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While driving
Sugar Daddy: When I get my new car, I’m going to get a vanity plate.
Madhousewife: What’s it going to say?
SD: Probably “U-P-Y-R-S.”
Mad: That’d be good.
SD: Or “C-R-P-T-C-H-R.”
Mad: “Carp teacher?”
SD: “Crap toucher.”
Mad: Of course. So do you think you could get away with something naughty, so long as you had an innocent explanation for it?
SD: Actually, what I should do is just have some random word, like “smell.” Or “towel.”
Mad: “Towel” is good.
SD: And in the place where they ask you to explain it, I’d write, “You know, like, a towel.”
Mad: You have to do that.
While reading from the Good Book
SD: So it says the king had many wives and concubines. What’s a concubine?
Mister Bubby: It’s like a servant.
SD: Not exactly. What’s a concubine, Princess Zurg?
PZ: Why are you asking us when we already know?
SD: MB doesn’t know. What are concubines?
PZ: They’re just a bunch of women you live with!
SD: Well, kind of. Should Dad have concubines?
PZ: NO!
MB (simultaneously): Sure!
Part I
SD: Maybe I should get you a pager.
Mad: So you can page me during the day and ask, “Have you done this yet?”
SD: That’s what I do to people at work.
Mad: Bring it on. Maybe it’ll help me.
SD: Maybe I could invest in one of those electro-shock collars, too.
Mad: Whatever works.
SD: Well, that’s what I’m looking for, what’s most effective.
Mad: I hear you, man.
Interlude: Princess Zurg learns the meaning of “TMI”
Princess Zurg: Stop slapping Mommy’s bum.
SD: Why shouldn’t I slap Mommy’s bum?
PZ: Mommy’s bum is private.
SD: Not to me.
Mad: Nothing’s private when you’re married.
PZ: Nothing?
Mad: Pretty much.
PZ: You mean you can see each other naked?
Mad: Yes.
SD (simultaneously): You sure can.
PZ (incredulous): Do you see each other naked?
Mad (thinking we’ve had this talk? a couple times?): Uh…yeah.
PZ: Do you–(stops, wheels turning…thinking…thinking…thinking………..then suddenly) Do you like my picture?
Mad: I love your picture.
Part II
Sugar Daddy (referring to the paper towel and wet tea bag his wife has just set upon it): Would you throw that away please?
Madhousewife gives her husband her “Are you kidding me with this?” face as she throws the wet tea bag and paper towel–which she was not quite finished with–into the garbage can.
SD (feeling unjustly maligned by the “AYKMWT?” face): It’s just–they pile up, all over the counters–
Mad: Whatever, dude.
SD: They do! They’re just like your tampons, all over the place. (???)
Mad: Right. Just like tampons.
SD: Somebody’s testy.
Mad: Whatever.
SD: Doesn’t like being nagged about leaving paper towels all over the place.
Mad: You have a thing about paper towels, I have a thing about dirty socks. (Unspoken: And popsicle sticks and empty Otter Pop wrappers and Slurpee cups and glasses of milk with soggy cookie crumbs in the bottom and shrink wrap and wet towels and globs of hair gel in the sink, yea, that precious cultured-marble sink-integrated-with-the-countertop sink that someone just had to have so his bathroom could match the caliber of his home, and strawberry-and-banana smoothies left to rot on the bookcase while their would-be drinkers leave town for a week…ad lib, etc., usw.)
SD: Well, you should nag more about the dirty socks.
Mad: No. That’s not the way it works, son.
SD: Somebody’s testy.
Mad: Whatever.
SD: Are you mad now?
Mad: Nope.
Sugar Daddy: Are you trying to tell me something with all these romantic movies in your queue?
Madhousewife: They’re not romantic movies. They’re movies without stuff blowing up. I can’t watch them when I’m with you because you always want the movies with stuff blowing up.
SD: Why would you want to watch a movie without stuff blowing up?
Mad: Exactly.
Sugar Daddy: I found the perfect gift for you online today, but they said it would take two weeks…
Madhousewife: Oh.
SD: …to bronze my poop.
Mad: Hm. It’s probably just as well. That’s more of an anniversary gift anyway.
SD: Yeah, I think ten years is paper, and eleven years is–
Mad: Poop.
SD: Bronzed poop.
Mad: Right.
My husband thinks I am difficult to shop for. This year I must admit that he is probably right. I told him he should just wrap up a bunch of boxes with nothing inside but little slips of paper that say, “You don’t need any more crap!” and “Your whole life is a gift, so stop being such a whiner!” He told me he’d already considered that.
The truth is that the Giraffe does not want for material things. Oh, I have an Amazon wish list, but it’s mostly books, and I don’t think SD wants to encourage that vice any more than he already has. When I’m reading a book I really enjoy (which may or may not be the same thing as a “good” book), I tend to ignore him and other human beings, e.g. children. I see his point, but that’s never stopped me from buying him video games. (Aside: Talking of which, if there’s a video game you want this year, SD, you’re going to have to clue me in because I’m this close to having the kids get you socks and a $10 shoeshine kit from the Target. End aside.)
But anyway, I think he’s tired of buying me books, and he doesn’t like to buy me clothes because he doesn’t know my tastes, or doesn’t know them well enough to trust his own judgment. Usually when I come home with a new outfit, he says, “I would never in a million years have picked that out for you.” (Not meaning that he hates it. Just that it wouldn’t have occurred to him that it would look good on me. Which it does–honest! At least that’s what I tell myself.) I don’t like picking clothes out for him either because I myself have very weak opinions when it comes to men’s apparel. I’m sort of indifferent to it. Read into that what you will. I once went shopping with my stepmother, who was trying to find new clothes for my dad, who’s very picky about his clothes. She kept asking me, “Don’t you think this would look nice on your father?” and I would say, “Uh…huh?” Really, I understand very little about men’s fashion. I only know what I hate. And I don’t trust that what I don’t hate will necessarily be what my husband doesn’t hate.
This morning I was at the Old Navy, where a couple of fellow (female) Christmas shoppers were looking through the men’s shirts and saying stuff like, “Oh, this is nice! He’d look so good in that! I should get him two!” And I just stood there thinking, “This is not a shared experience.” My observation has been that if I notice a man’s shirt, he’s probably made a terrible mistake.
But enough about my problems. My husband still has no idea what to buy me for Christmas. I know that many men struggle with what to give their wives and girlfriends, usually because they fear picking out something that she will hate, but the greater fear is that she’ll not only hate it but she’ll also tell him that she hates it. My husband doesn’t worry about me telling him that I hate it. He knows I am too polite to do that. What he might not know is that he’s never actually given me a gift that I hated. (No, honey, not even the angora sweater you had to kill a bunny for. Yes, the one I haven’t worn in months because all my clothes are black and the sweater sheds light gray bunny hairs. Not that I mind having light gray bunny hairs on my clothes, but I’m also paranoid about the kids mushing up Cocoa Puffs cereal bars on it. I love that sweater and I don’t care what you think. I’m going to put it on right now just to spite you. Except that it’s in storage. Never mind.)
No, seriously, I’ve never gotten a present that I hated. From him. I once got a shirt from my step-mother that I never wore because I thought it would make me look like a 56-year-old tourist. Not that there’s anything with that–I mean, “hate” is a strong word even for that shirt, which would have been fine if I were 56 and wanted to document my trip to Hawaii, but now I’m getting off the point. Well, I can still salvage this paragraph by using my step-mother as a segue. My step-mother’s number-one rule for her husband is “If it has a cord, it isn’t a present.” (A necessary corollary to that rule is “If it has to be described as ‘cordless,’ it is still not a present.”) I myself don’t mind presents with cords. My laptop has a cord. I thought that was a pretty awesome present. I also wouldn’t complain if my husband bought me an iPod, which occasionally utilizes a cord as well. Not that I’m asking for an iPod. I’m just saying, hypothetically, that if my husband bought me an iPod because he thought I would like it, I wouldn’t go around telling everyone what a crappy present it was. I also wouldn’t complain about a diamond ring. (Well, I might if it had a cord. If a diamond ring requires a cord, it’s probably in poor taste.) Not that I want a diamond ring, either. I might could use a new waffle iron, though, given that Elvis broke one of the legs off of mine eight months ago, and it’s kind of hard to keep it level now. (Would that be too much of a role reversal, him buying me kitchen gadgets?)
The sad fact of the matter is that the things I want most cannot be bought, borrowed or stolen. I would like large swaths of uninterrupted time to work on my novel. I would like the kids to stop fighting. I would like Elvis to be potty-trained.
I could also use a booklight. Not that I plan on reading any more books or ignoring more people. I’m just saying. Theoretically, I could use one.
Sugar Daddy: So that’s where my hair gel went. Do you know how long I’ve been looking for this?
Madhousewife: About a week? Why didn’t you just ask me about it?
SD: Maybe I was tired of nagging you about this stuff.
Mad: I doubt that. I think you just figured you left it someplace crazy and were too embarrassed to bring it up.
SD: Well, I thought I’d left it at my girlfriend’s house, but I’m glad to learn that wasn’t the case.
Mad: Where do you think I found it?
SD: Oh, so you’ve met, then. That makes things less awkward.
Mad: Yeah.
SD: So what’d you think?
Mad: She seemed nice.
SD: Yeah, once you get past the hair on her upper lip.
Mad: I thought that gave her character.
My two younger children escaped the house shortly after lunch. When I went out to look for them, I found them on the street in front of our house. (Hey, a timely search–no kids of mine at the assisted living center three blocks down today.) The baby was wearing Elvis’s Buzz Lightyear costume (about three sizes too big for her) and a snotty nose running to infinity and beyond. Elvis didn’t mind his sister stealing his costume because he was perfectly happy riding his little push trike–the one with no handlebars–around the neighborhood in his bare feet and his father’s Slipknot mask.
Oh, I got pictures. Never you fear.
Speaking of pictures…Princess Zurg: Hey, Mom. Guess who’s on this trick-or-treat bag?
Giraffemom: Who?
PZ: McGruff the crime dog!
Giraffemom: Cool.
PZ: What’s he doing there?
[Here you should understand that our kids have only recently met McGruff the Crime Dog this summer, when their father showed them the YouTube video of him singing "Chocolate Rain." They're largely ignorant of the balance of his career.]
GM: He’s there to remind you to be safe. He wants you to take a bite out of crime.
PZ: What do you mean, a bite out of crime?
GM: He wants to stop criminals.
Mister Bubby: Is he real?
GM: McGruff the Crime Dog? What do you mean, is he real?
MB: Isn’t he just a person dressed up like a dog?
GM: Actually, he’s a puppet. Like Kermit the Frog.
MB: Does he really go out and fight crime?
GM: Do you really think when the police go out to catch criminals, they take a dog puppet with them?
MB: Yeah. Police always do that.
Nightwish concert: T-minus thirteen hoursSugar Daddy: So just so we’re clear–it’s yes on the gun necklace, no on the fishnet shirt?
Mad: You don’t need to buy me a gun necklace or a fishnet shirt.
SD: But if I bought you a gun necklace, you’d wear it.
Mad: Yeah, I’d wear it. I’ll wear it to church.
SD: You have to admit it would look awesome.
Mad: Yeah.
(And if y’all want pictures, it’s gonna cost you.)
So I have a fashion dilemma, which is not unusual for me, given the paucity of my wardrobe, which I’ve already explained is the result of my impossibly high standards–or is it just my aversion to shopping? Let history judge me. For now, I am puzzling over a couple things:
1. Halloween
As you longtime readers know, I dislike Halloween. I don’t pretend to have religious objections to it, although I wish I could claim such high principles. Alas, it is nothing more complicated than me being an old fuddy-duddy who wouldn’t know a good time if it sat on her. I am what I am, kids. If only my husband could accept me this way, but no, he’s always trying to change me. He never doth learn.
Last year I made his holiday by dressing up for the first time in, I don’t know, eight years? Nine? If you missed that blogging event, I was Hester Prynne. It was a really good costume. Nobody got it, but that was okay. I was only trying to please my man, as they say. Anyway, I’m trying to decide this year if I want to dress up again, or if I’m going to go back to my old fuddy-duddy ways. The Hester Prynne costume is in storage at our Real House, and as I’ve said repeatedly, I don’t like going back there, and also, it’s highly probable that it is not in the garage anyway, but with all the other clothing they took out of our closet to be professionally cleaned. (Which is too bad, because if I’d just retained the smoke-enveloped thing, I could have gone as Goody Proctor being burned at the stake. Except I think they hanged Goody Proctor. Well, whatever. Like anyone would have gotten that either.) So I don’t know what I would dress up as anyway.
We pause for tangentially related marriage anecdote.
My husband bought himself a new Slipknot mask this year. It’s creepier than last year’s. He’s already abused the privilege of owning it. A few weeks ago we were retiring for the evening, and after brushing my teeth and/or powdering my nose or whatever it is we ladies do in our master bathrooms, I entered the master bedroom and started turning down the bed, when I happened to glance up and see this face peeking out from the bedroom curtains:
*
*Only without the fake eyeballs.
Naturally, I screamed like a horror movie bimbo, and just as naturally he laughed his freaking head off.
“Why did you do that?!?” I asked (with great forcefulness, as evidenced by the multiple punctuation marks). I may have thrown something at him, but I probably missed, as I was still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
“Because it was funny,” he said, still chuckling.
“No, it wasn’t. It was mean.”
“I thought you’d notice right away, but you just came out and went about your business, and I wanted to see what your reaction would be…” Blah blah blah, he just kept laughing.
Then, as we always pray together before going to bed, whether we feel like it or not, I said, “I’m going to pray that you stop being a jerk.”
“Then you’ll be praying for a long time,” he said.
No doubt.
Fuddy-duddy it is.
2. Thursday’s Nightwish concert
Not content with the surreality of his fuddy-duddy housewife appearing at a symphonic heavy metal concert, my husband would like me to dress the part of a “metal chick.” The problem is that I’m not sure I know what a “metal chick” would dress like. I’m not sure the husband does either. In my day “metal chicks” wore mullets and poorly applied eye makeup. I’d do a number of unsavory things for my husband–dressing up for Halloween being one of them–but I absolutely refuse to get a mullet. He says he’d be satisfied with fishnets and black lipstick. (But then what would I wear, honey? Ba-dum-bum!) That’s more goth than metal, but then, I suppose there’s probably such a thing as goth metal–I mean, why not?–but I have not been hip to most of these cultural trends, so what would I know? I may decide to go the ironic route and show up in a cardigan sweater and chinos. And a baseball cap. Soccer mom metal!
It’s hard to embarrass my husband, but I think that might actually do the trick.
Any suggestions? You know how seriously I take all of this, I hope.
Princess Zurg: Girls have the babies, so that’s why they don’t have a boy part. Can you imagine trying to push a baby out of that thing?
Mister Bubby: Oh, that would be bad.
PZ: What are you laughing at?
Giraffemom: Nothing. I’m fine.
And the perils of being there for the whole conversation…
Sugar Daddy: So I’ll just warn you about this Nightwish concert we’re going to–first, you’re going to hear “Show us your boobs!” a lot.
Madhousewife: Mm-hm. But they won’t be talking to me?
SD: No, they won’t be talking to you. They’ll be talking to Anette. Second, knowing the Finns, they’ll probably–
Mad: Show us their boobs?
SD: No–
Mad: Say the F-word a lot?
SD: They’ll say the F-word a lot, but they’ll say it in ways that don’t make sense. Like, “[Gibberish gibberish] I Wish I Had Your Angel, yeah! Effing-yeah!”
Mad: Okay.
SD: And the third thing I’ll warn you…IT’S GONNA ROCK!!!
Mad: Eff-yeah!
(I don’t remember if I actually said that last part, but I was sure thinking it, dudes!)
I’m not going to like the spam on this one bit.
Mormonews
BYU NEWSNET–”12 Former LDS Missionaries Posing for Controversial Calendar” *
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You mean that stereotype that we’re all FREAKS? Yeah, I’m so glad that myth is finally being dispelled.
(*Hat tip: Mormon Mommy Wars. In other words, I do NOT regularly read BYU Newsnet.)
Sugar Daddy’s Pillow Talk: Is God a math geek?
Sugar Daddy: If I were God, could I make people with twelve fingers and still be creating them in my own image?
Madhousewife: What…?
SD: It would just be a lot more convenient.
Mad: How so?
SD: Because then you’d have your number system as base twelve instead of base ten. A lot more convenient.
Mad: I don’t understand.
SD: Because twelve can be halved, thirded, and quartered, without using decimals. A lot more convenient.
Mad: Okay.
SD: (Falls asleep counting sheep in base 12)
Mad: (Up all night)*
*Dramatic license: Actually, it was my Restless Leg Syndrome that kept me up all night. But it’s funnier to think that I was up all night contemplating my husband’s madness.
Mister Bubby: “Ev’ry Time I Feel the Spirit”
So we had our Primary Program at church yesterday. For you NoMos, this is the annual event where all the kids aged three to twelve run the chapel service. Okay, so they have direction from some grown-ups, but they are the “performers.” (I guess we’re not supposed to call it “performing” in church, but I don’t know the religious word for “get up and sing songs and say the lines you’ve rehearsed.”) Anyway, it is not uncommon for parents to get a little teary-eyed whilst watching their sweet children sing praises unto the Most High (not universal, but not uncommon–we Mormons are an emotional bunch). I myself was moved to tears yesterday when Mister Bubby, singing a rousing chorus of “I will go, I will do/The things the Lord commands!”, started bringing on the funk with some improvised dance moves. I might not have cried had I not been working so hard to stifle my laughter.* I suppose I shouldn’t encourage him. Except that I think I want to.
*This was even funnier than the year five-year-old Princess Zurg ran down the aisles screaming, “I have to leave this place!” Primary Program = Good Times.
When Portland makes the news, we like it to be for something other than our secret terrorist cells. That’s why we are thrilled to announce that the second annual In The Driver’s Seat Road Rage Survey, commissioned by AutoVantage, found that Portland, Oregon is the most courteous city in the country–that is, it has the least road rage–at least according to the survey.
This doesn’t come as a surprise to Sugar Daddy, who thinks the reason that Portlanders aren’t outraged is that they’re not paying attention. Specifically, they are not paying attention to the road, other cars on the road, various traffic lights and signs adorning the road, etc. SD is, of course, the road rage capital of the Madhousehold. I guess that as a native Portlander I’m more inclined to take driving frustrations in stride (my distaste for sharing the road with cyclists notwithstanding). SD, on the other hand, was born in Los Angeles, which ranks as the third least courteous city in the country, which he attributes to the fact that Angelenos know how to drive and expect others to know how also.
So yesterday we were driving during rush hour to have my birthday dinner at the Olive Garden, which is more bourgeois than you’d expect from me, I know, but I was in a bourgeois mood yesterday. Anyway, this car turned out of a parking lot on the left and pulled into the lane in front of us and turned on its right turn signal. Which would have been fine, except we were in the left-turn lane with a green arrow and didn’t really want someone trying to merge to the right instead of turning left, which is technically what you’re supposed to do when you’re in the left-turn-only lane. What you definitely aren’t supposed to do is park your car in the middle of the left-turn-only lane and wait for a break in traffic to the right of you whilst everyone behind you is still wanting to turn left while the light is green because, after all, that is usually the purpose of pulling into the left-turn lane in the first place, even in Portland.
Initially we were hoping that this was a case of someone accidentally hitting their turn signal in the incorrect direction because really, who makes the point of crossing a double yellow line to pull into the left-turn-only lane if one doesn’t really want to turn left? Well, somebody does, because last night we saw with our very own eyes some cat in a compact Suzuki sitting in the middle of the left-turn-only lane with his right blinker going crazy, waiting for someone to let him into the right lane while the rest of us would-be-left-turners watched our arrow go from green to yellow to red. So that you may fully appreciate the unbelievable wrongness of this situation, I have provided a helpful illustration:
Fig. 1.1 — Dumb Guy Merging Right
As you can see from the illustration, this “turn,” if you will, of events made SD most displeased. He had a bad incident of road rage. The dumb guy is lucky that SD is too courteous to get out of his car and smash dumb people’s cars with a sledge hammer because that is what he felt like doing. (I assume. Those Angelenos are famously petulant.)
Fortunately, with some technically-illegal-but-also-technically-safe maneuvering on SD’s part, we were able to get to the restaurant and have a lovely dinner without incident. Oh, wait, that was last year.
No, last night we did have a lovely dinner, but ’twas not without incident, as you will discover in your reading.
While we were all sitting at the table, I recalled that the last time we went to the Olive Garden was my birthday dinner two years ago, the eve before my trip to Virginia. I was about four months pregnant with the baby who was now the toddler sitting next to me, chomping on a breadstick like she was people. Two years ago at the OG Elvis was still talking. One of his words was “Cwikey!” Now he was dividing his time between standing on the (wheeled) dining chairs and running out into the lobby. (No, we did not “let” him do any of this. Crikey.) I looked across the table at Princess Zurg and thought, “How pretty she looks.” Then I watched her pick her nose. Yes, this was last night. As for Mister Bubby–well, MB spent the lion’s share of the evening in the Olive Garden bathroom. And I wondered if the day would ever come when my relationship with this child was not framed by matters fecal in nature.
As for SD, he gamely divided his time between reining in Elvis and holding MB’s hand (um…figuratively speaking) in the men’s room. He was the true hero of the evening, road rage notwithstanding.
Which made up for the fact that his birthday card to me had a big red “40″ on the front.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Recently I read a post on a Mormon women-themed blog (not Feminist Mormon Housewives, but in the same vein) by a woman who had a crush on a married man not her husband. Apparently she was prone to such crushes, having had three or four over eight years of marriage, and she was concerned. She wondered if she was sinning or being unfaithful. She said the crushes were not sexually driven (I know, but take it at face value, just for giggles) and that she doesn’t have sexual fantasies about these men. She just thinks they’re really awesome, to the point where she finds herself getting excited over the prospect of being in the same room with them. Gosh, I’m making it sound weirder than it did in her post, which I would provide a link to, except that I’m experiencing an inexplicable obligation to protect her privacy, one that she apparently does not share. (Whatever. It doesn’t feel right, okay? Am I sinning? Don’t answer that.) Anyway, she made it clear that she loves her husband, knows that these other feelings are just infatuations, but she was wondering if this was normal/healthy/okay because she felt really guilty about it, and she asked for advice and shared experiences.
So this woman’s problem was only mildly interesting to me. I mean, I was interested enough to read it and read the comments because, you know, I’m voyeuristic that way. (Is that a sin? Well, same to you, gentle reader.) But I had no intention of giving her advice because, frankly, I just wasn’t that personally invested. But then I saw that one woman had suggested that maybe she should talk to her husband about it–you know, since it was concerning her and husbands are supposed to be helpful and supportive and whatnot, and maybe the secrecy was what was making her feel guilty, blah blah–all nice reasons, but I have to say, as soon as I read, “Maybe you could talk to your husband…” my immediate reaction was, What? No, make that, OMG, What? No no no no no no no!!!
Now, I realize that my own marriage is unique and I shouldn’t project my or my spouse’s neuroses on the rest of the world. Of course there are couples out there who tell each other everything, who can tell each other anything and everything without fear of reprisal or other undesirable consequences, but I have a feeling that if this woman were married to one of those men, she would already know it–would, in fact, have already told her husband, like, a year ago that she thought Brother So-and-so in the Sunday School was really dreamy and isn’t that funny, you’re not jealous are you sweeties, because it’s you I love, of course. And she would not feel guilty, and she would not be soliciting opinions from complete strangers because she was too ashamed to admit it to anyone she knows in real life.
I don’t think this woman’s experience is “normal” or “abnormal.” Nor do I think she’s sinning (taking her remarks at face value, of course). I do wonder if she’s exascerbating the situation by dwelling on her guilt and making special efforts to avoid these men she finds herself attracted to, for some neurotic reason I could only guess at but won’t because that’s for her and her therapist to discover, should the opportunity present itself. However, my instinctive response to the suggestion that she maybe talk it over with her husband was that that would be a really, really bad idea.
It’s one thing when you have a crush on, say, Brad Pitt or Patrick Dempsey, because those are men you will never meet. They are almost not real. (To paraphrase Sam Harris, I don’t believe in Brad Pitt any more than I believe in Zeus or Odin.) My husband regularly tells me that if something should, God forbid, happen to me, he’s going to start courting Nicole Parker, the Sleep Country spokeslady, most of the female field reporters on the Channel 8 news, and possibly that cute freckled chick on Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Which is fine. Number one, I’ll be dead. Number two, that’s never gonna happen anyway. Number three, he’s a man and what do I expect?
It would be something different if he told me that he thought Sister So-and-so from church was kinda hot. I don’t delude myself that he doesn’t notice attractive women, but when it comes to attractive women we actually know and interact with in real life, I really don’t want to know if he gets crushes on any of them. Number one, it’s not useful information. Number two, that’s just gross. And I can only imagine that if I were to tell him that I got a little thrill out of the prospect of attending a worship service with Brother Whatshisbucket, that initially he would laugh at me and make jokes, but thirty seconds later he would say, “Wait, this knowledge is unpleasant. Why’d you have to tell me that?”
Note to Sugar Daddy: I’m too jaded to have extra-marital crushes on real men, so don’t ask me, okay?
Back to the blog:
I found it interesting that the commenters who thought telling the husband was a good idea–that secrets were bad, that 100 percent openness was the only path to true marital happiness–were all women. Most of the commenters who thought it was a horrible idea were men. More to the point, all the men who commented thought telling the husband was a bad, bad, bad idea and that 100 percent openness was a recipe for marital disaster. (This was the last time I checked the comments, anyway.) On the walls of my own marriage hangs a cross-stitch sampler that reads Thank You For Not Sharing (Absolutely Everything). If you have a crush on somebody not your spouse–a real person, not that phony Brad Pitt or the Sleep Country lady–I say suffering in silence is the best policy. Honesty, as in Lack of Lying, is great. And couples should share their hopes and dreams and fears and whatnot, but there’s no need to get carried away. Is there?
Tell me what you think, and also if you be male or female. You may also feel free to tell me about any crushes you may have, on people real or imaginary, because I am not married to you.
Cleaning up after Elvis dumps the change jar in the master bedroom, Day 2
Madhousewife: Are we still finding money in this stupid bed?
Sugar Daddy: Are you complaining about finding money in the bed? I’m going to write a blog about how you’re all jaded now. “Oh, I don’t know when I want my housekeeper to come.” “I keep finding money in the bed.”
Madhousewife: The stupid bed. We need a new one.
This morning’s bad news: Elvis has discovered the garbage disposal.
Guilty Pleasures, Part 52
Once a friend of mine sheepishly confessed that she enjoyed listening to Delilah. I assured her that she had nothing to be ashamed of; sometimes I listened to Delilah, too (though I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as she did). Well, no more. It’s all about the John Tesh Radio Show now. He doesn’t just sit around choosing sappy love songs for the lovelorn. He is actively trying to make me smarter. Seriously, I learn a lot from his show. Just last night he was telling us how to avoid food poisoning at buffets. Word to the wise: Cold dishes should have ice around the sides of the bowl and not just on the bottom. If the food isn’t cold to the touch, it is already growing bacteria. The best part is that he said “growing bacteria” just as Chicago started singing, “You are my love in my life…You are my in-spi-ra-shun…”
I’m feeling a strange connection with John Tesh these days. He’s like a real friend, telling me what I need to know, not just the things I want to hear. I also sense that he’s sincere. He really wants me to have this information. I don’t know about the rest of you all, but sometimes I felt like Delilah was just phoning it in. John Tesh is keeping it real. Not just relationship advice, but safe buffet dining. I mean, for Pete’s sake, people can’t be always be in love, they gotta eat sometime. So I don’t care what anyone says. I like that John Tesh. Now if only he’d play some better music, we’d really be in business.
Madhousechildren discover the Muppet MoviesMister Bubby: I wish I was Kermit. Then I would never have to wear a shirt.Princess Zurg: But what if you were going on a date with Miss Piggy?
Mister Bubby: Then I would wear clothes.
P.S. The housekeeper’s coming over next Wednesday at 8:00 a.m.It was the darnedest thing. I actually had the phone in my hand, the number in front of me, and I was contemplating what I would say when the phone rang and it was housekeeping service scheduler asking me if I’d made a decision yet. It was like a sign from God. Good thing, because I probably could have contemplated for the rest of the day.When they come, I will tell them that any change they find in the bed is theirs.
You know you’ve made the right placement decision for your child when…
…you get a call from the school and it’s only her classroom teacher suggesting that she not wear the jeans that expose her rear end when she sits down.
Which reminds me, why don’t they make mom jeans for little girls?
Sugar Daddy: It used to be about the music
Sugar Daddy: Here, Mad, I’ll play you a song before you go to bed. I’m trying to decide if I like it or not.
[Long pause in conversation whilst SD plays the song in question on iTunes]
Madhousewife: It sounds like something you’d make fun of me for liking.
SD: Well, that was my concern.
Mad: Would it help if I told you that I don’t like it at all?
Love stories in the news
Not to kill the romance or anything, but wasn’t this an episode of The X-Files?
Time for a mini-rant!
A story in this morning’s Oregonian reports that “less than one of every four pounds of plastic containers now gets recycled in Oregon.” Really? Crunchy, green Oregon, environmental pioneer of the nation? I’m shocked. Shocked! How could this be? Well, from what I could glean from the article–which is more about how the plastic manufacturers are trying to wriggle out of new regulations than it is about how irresponsible Oregonian are–the reasons are threefold:
1. In the Portland metropolitan area, many kinds of plastic cannot be recycled. (Too expensive.)
2. Bottled water and sports drinks don’t carry a return-deposit, thus decreasing consumer incentive to recycle. (This is the part where drinking soda becomes socially conscientious.)
3. Mixed curbside recycling requires that recyclable materials be separated by a machine, which loses about 1,700 tons of plastic a year via mechanical errors. (Hey, nobody’s perfect.)
Here’s the thing about recycling–everyone wants it to be a) convenient and b) someone else’s fault when convenience leads to a drop in recycling.
When I was living in Portland 17 years ago (ouch–ahem, never mind) we had to sort our own recycling. Only decadent Californians threw the whole mess in one giant tub. Now we’re only required to separate our glass, and people complain about that.
What is wrong with you, Oregonians? You’ve all turned into a bunch of bike-riding, water-guzzling sissies! Is the earth worth saving or isn’t it? Huh? Huh?
Just curious.
Mister Bubby, Mormon Romantic
Mister Bubby: Look, these Bionicles are in love.
Giraffemom: That’s sweet.
MB: These are the people he’s going to marry.
GM: He’s going to marry two people? He can’t marry two people.
MB: This is the old days.
GM: Oh.
Sugar Daddy has an eye to the futureSugar Daddy: If anything ever happens to you, Mad, I’m going after Nicole Parker.
Madhousewife: You have my blessing on that, honey.
SD: Right after the Sleep Country woman.
Mad: Of course.
Mister Bubby watches too much Star WarsGiraffemom: All right, Mister Bubby, show me where your owie is and I’ll put a band-aid on it.
MB: It’s right here.
GM: Oh, on you little toe?
MB: Yes, my baby one.
GM: That does look like an ouch.
MB: Mommy, I wish I had a force shield around my baby toe so it wouldn’t get hurt.
GM: That would come in handy.
MB: Yeah.
Sugar Daddy, Entertainment VisionarySD: I’m going to create a new TV show called Time for Turds.
Mad: Why?
SD: I’m going to start out the show by saying, “Hey, kids! Guess what time it is?”
Mad: And everyone will shout “Turd Time!”?
SD: “It’s not time for nerds. It’s not time for birds–”
Mad: What will be the point of this show, aside from you getting to use the word “turds” a lot?
SD: Well, people will have to draw turds.
Mad: That sounds entertaining.
SD: But they’ll be doing it against the clock. Like they’ll have 30 seconds to draw a cat turd.
Mad: What’s the matter with you?
I asked eriktheuncool three questions, and per his orders, I am posting this on my blog:Ask three questions, any three, and I will answer them as completely and truthfully as possible.
He also said that the catch is if you participate you have to post this on your blog, but I don’t know if I’m obligated to post that part or not.
I don’t promise that the answers will be interesting. But they won’t be any less interesting than what’s usually in this space.
Dr. Luan Brizendine’s research shows that the average woman says 20,000 words per day, which is about 13,000 more than the average man. In other words, women talk about three times more than men do. I know, this is a shocking revelation for all of you. I will give you a few minutes to get your bearings before I continue.
(You should read the whole article, though. My favorite part is where it says women “get a buzz out of hearing their own voices.” Heh heh.)
First let me say that I believe that women do, on average, talk more than men. I’m not sure who would dispute this, but apparently some would, as a simple google of the subject turns up tons of results denying what is so obviously true. But never mind. The key word is “average,” of course. I think I am actually below average, for a woman, when it comes to talking. I don’t have many people to talk to on an average day, so on an average day I don’t do so much talking.
Also, I think I talk less than my husband does. He probably doesn’t talk as much as the average woman, but I think he might talk more than the average man. At any rate, he certainly talks more than the average me. It’s not so much that he’s chattier than I am, but he’s more adept with the spoken word. I write much more coherently than I think. If you met me in real life and I tried to talk to you, you would be thinking the whole time about how little sense I was making. You might not even believe that I was me.
I doubt very much that science would show I get a buzz out of hearing my own voice. I really don’t like my voice, which is another reason for me not talking so much. But mostly I don’t like talking because it’s so hard for me to say what I want to say. I can have it all perfectly thought out in my mind, but the minute I open my mouth, my brain thinks, “Augh! Shut up! I can’t think anymore!” And then it stops thinking. The power is on, but the VCR is blinking 12 o’clock. I’m painfully aware of this, which is why it’s difficult for me to start talking because I don’t enjoy the cessation of thinking. But once I am talking, it’s hard for me to stop, because I can tell I’m not saying anything, and somehow my mouth thinks that if it says enough nonsense, it can shame my brain into thinking again. But I think I usually shut up before I hit the 20,000 word mark. Then I think, “I really have to talk less from now on.”
On the non-average day, though, I can be very chatty and make perfect sense, insofar as chit-chat makes sense to begin with. I can talk more easily with my friends, mostly because I trust that they can fill in the blanks. Of course, these are women friends who are eager to fill in the blanks with the sound of their own voices, but I’m grateful for that. I feel so much less pressure to perform.
Men, I find, do not like to talk on the phone. My husband can have lengthy phone conversations with close friends and his brothers, but these are all long distance calls that don’t take place very often. He speaks to his mother about once a week, but she does most of the talking in that case. (I have to listen in on the other line if I want to know what she said, though, because men don’t really register most of what women tell them. So he can be on the phone with his mom for two hours, and I ask what they talked about, he says, “Eh, not much.”) But in general SD does not like to talk on the phone. A girlfriend of mine once asked me if SD was uncomfortable with her because when she talked to him on the phone, he was very curt and abrupt. “Yes.” “No.” “Okay.” “Bye.” I assured her that it was nothing personal. At least I hoped it wasn’t because he talks the same way to me on the phone. In real life he is much chattier.
I don’t really understand what men dislike about the phone. I like the phone because I only have to worry what I sound like, which is bad enough. In real life I have to worry about how I look and where I’m looking and what I do with my hands and is my posture okay–it’s no wonder I can’t think about what I’m saying. I’m still pretty inarticulate on the phone with strangers, though, because if it’s business, they are not being paid to jump in and finish my sentences and listen to the sound of their own voices. Which is a shame, because the calls would go much better that way.
I see that I have written more than 800 words on this. Perhaps I do talk more than my husband.
Speaking of male-female stereotypes, though, an interesting thing about my husband that I learned recently is that he has trouble telling his left from his right. This was surprising to me because I thought men had those superior spatial reasoning skills, and it would seem to me that discerning right from left would be fairly intuitive for those spatial reasoning types and that’s why men are so much better at parallel parking. Apparently one has nothing to do with the other. I still find it odd that SD has to think about which hand is his left. I mean, I never have to think about that. I just know. Neither of us is any good at square dancing, though, which has a lot of dosey-doing to the right and left and whatnot–but I think that has more to do with me being a little slow on the uptake and him thinking that square dancing is for dorks. Fortunately, we have not been forced to square-dance for a couple years now.
I see that I am starting to write the way I talk, so a thousand words later, I will quit. Your essay question for today is “Do you talk more or less than the average person of your gender? Do you talk more or less than your spouse or partner? Explain.”
So a couple of Sundays ago a good sister was speaking in church about gratitude. She told about a bunch of things she was grateful for, including her husband and kids, blah blah blah, and then she told a story about the time she went to Moscow with her dance troupe. I forget what venue they were at. Probably if I googled “famous buildings in Moscow,” something would trip my memory, but I’m too lazy for that. Some Big Important Place in Moscow. Boris Yeltsin had spoken there earlier in the day. Anyway, she said it was nice, but the bathrooms were horrible because they didn’t have flush toilets. She went into the bathroom to use her toilet, which was just a commode atop a very deep hole, and apparently there was some solid waste in the bowl, which she had to shove down the hole with a brush-stick-thingy. ::Shudder:: Well, at least they had brush-stick-thingies, but never mind. Her point was that she was grateful for flushing toilets, something that many people in developed countries take for granted.
Myself, I am grateful to go to church where ladies make specific references to fecal matter over the pulpit. No shrinking violets we.
Monday was our Family Night, and Princess Zurg was in charge of our activity, so she had us all color turkeys and put stuff we were grateful for on each of the turkey’s feathers. And yes, I did write “Indoor Plumbing” on my turkey. And PZ said, “Why not say ‘flushing toilets’?” My daughter believes in plain speaking. That’s what church has taught her.
I am not doing any serious writing these days, but I am taking unusual enjoyment in my magnetic poetry kit. Actually, I have two magnetic Shakespearean kits, one for insults and one for love poetry. Together they are a formidable literary force. They are superior to ordinary magnetic poetry kits because in addition to words like passion and embrace and beauteous, they have also have words like whoreson and milksop and scurvy. Not to mention the always-useful strumpet.A sampling from our refrigerator:
BEHOLD AN IRKSOME INFANT INSATIATE AND MAD!
HEREAFTER THE PUNY LUNATIC WILL SMITE YE WITH PEEVISH CHEEK ~Madhousewife
IF EXCESS DELIGHT AFFLICT THEE COME WOO A RUMP-FACED HAG
SUCH AN OFFENDING WRETCH SHALT RUIN THEE ~Sugar Daddy
Culture is alive and well in these parts.
Mister Bubby, No One’s FoolMister Bubby: Mom! Quick, hide!
Giraffemom: I am hiding.
MB: No, you’re not.
GM: I’m invisible.
MB: No, you’re not. I can see you.
GM: You must have special powers.
MB: I don’t. You’re just pretending.
Sugar Daddy Returns Home at 9 p.m., Greets His Family WarmlySugar Daddy: The downstairs smells like feet.
Madhousewife: Well, that was dinner, hon.
Bet he’s glad he’s cooking the turkey this year.
Happy Thanksgiving, kids!
As my husband is fond of noting, I am the Ebeneezer Scrooge of Halloween. But like Ebeneezer Scrooge, I wasn’t always this much of a spoilsport. (Well, truth be told, I have always been a spoilsport to some degree, but not this much of a one, and not always in regards to Halloween.) I used to think Halloween was kind of cool. Then I turned twelve. Just kidding. No, seriously, even after I lost interest in dressing up and trick-or-treating, I thought Halloween was a perfectly fine holiday to celebrate. Then I married my husband, and Halloween became a sacrament. Suddenly, like church, it was no longer fun anymore.
The first Halloween after we wed, I was pregnant with Princess Zurg. I was very tired. I was very cranky. I was sick. I was, in short, pregnant. The church was having a Halloween party (we Mormons love us some Halloween! and we don’t call it a “harvest festival” or some other wussified thing), and part of the building was being converted into some sort of haunted-house-esque trick-or-treat thing, and Sugar Daddy had volunteered us to be in charge of one of the rooms. In the first place, this was not my thing. Aside from being No Fun Whatsoever, I’m just not good at entertaining. Or more specifically, I can be scary, but not on purpose, and not for fun. SD was a bit miffed that I could not catch his vision. I was not excited to make a jell-o mold brain. I didn’t want to peel grapes for eyeballs, or whatever. I agreed to dress up as a mad scientist, because he had the lab coat and probably the dried ice, but I was not enthusiastically agreeable. I was pregnant, and in my selfish little world, Halloween didn’t add up to a hill of beans. I just didn’t care, and being young, pregnant, and largely uninitiated in the art of marriage, I resented feeling obligated to care.
So Halloween came. I got home from work, feeling like hell–which should have put me in the mood for Halloween, I suppose, but strangely it did not–and I wanted to go to a Halloween party about as much as I wanted to stick needles in my eyes. SD probably would have liked me to stick needles in my eyes. That would have been creepy, and more in the spirit of the evening. I so emphatically did not want to go to this party, did not want to be a mad scientist, did not want to scare children, and most importantly, did not want to pretend to have fun, that I actually started to cry. I just wanted to go to bed, but I knew that wasn’t an option. Oh, I could have told SD that I was too sick and tired to go, but he would have guilted me into going anyway. Because he is really that controlling, and I am really that much of a pushover. Guilt is my number one motivator, and he uses that information to his advantage. I still have rage issues to work out, as you can see. I’ll try to get back to the topic at hand. Ahem.
I don’t think I’ll bother to tell any more of my side of the story because you have most of the relevant information. To sum up: I decided that a gift given grudgingly must count for something, so I went to the Halloween party with SD, immediately regretted giving my grudge-gift, and spent much of the evening hiding in the ladies’ room because the only thing I hated more than Halloween at that point was him. Did I say that out loud? Eh, whatever. The long and short of it is this:
I ruined my husband’s Halloween. On purpose. And now it’s a family tradition. A dysfunctional tradition, sure, but don’t judge me, dear reader, until you’ve walked a mile in my pregnant uterus.
So every Halloween for the last nine years, I have not been able to maintain a good attitude. Even if I think I’m going to maintain one, the evening of October 31 arrives and I find some reason to mutter or scream at the top of my lungs the words I hate Halloween. And I do. At that moment, I do. As SD is fond of reminding me, I owe it to my children to celebrate Halloween, which is fine. It’s not like I have some ethical objection to the holiday. It just always manages to bring out the worst in me. Something always happens to make me totally pissed off at the world.
This year I have found myself less annoyed by Halloween. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m maturing. Maybe I’ve lost my will to fight back. Maybe the valium is working. I don’t know. But I actually enjoyed carving pumpkins this year, instead of thinking it was a big, fat, messy pain in the neck. (It still was a big, fat, messy pain-in-the-neck, but it was also fun.) I’m excited to see the kids in their costumes. Princess Zurg is going as the Corpse Bride. Mister Bubby is going to be Link. Elvis is going to be…whatever clothes he agrees to wear tonight (though he still has his Padawan learner costume from last year, which we never did get a picture of because he wouldn’t keep it on long enough). SD is going as a gay serial killer. (Or something. He’s going to wear that freaky mask he bought and has been giving me the hurt-lip about ever since I told him it was too scary for children. Ninety percent of adults polled agreed with me, but he’s since successfully desensitized our own youngsters, so I lose that argument also.) I, having finally found my Pilgrim outfit after it went missing for six years, am going to be Hester Prynne. And the baby will be doing double duty as both Pearl and the worm in the Corpse Bride’s ear. (We just don’t have enough baby-sized folks in this house to go around.)
But I still feel anxious. I don’t think it’s possible for me to have a happy Halloween. Something is going to happen that will make me spoil it. My husband will characterize this as a self-fulfilling prophecy, and perhaps he’s right. Well, screw him. He’s not going to spoil my Halloween. I can do that myself. Which is exactly his point. GAH!
My mother-in-law sent me a pair of Princess Leia earmuffs. I don’t know if these were intended as a marital aid or what, but they are very nice. I’m just grateful that she didn’t send the titanium bikini.
The trouble with making double entendres out of Star Wars dialogue is that it’s too easy.
Mister Bubby on Kindergarten Romance
Mister Bubby: Mom, I think Jackson and April are falling in love.
Giraffemom: Why do you think that?
MB: We asked Jackson if he wanted to marry April and he said no.
GM: Then why do you think they’re in love?
MB: Maybe they’re just dating.
GM: Why would a five-year-old be dating?
MB: He’s not five, he’s six.
GM: Why would a six-year-old be dating?
MB: Maybe he’s crazy.
Mister Bubby on Family Planning
MB: Mom, what does L look like?
GM: You mean my sister?
MB: Yeah.
GM: She has blonde hair and…she looks like me.
MB: Does she give us the most cousins?
GM: Yes. Aunt L has four children, Aunt K has three children, and Aunt J has one child. And Uncle S has no children.
MB (laughing): That’s because Uncle S isn’t even married yet!
GM: That’s right. That would be crazy for him to have children when he wasn’t even married.
MB: Uncle S has never found his wife in a long time.
GM: No.
MB: Is he waiting to find the beautifulest woman in the world?
GM: Maybe. That would explain why it’s taking him so long.
MB: But then there will be no wife left for me.
GM: Oh. Well, maybe he can marry the second beautifulest woman in the world.
MB: Yeah.
I would like to wish my husband and all chemists everywhere a happy “Mole Day.”
My mother-in-law sent me a pair of Princess Leia earmuffs. I don’t know if these were intended as a marital aid or what, but they are very nice. I’m just grateful that she didn’t send the titanium bikini.
The trouble with making double entendres out of Star Wars dialogue is that it’s too easy.
Mister Bubby on Kindergarten Romance
Mister Bubby: Mom, I think Jackson and April are falling in love.
Giraffemom: Why do you think that?
MB: We asked Jackson if he wanted to marry April and he said no.
GM: Then why do you think they’re in love?
MB: Maybe they’re just dating.
GM: Why would a five-year-old be dating?
MB: He’s not five, he’s six.
GM: Why would a six-year-old be dating?
MB: Maybe he’s crazy.
Mister Bubby on Family Planning
MB: Mom, what does L look like?
GM: You mean my sister?
MB: Yeah.
GM: She has blonde hair and…she looks like me.
MB: Does she give us the most cousins?
GM: Yes. Aunt L has four children, Aunt K has three children, and Aunt J has one child. And Uncle S has no children.
MB (laughing): That’s because Uncle S isn’t even married yet!
GM: That’s right. That would be crazy for him to have children when he wasn’t even married.
MB: Uncle S has never found his wife in a long time.
GM: No.
MB: Is he waiting to find the beautifulest woman in the world?
GM: Maybe. That would explain why it’s taking him so long.
MB: But then there will be no wife left for me.
GM: Oh. Well, maybe he can marry the second beautifulest woman in the world.
MB: Yeah.
I would like to wish my husband and all chemists everywhere a happy “Mole Day.”
Sugar Daddy, Sarcastic Gender-Equity Advocate
SD: Mad, did you change the lightbulbs in the kitchen? (Feigns heart attack.) I thought that was my job.
Mad: Not anymore, Mr. Snide-Smart-alecky-Smartbutt.
SD (chortles derisively, then proceeds to sit on his wife’s head): Hey, Mad, look how smart my butt is–
Mad: Get off of me.
SD: I just want you to see how smart my butt is–E=mc squared, baby!
Mad: That’s enough!
SD: E=mc squared!
Mad: Stop!
Mister Bubby Knows Personal Safety
Sugar Daddy: Now if somebody comes up to you at the park or on the street and tries to grab you, what should you do?
Mister Bubby: Run away!
SD: That’s right.
MB: Could you also kick him in the knees?
SD: You probably shouldn’t kick him in the knees because that might just make him mad. You should just run away.
MB: Or you could kick him in the eye. That would be a hurty thing.
SD: Yes. But try running away first.
MB: If you had a gun, you could shoot him.
SD: True.
Mister Bubby, Kindergartener
MB: Mommy, you know who I like even better than my teacher?
Giraffemom: Who?
MB: The person who takes me to school.
GM: Your bus driver?
MB: Yeah.
GM: Is she nice?
MB: Yeah. It feels nice when she says, “Have a nice day!”
(And no, she doesn’t strike me as an especially hot bus driver. Then again, I’m not a five-year-old boy, so who knows?)
Mister Bubby’s Home Is His Castle
Mister Bubby: Mama, if someone comes to your house and robs it, you can go out and buy a gun and you can kill them.
Giraffemom: Um…yeah. You probably don’t have to kill them.
MB: You could hurt them really badly.
GM: Well, you shouldn’t kill somebody if you can possibly avoid it. But if someone breaks into your house and is going to hurt you or your family, you can hurt them to stop them.
MB: You could throw rocks at them.
GM: I guess so.
MB: I know–you could take all the books out of the bookcase, and then push down the bookcase so it crashes on them.
GM: I suppose that would work.
MB: You could put pieces of wood in their eye.
GM: That too.
MB: Then you could call the police.
GM: That’s the best option.
MB: All of those things would work.
GM: Definitely.
Sugar Daddy and Madhousewife on Marketing
Mad: What does it say about people who watch Letterman, that they always have these commercials for Viagra before the show?
SD: I think it says that people who watch Leno aren’t getting any.
This week I went to the dentist for a cleaning. As some of you may recall, my dentist is a member of my church and it took me some time to get used to the idea of someone I know socially knowing all the disgusting details of my mouth. Well, Dr. A wasn’t in town this week, but the hygienist who cleaned my teeth was Sister B. It’s a sign of maturity that it only took my about thirty seconds to get over the idea of a second person I know socially learning all the disgusting details of my mouth. Or maybe it’s (yet another) sign that I’ve lost all sense of dignity.
Anyway, while I was waiting for my appointment, a different hygienist walked into the office carrying a large bouquet of large flowers. I commented on them being so a) beautiful and b) large. She said, “Oh, I know, I was so excited to bring them in today. I’m just so excited about my garden.” Then, turning to everyone else in the waiting room, she added, “And teeth too, of course.” Then she giggled.
See, that’s why I love this dental office: chock full of Mormons and similarly insane persons.
Speaking of dentistry, I’d always thought that being a dental hygienist must be one of the world’s most disgusting jobs. But as Sister B was diligently scraping the tartar off my teeth, I thought that once you got over the Ick Factor, it was probably very satisfying, to take what is filthy and corroded and clean it up all spic and span. Especially if you didn’t have to do it again for six months. In my next life, I think I will be a dental hygienist. Meanwhile, they gave me a new toothbrush and rubber tip–argh, just when I’d kicked the habit!
Princess Zurg on Mother’s Milk
“How do twin babies get fed? You’d have to have four bosoms!”
Only in your father’s dreams, my dear. Only in his dreams.
All these trips to Paris are turning my husband into a Francophile. Every few days he comes home with a couple bottles of sparkling mineral water, a baguette, and some malodorous cheese. I’m thinking of knitting him a beret.
Perhaps the young man I married is having a sort of premature midlife crisis. Last year he was test-driving muscle cars. In October he’s driving to Seattle with a buddy to attend a concert where they will be playing very loud music. He spends all our dough on fantasy metal and expensive dairy products. (”What’s wrong with Wensleydale?”) These last two obsessions have inspired a sort of evangelistic spirit in him that thirty-one years of Mormonism couldn’t instill. Everywhere we go he spreads the good news about guys with guitars who sing about elves and local markets that will sell you cheese made from unpasteurized milk on the cheap.
“Are you sure you don’t want any Camembert? It’ll put hair on your chest.”
When I was ribbing him the other day about the cheese thing, he replied, “You know, it’s so much less expensive and destructive than other bad habits I could have, I think that it’s well worth the money.”
Which is absolutely true. Look, I wouldn’t kid if I didn’t love.
In his book on happiness, Dennis Prager says that we all need to indulge in some moderate vice, lest we become all ascetic and overcome with feelings of deprivation. Or something. I think he may be right. While I don’t smoke cigars or look at pictures of scantily clad women, I rather subscribe to this principle of moderate vice. Every time I feed my kids corn dogs for lunch or fail to recycle something, I think, “This is my moderate vice for the day.” I think Mormons are especially well-suited for moderate vice. I know when I really want to feel like a bad***, I buy a diet Coke with caffeine or eat some coffee-flavored ice cream, and I’m all viced out for a week. QED.
Once my sister and I returned home from a ladies’ auxiliary meeting and told our dad how the women present had all railed against the vulgarity creeping into our society, particularly in the form of The Simpsons.
My father, who rarely exhibits symptoms of righteous indignation or irrepressible civic duty, said, “I certainly hope you stood up in defense of The Simpsons. It’s one of the most moral shows on television. It allows you to live out all your worst tendencies vicariously so you don’t have to do it in real life.”
My step-mother hates The Simpsons. But she also hates Wallace & Gromit, ice cream, and Republicans. I imagine she also hates stinky cheese. I don’t think she’d get this concept of moderate vice.
Do you believe in moderate vice? Which sins are your personal favorites?
Madhousewife and Sugar Daddy share their dreams
Madhousewife: I had a dream last night that I was trying to burn a CD, but I couldn’t do it. For one thing, I was at my parents’ house, trying to use their computer.
Sugar Daddy: Last night I had a dream that I and a guy I work with were raising my four children together. Like I had the children I have now, but the person helping me raise them wasn’t you, but this guy I work with.
Mad: Is he handsome?
SD (shrugs, grimacing): He’s got blonde hair, he’s balding… If I were going to pick a guy to turn gay for, it wouldn’t be him.
Mad: That is disturbing.
Princess Zurg on the sibling relationship
Princess Zurg: Why do Mister Bubby and I always sit next to each other when we don’t really get along?
Giraffemom: I think you get along most of the time. But you spend a lot of time together, so you’re going to have disagreements and fight sometimes.
PZ: Maybe it’s because we just like different things.
GM: That might be part of it.
PZ: Maybe it’s because he’s not so glamorous. He’s got only, like, a streak of glamor. He’s not totally glamorous. Like me–I’m totally glamorous.
GM: That is true.
Mister Bubby’s Anatomy Class
Mister Bubby: Mama, where’s the baby’s boy part?
Giraffemom: She doesn’t have one, she’s a girl.
MB: But she doesn’t have a girl part, either.
GM: Yes, she does.
MB: Where is it?
GM: Right there, where her boy part isn’t.
MB: Where? I don’t see anything.
GM: There.
MB: Mama, the baby’s growing a boy part.
GM: No, she isn’t.
MB: Yes, she is.
GM: No, she isn’t. You either have one or you don’t, it doesn’t just grow.
MB (singsong): I think it wi-ill.
The following is dedicated to Scott, King of the Epic Blog Entries
Sugar Daddy said I would probably provide a travelogue of our vacation, which is interesting because I hate doing travelogues. I actually dislike being on the receiving end of a travelogue, which is why I don’t like doing travelogues. I bore myself, and I sense that I am boring others. Who wants to see a slide-show of my vacation? No one. (Good thing, too, because we took hardly any pictures. So many kids, not enough duct tape.)
Yet I feel obligated to give my report. Get it down for posterity. Sigh. So bear with me.
The trip started inauspiciously when we flew into St. Louis to discover that the airline had checked our bags to Chicago. It wasn’t the fault of the woman who checked our bags. She thought we were Mark Williams. He was going to Chicago. Where his bags ended up, I don’t know. But it was midnight in St. Louis and our luggage was MIA, including the stroller, which had been gate-checked, for the love of Mike. They gave us a loaner stroller, but for the next 22 hours we had to live with the clothes on our backs. (Except Mister Bubby, who had wisely insisted on packing all his worldly belongings into his carry-on Scooby Doo suitcase. Note to self: Next vacation, we all pack Scoobies.)
That was really okay, because it was hot and humid in St. Louis, and clean clothes would have been wasted anyway. So we went to the City Museum, as SD mentioned in his blog, with my sister, brother-in-law, and their daughter, who is Princess Zurg’s age. I will refer to her as Cousin Yinda because that is what PZ called her when she was two years old and couldn’t pronounce her L’s. My sister and Cousin Yinda came to visit me and PZ when I was pregnant with Mister Bubby and SD had gone trotting off to England on “business.” I was glad of the company, but PZ was less grateful. She did not cotton so much to Cousin Yinda, who was a few months younger and really, really wanted to be PZ’s friend, much to the annoyance of the anti-social PZ, who, lacking appropriate verbal skills at that age, responded to most of CY’s overtures with screaming, pushing or a frustrated scowl that seemed to say, “Don’t you get it? We’re enemies.“ They got along much better the next year, when they were both a little older, but since my sister’s family moved to St. Louis, we haven’t seen much of Cousin Yinda until now. I only tell you the earlier story as a dramatic contrast to this trip, in which PZ and CY became BFF’s, walking along holding hands, having slumber parties until all hours and whatnot. Ah, family.
So yeah, the City Museum–really cool, blah blah, definitely go there if you’re going to St. Louis, yadda yadda.
Moving right along, on Wednesday we all drove up to Nauvoo, stopping first at Carthage Jail, where Joseph Smith was killed. That was interesting, in the sense that I can now say, “I’ve been to Carthage Jail. It was interesting.” Some of it is original, including the door with the hole made by the bullet that killed Joseph’s brother Hyrum. But it might have been more enriching if we hadn’t had Elvis in tow. Anyway, we went to Nauvoo, which my brother-in-law aptly described as the Mormon Disneyland. The kids played at Pioneer Pastimes, where they got to play some old-fashioned games and run around like ninnies. The boys went and visited the old gun shop and the girls visited the Family Living Center or somesuch place–you know, where they bake bread and make rope and beeswax candles. In hindsight I wish I’d gone for the guns. I visited the Printing Press. Then we all trucked down to the cemetery, where some of my BIL’s ancestors are buried. (You don’t see that at Disneyland, do ya?) Then we said goodbye to sister, BIL and CY and went in search for food.
Let me save you some trouble, if you’re planning a visit to Nauvoo. Bring your own dinner.
We ended the day with Sunset on the Mississippi, which is a cheesy, mildly amusing road show put on by elderly couple missionaries and BYU theater students on summer break (I’m guessing). It was entertaining, but true to Mormon form ran about 45 minutes longer than it should have. We had to leave early because Elvis kept trying to wander into the river. Which, if you haven’t seen it yourself, is big.
The next day we finished our tour by visiting some of the historical sites maintained by the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, now known as Community of Christ–or as I think of it, Mormonism Lite. The cool thing about the Reorganites is that they sell more souvenirs. I didn’t get the Joseph Smith root beer, but I did buy a magnet for my magnet collection. It was a nice tile one, with the Nauvoo Temple on it–an artist’s rendering but interesting in that it’s a rendering not of the historical building but of the one rebuilt by the mainline church. Princess Zurg and the baby got sun bonnets. MB and Elvis got a covered wagon and handcart, respectively. Ah, Reorganized Mormon capitalism.
We did not get a chance to visit the Nauvoo Christian Visitors Center before we left.
The best thing about Nauvoo for me was a) seeing the temple, which is beautiful, and b) seeing the landscape, which is even more beautiful. Both SD and I felt far more connection with the past by looking off of Temple Bluff than any of the other attractions.
Then we drove up to Chicago to see SD’s brother and his wife (the brother’s wife, not SD’s other wife). I shall refer to SD’s brother by the nickname the children gave him last week, which for some reason was “Uncle Buncle.” His wife is a medical student, so I will refer to her as…Medical Student Sister-in-Law. While in Chicago, we visited Millennium Park, got spit on by the giant fountains, gazed at ourselves in the giant reflective bean sculpture and had Chicago Style stuffed pizza for lunch. Stuffed pizza is good, but it’s got at least two pounds of cheese on it, which wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t gotten the sampler platter of deep-fried appetizers to start. Later that evening we would get frozen custard. If there were any dietary justice in the world, we would be dead by now. But we lived on to visit Navy Pier, view the city from atop the giant ferris wheel and basically walk all over downtown until we were just effing sick of it. We didn’t visit the Sears Tower because we’re too cheap. Also, there was a bomb threat or something. But mostly we’re just cheap. Anyway, the ferris wheel was high enough, and not a little scary.
The next day we stuck closer to suburban Chicago and visited a small petting-zoo type zoo I can’t remember the name of. Our friends from Wisconsin and friends from Michigan drove down to join us. What I found most interesting about this zoo was that each animal exhibit was accompanied by a sign explaining what the animal was good for. For example, there was “Chickens: Source of Nutritious Food,” with some pictures of eggs and whole chickens roasting on a rotisserie. That was surreal. Pigs are extremely useful, for stuff like glue and rubber and paint thinner or whatever, in addition to tasty ham and bacon. Each sign showed pictures of the cuts of meat we get from the animal. Except for the goat because in our country we really only consume goat dairy products, but the sign did point out that goat meat is eaten frequently in other parts of the world. Then there was the picture of the bunny being mauled by a wolf. You think I’m making that part up, don’t you? You’re naive, as I once was.
Then we went to a swim park, where SD was unsuccessful in shaming me onto the 200-ft. slide. For once.
We had Greek food at a diner, where we were waited on by a server of much spunk and personality.
The next day was Sunday, so we went to church, which was the same in Chicago as it is elsewhere. Then my sister-in-law’s parents and brother came over for dinner, and SD cooked Mexican food for them. SIL is half-Mexican and half-Puerto Rican, so once again my husband was cooking ethnic food for people of that ethnicity, but they very much enjoyed it, so that was cool. Later that evening we went on a riverwalk in Naperville, where we fed the ducks and rolled down a giant hill until we almost puked and died laughing.
Our last full day in Chicago was spent at the Museum of Science and Industry. That is a very cool museum. It kicks the crap out of OMSI. (Probably kicks the crap out of anything in Seattle, too, though, so nyeah.) I also picked up another souvenir magnet–this one with Chicago spelled out in periodic table symbols. Ah, capitalist science.
The next day was a traveling day, as we went back to St. Louis. BIL (the non-Buncle uncle) cooked us our first vegetables in eight days.
The day after that we went to the Butterfly House in Chesterfield. That was quite awesome. Kicks the crap out of the butterfly exhibit at the Oregon Zoo. I spotted all the Mormon butterflies–the Great Mormon, the Scarlet Mormon, and the Common Mormon. I felt a keen sense of accomplishment afterward, like I didn’t have to feel obligated to do my genealogy anymore.
We had more frozen custard at Ted Drewe’s on Route 66. I got the Cardinal Sin Concrete. It was beyond tasty. Totally worth the year it took off my life.
The next day I stressed out over packing to get home, and then we went to the airport and got stressed out over flying. SD yelled at some United employees. I got embarrassed. Then he told off an unhelpful fellow traveler who was yammering on her cell phone about Elvis’s testosterone-laden personality and the parents who spawned him. I got embarrassed again. Then there was another fiasco with the Missing Gate-Checked Stroller and SD got into it with another United employee, who was so snippy, rude and argumentative that I started yelling at her, at which point she turned her postal wrath on me, and I cried halfway to Portland. Elvis threw up on SD. The people on the plane were very nice about that. (Cell-phone Lady wasn’t on that leg of the flight.)
They lost our stroller again, but we made it home with the rest of our luggage.
To sum up our Midwest experience:
Humidity–bad!
Steak ‘n Shake–good!
United Airlines–flawed but sadly typical of modern air travel companies
Souvenir magnets–make me happy.
Madhousewife (to sister): I like this one because it spells Chicago using the periodic table, and that’s cool.
Sister: That is cool.
SD: You can’t spell Portland with the periodic table.
Sister: That’s right, there’s no R, is there?
SD: No, there is an R–but there’s no Or or Rt or Tl, so it all falls apart.
Sister: Too bad.
Mad: Can you spell my name with the periodic table?
SD: Sure–[Rattles off several elements that spell my actual name, which I won't reveal here]
Mad (to sis): Isn’t that romantic? He can automatically recite my name in periodic table format.
Sister: Most impressive.
SD: Hey, remember I diagrammed the molecular structure of your name when we were engaged.
Mad: That’s right–I’d forgotten. Whatever happened to those little gestures?
Sister: They just don’t court you anymore once you’re married.
My husband's birthday is in two days, and I still don't know what I'm giving him. In the past I have relied on the old standbys: video games, heavy metal CD's, old episodes of Dragnet. But I'm drawing a blank this year. One thing he really wants is an iPod, but he's explicitly stated that he doesn't want me to buy him an iPod; he wants to buy his own iPod. Now, if he were a woman, I'd have to sit here and wonder if "don't buy me an iPod" really means "don't buy me an iPod" or if it actually means "if you really loved me, you would buy me an iPod"–but since he's not a woman, I feel like I should take his words at face value and buy him some other darn thing. What other darn thing, that's the question.
Power tools?
Presently I must hie downstairs because I think Elvis is outside watering the front lawn and wearing nothing but a pair of pull-ups. Also, shirtless Mister Bubby is pretending the bottom half of SD's music stand is a microphone and he's belting out "The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning" on our doorstep. He said he was going to "rock the whole neighborhood". I believe him.
Overheard at Mister Bubby's field trip to the ranch
Classmate's mom: (Rancher) Sharon just told the kids that one of those horses makes fifty pounds of poop a day. Can you imagine?
Madhousewife: Sadly, I think I can.
* * *
Overheard in the Madhousehold
Madhousewife: So our costumes for the recital are supposed to be here next week, and all the classes are going to have basically the same outfit except we'll have different color leotards–
Sugar Daddy: And the Tap 3 class won't be wearing pants?
Mad: Yes. No. It's a black, white and red thing, so our class gets to wear the white leotard, and (dance instructor) Laura was telling us about the finer points of wearing a white leotard in public–
SD: You're going to be wearing pants, though.
Mad: Yes, dear. Anyway, she was telling us this stuff and one of the ladies said, "So you're saying we shouldn't go au naturel underneath?" and Laura said, "No, it isn't that kind of show."
SD (voice dripping with creepily authentic lechery): It will be for me, heh heh–
Mad: Heh heh.
Yeah, dream on, pal.
* * *
So more than one person responded to my recent religious-nickel postings with tangential comments about evolution, which was funny–you know, in a mystical oooweeeooooh sort of way–because I was totally planning to do another post on evolution and how I don't feel threatened by evolution being taught in science classes, even though I'm not an evolution-ite myself. (That's the scientific term, right? I thought so.) Anyway, I abandoned that idea because a) I had blogs about poop to write and I lost my motivation for the other, and b) I realized that most of my intelligent remarks on the subject would be lifted straight from my husband's brain. So–back when SD thought he might have the stomach for regular blogging activity, he was planning to do a post on evolution and Intelligent Design, and I think you all should pressure him to finally do it already. Because a) I'm too lazy to do transcripts of his brain, despite his daily dictations, and b) I think he has valuable things to say on the subject that you won't read elsewhere and you might possibly enjoy.
Before you start your chants of "S! D! S! D!" though, I warn you that he is not nearly as sweet and genteel as I am. Should he have a lapse in diplomacy and you get offended, be careful what you say back to him because a) he'll destroy you, and b) I'll have skid marks on my keyboard from holding myself back from defending his honor because while I'm sure he'd appreciate the sentiment behind it (nobody disses my hubby online! that is soooo my job!) he would probably find it somewhat emasculating, and I just won't go there. Bottom line: this keyboard gets enough abuse on a daily basis, and the skid marks make the dirt show. (Though not so much on black. Probably worth the extra $150, Wayne, if you find that you frequently censor yourself with great violence while typing.)
* * *
So this rash of anti-President Bush pop songs has me thinking 1) this is truly the age of disposable culture because once the cat's out of office, listening to these super-specific-and-devoid-of-ambiguity-or-larger-context protest songs isn't going to be nearly as much fun and 2) Burt Bacharach's anti-Bush song has actually started growing on me because a) it's Burt freaking Bacharach and how could it not grow on you and b) yeah, that's pretty much all. Unfortunately, I don't think it's gotten much airplay outside a couple appearances on Michael Medved's radio show, but I find myself singing it in my car or around the house several times a week–
Who are these peeeeople who keep telling us lies–
And how do they keep getting control of our lives?
Make them…
Stop!
I give it a little Dionne Warwick, coupled with some old-school Diana Ross hand gestures, you know–it's not bad, probably more entertaining than my tap dancing, but anyway–where was I? Oh, yeah, I think it has the same appeal for me as this song recorded by an amateur (at least, I think he was an amateur) L.A. musician to support O.J. Simpson during his criminal trial:
Ohhhhhh-Jaaaaaaaay–
what happened to you?
They say that you diiiid it,
I know it's not truuuuuuuuuuuue…
Not so much Dionne Warwick on that, more like unsigned indie folk singer who doesn't have his falsetto under control yet–but still charming in its way. Anyway, I have to know if anybody else remembers hearing that song. Brother sxuldv8, you're from SoCal, aren't you? Do you remember Kevin & Bean playing this song every morning? Please tell me you do. Okay, don't lie, but somebody out there in small-world Xangaland has to. Let's reminisce, Bacharach-style!
So last night on my way to tap class I had the opportunity to share the road with one of those cars that sports the "If You're Not Angry You're Not Paying Attention" bumper sticker. I admit I never appreciated the depth and veracity of this bumper-sticker expression until I noticed that the driver of said car was indeed not paying attention, nor did she seem particularly angry. I, on the other hand, was paying attention and therefore was a bit miffed.
But I got over it. (My social conscience isn't what it used to be, and my husband has enough road rage for both of us.)
Speaking of bumper stickers, you remember those from the Clinton administration that said, "Don't Blame Me, I Voted for Bush"? I've been wondering if I could get my hands on one of those so I can paste it on my car, only with the "Don't" blocked out. Because I wonder how good my insurance policy really is.
Speaking of nostalgia, though, one of the reasons I was in such good humor last night–aside from the fact that I have the perfect temperament for commuting–was that I was in the car all by myself and could listen to whatever music I wanted. In the car all by myself is really the only circumstance under which I may listen to the music I want because no one else in my family will tolerate it. Well, I take that back. Sugar Daddy will tolerate it, but only if he can make fun of it and disparage my taste while he's doing it. The children simply will have none of it. Princess Zurg prefers classical music, and the boys have inherited their father's penchant for theatrical heavy metal. So far the baby hasn't offered any opinions one way or the other, but being in the car with only a sleeping baby is almost like being alone in the car. Is that my way of saying the baby doesn't count? I suppose it is.
Anyway, my current CD of choice is Todd Rundgren's Nearly Human, which SD so graciously bought me for Christmas. And not just so he could make fun of me. No, just because he wants me to be happy. That's all. You see, I had the album on cassette for many years, but a couple years ago I lost it, and I had been unable to find it again in any format. Because who wants a copy of Todd Rundgren's Nearly Human unless you're a Todd Rundgren fan, and a Todd Rundgren fan would have bought it on CD back in 1989 and never let it go. Or something. Anyway, SD got it via the internet somehow and then a week after Christmas he found two copies of it in a bargain bin at a used CD shop for $4 each. He bought them both, just on principle. But I digress. So I have Nearly Human again (three copies, actually), which may not be Todd Rundgren's best album, but I heart it anyway, and I heart my husband for buying it for me even though it encourages my musical dorkiness. Now all I need is for someone to reissue Joan Armatrading's Back to the Night on CD and I will be in dork heaven. (As long as I'm in my car by myself.) Right now the only copy I have is on vinyl. I know! Could I be any older?
Well, obviously I could. I knew that I had entered fogeyville, though, when I started hearing Van Halen on the "classic rock" station. Okay, maybe that was just a sign of our instant-nostalgia times. Maybe I really knew I was getting old when they started having radio stations which exclusively played '80s music, and I found I preferred to listen to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" for the millionth time rather than whatever Noise The Kids Are Into These Days. Isn't that just wrong?
I really knew I was old when I started liking bands from the '80s that I hadn't been able to stomach when it was the '80s and there was an excuse for such things. Now my only excuse is that these songs invoke bittersweet memories of my youth. How, you might ask, is Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" at all evocative of my misspent adolescence? Don't get all technical on me. It's a Pavlovian response. I don't claim to understand it.
What's the most incriminating item in your record collection?
EDIT: By "record collection" I really mean music collection–not just vinyl media. Sorry, old habits die hard.