Princess Zurg: Mom, if they have drugs so it doesn’t hurt to have a baby, why did you give birth without them four times?
Madhousewife: Well, with Mister Bubby and Girlfriend, by the time I got to the hospital, it was too late for me to take anything.
PZ: So what about the other times?
Mad: Um… [long, rambling explanation that makes little sense]
PZ: I am never having sex.
Mad: That’s a good plan.
PZ: Or if I do, I’m going to make the guy wear a condom. EVERY. TIME. No exceptions!
Mad: That’s the correct method.
Mister Bubby: What’s a condom?
Mad: It’s a form of birth control.
MB: What’s that?
Mad: It keeps the woman from getting pregnant.
Mad: It stops the sperm from going in the woman’s body.
MB: What??? What’s the point?!?
MB: Why would you do it if you aren’t even gonna have a kid?
PZ: Because it’s fun?
MB: PZ, you’re a pervert!
PZ: I am not!
MB: A selfish pervert.
PZ: I don’t KNOW that it’s fun! I’ve HEARD that it’s fun. People SAY it’s fun.
MB: The only reason I wouldn’t have a baby is my crotch would split open.
Mad: That’s a valid reason.
MB: You have an expandable crotch–I don’t.
Mad: [No argument]
Moving to a completely different subject…
MB is a big fan and loyal patron of Netflix. (Yes, I’m sure this is a different subject.) He has discovered many of his favorite shows on there–Man vs. Food, MythBusters, Storage Wars, etc. His current obsession is Quincy, M.E. Our babysitter got him hooked on it, and now he has to watch it every day. At some point during the afternoon, he announces, “Time for Quincy!” and sits down for 51 minutes of Jack Klugman fighting crime. (They had way fewer commercials in the 1970s.) What I love is that it’s on Netflix, so he can watch it any time, but he just decides that it’s time for Quincy. He makes himself a snack and grooves to the theme song. Because Quincy rocks.
At the end of the day sometimes, he likes to tell me what happened on Quincy today. Like the time there was somebody going around choking people to death. A strangler? I ask. Yes, that. And he was going to strangle Quincy, but Quincy got him at a pressure point so he couldn’t move. Because Quincy’s that awesome.
Then there was the time Quincy thought a couple of high school kids were going to kill each other in this football game, so he goes down to the football field to stop the game, and one of the football players says, “We don’t want you here, old man!” and Quincy grabs the kid by the shirt and says, “Well, I guess you’re just going to have to penalize me fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness!” and throws him across the field.
When you think about it, there’s no reason why this wouldn’t appeal to an eleven-year-old boy. They just don’t make shows like this anymore. Which is a crying shame.
The anniversary report
We had a cub scout pack meeting last night (Elvis got his Wolf badge), so Sugar Daddy and I celebrated fifteen years together by having lunch earlier in the day, and then after the kids went to bed, we sneaked out and went to the Denny’s. It’s a long story. Actually, it isn’t long. We went to Denny’s on our first date fifteen-and-a-half years ago. (November 22, 2006 1996.) Not for dinner, don’t worry. Just for ice cream. So anyway, it’s sort of our tradition to go to Denny’s on our anniversaries. We don’t always go to Denny’s every anniversary. Just when the mood strikes us. And when there’s a Denny’s to go to. Anyway, on our first date I had a hot fudge sundae. I probably should have stuck with that. Instead I had a banana split. And french fries. Because I just felt like having french fries. Let me tell you something forty-one-year-old women can’t do at ten o’clock at night: eat a banana split with french fries. I mean, clearly they can–I could. I did. But just as clearly, they should not. I shouldn’t have. The memories of this fifteenth anniversary will be with me for quite some time. Quite possibly mementos of this anniversary (in the form of wider hips) will also be with me. It sure feels that way this morning.
Then on the way home we discussed ways in which we can help our fourteen-year-old lose weight.
We really did that.
I was afraid, on Monday, that I might be getting strep throat. After I said that all I have to do (besides practice a lot) before my big clogging performance on Saturday is not get sick! My throat was feeling pretty streppy. Then I took some ibuprofen. And when I woke up in the morning it was much better. I’m still worried about being sick, but not so much about having strep. Strep has a way of not getting better just with ibuprofen. (Who needs med school with these powers of deduction? Not to mention eight seasons of Quincy on Netflix.) I should rest. And yet I also have to practice. Practice, rest. Rest, practice. Which do you recommend I do first? What would Quincy have me do?
[Wordpress isn’t letting me embed video right now, so you’ll have to click over here for the ending.]