon, was talking about "fixin' to" do things on her blog today. I've been thinking that ever since. Even though whenever I do say that, it comes out more as "finna" than "fixing to." I kind of think of Paula Deen when I think of "fixing to."

Yeah. On that note. I'm finna go. Talk to you good people later.


***

Happy Sunday.