Thursday, September 30, 2010
We got the list of items that must be clean for SH to get his apartment deposit back. I called to ask if I can be present for the inspection.
I asked how much it costs for them to do the cleaning.
$30 an hour.
I’ll clean for $30/hour. I’ve never seen a maid clean as well as I do. I’d be happy to take $30/hour to do a crummy job.
Among the things we have to clean (and this is the short list):
Clean the “chandelier” in the dining room. You and I both know that thing wasn’t clean when SH moved in. We know the previous occupant/the cleaning service did not remove each of the five glass whatchamcallits that cover the bulbs and wash them, as I just did. We know they didn’t dust the chain and the arms.
Stove drip pans. Oh sure.
Windows and storm windows (that is, remove the windows and clean the storm windows, too.) Right. Those were clean when SH moved in. Please.
Baseboards. As if.
We know they didn’t clean the shower. I just did so, with a mixture of Ajax with bleach and caustic bathroom cleaner, which you’re not supposed to do, but which is the only way to clean those stupid plastic pebbly showers that get dirty at the drop of a hat. Porcelain is way better but cheap construction materials win every time.
We know they didn’t clean the oven. Or behind the oven or the refrigerator. But we’ll do it, or get charged.
I need to get into the landlord bidness. It looks like an easy way to get rich.
Alex: Ms Factotum, this is Alex from JPMorgan. Would you please confirm for this recorded phone call your old address?
Me: I sent you a letter asking you to change my address.
Alex: Yes, but I need to confirm it on this recorded call.
Me: You realize there are many companies that let me do this online.
Alex: I understand. But I need you to confirm your old address and birthday.
Me: My old address is 123 Main.
Alex: I need the full address.
Me: Oh good grief. My old address is blah blah blah. My new address is blah blah blah.
Alex: I don’t need the new address, but I do need your birthday.
Me: For pete’s sake. 10/19/63.
Alex: I’ll be sending you a form to complete verifying your old and your new address.
Me: You mean my letter and a recorded phone call are not enough?
Alex: I need to send you the form.
Me: That’s fine. I have a pension with a paper company. Y’all just keep using paper. It’s more money for me.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
SH: But I like my tapered-leg jeans.
Me: They make it look like you have a big butt.
SH: No they don’t.
Me: Yes, they do. They make you look like an inverted triangle.
SH: But they’re comfortable. They were really in style a few years ago. What if they come back? And they look good on me.
Me: No, they don’t. If there is one thing I’ve learned from “What Not to Wear,” it’s that you shouldn’t wear tapered-leg jeans.
SH: What about these?
Me: Those are a lot better. They are fitted around your butt and have a straight leg. You have a great butt. I want to see it.
SH: OK. What about these? They have a straight leg but are relaxed fit.
Me: Relaxed fit is code for “I’ve gained weight but don’t want to go up a size.” Those are too loose around your butt.
SH: But they’re really comfortable.
Me: They don’t look as good as the snug ones.
SH: Do women really care about how men’s butts look in jeans?
Me: Are you joking?
Me: But how many hats do you need?
SH: This is a Giants hat!
Me: It has sweat on it.
SH: Because I wore it. To a game!
SH: It’s wool!
SH: I’m not getting rid of it.
Me: What about the other 47?
SH: Some of those have never been worn. I’ve had some of those since college. Pete gave me some of those.
Me: Are you ever going to wear them?
SH: That’s not the point.
Me: Somewhere, there are little children in China getting sunburned noses and squinting.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sorry for the light posting. I’ve been moving stuff to the house, one carload at a time, which really means I pack stuff in the apartment, carry it downstairs to the car, drive it to the house after I go to the Y (optimizing fuel usage -- Y is on the way to the house), then carry it into the house and try to figure out where to put it. SH will be gone for most of the next two weeks, so I am very carefully packing his CDs and wondering why he has a copy of the soundtrack from “Pocahontas.” Maybe I don’t want to know. I am also trying not to ask questions about the Britney Spears, Debbie Gibson, and Avril Lavigne CDs. I love the man. If pop music is his worst vice, I can live with that.
My friend Bruce is driving up from northern Illinois on Thursday with his van to help me move a bunch of stuff from the storage unit to the house. I didn’t even ask for his help. We’re at an age where you don’t get to ask your friends to help you move any more, even the friends who have a pickup (pickups?). You do it yourself or you hire someone. But he volunteered. I said yes before he could get the words out.
So – I am going on a baking rampage tomorrow. If the man is willing to spend a day carrying my stuff up and down the stairs, I can at least make him some triple-chocolate brownies and some oatmeal cookies. Yes, I suppose I could stop at the brownies, but I know SH will want some and we have (I am not making this up) at least 15 pounds of chocolate (it fills the produce bin in the refrigerator with four bags of chocolate chips, two boxes of cookies, and the fabulous truffles that Cheeseguy and the Bodacious Red-headed Pediatrician brought for us left over) that we’ve accumulated since we met, so it’s time to get cracking. The oatmeal cookies are for Bruce alone – SH does not like them.
I am thinking perhaps I should wait until late tomorrow night to bake. Just to make the crazy laundry people happy.
Serious Honey finally got sick and tired of the crazy laundry people and their 6:00 a.m. carpet sweeping and banged on their door this morning.
SH: I’m tired of waking up in the morning because of the darn noises you people make. I don’t know if you’re scraping or raking your floor at 6:30 in the morning—
CLP: This is our lifestyle! We’re following the rules. We’re not doing anything wrong. We hear you too, late at night, slamming your patio door* at 11:00 or midnight, cooking at 9:00 or 10:00.
SH: 9:00 is late?**
CLP: Look here. This is Wisconsin, not New York. Most people here get up early.
* Because of global warming and the cold Wisconsin May, we did not slide the patio door open much until this week.
** The apartment rules are that the quiet hours are from 10 pm to 8 am.
Me: Where are you, Walter?
Walter [if that is his real name]: The Sears Service Center.
Me: No, I know that. I just called you, remember -- about our washer and dryer? Where in the world are you?
Walter: I cannot tell you.
Me: Why not?
Walter: Security reasons.
Me: Security? What – Sears is a terrorist target? Sheesh.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Because they said our Scratched and Dented washer and dryer would be delivered between 4:45 and 6:45.
Because the grouchy guy gave SH a “courtesy call” to tell him that the delivery guys were running late and they wouldn’t be at the house until 7:30 to 7:45.
Because I called India at 8:01 and the confused and heavily accented young woman told me I was being number 16 on the list, that the delivery guys were making delivery 14, that they were being somewhere in “Milwaukee City,” that no, she could not be making me delivery 15, no, she could not be refunding our delivery charges, and no, she would not let me be speaking to a supervisor.
Because I called the Scratch and Dent place and the manager, who promised to refund the delivery charge, could not reach the delivery office people and find out what was going on. They’d all gone home for the day.
Because the washer and dryer did not arrive until 8:40. That’s p.m. P.M. After I’d been at the house since 11, after two classes at the Y, moving boxes from the garage into the house all day, in about 110% humidity, with no shower.
Because when I went online later, I could not find a single email address or phone number for a Sears executive.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Me: You ate all the dill-pickle Pringles and didn't save me even one?
SH: Yeah, but I didn't even open the cassava chips yet.
Me: That's only because they're on top of the refrigerator and you wouldn't be able to hide that they were open.
SH: Well. Yeah.
Serious Honey will complain in his leftist way that The Man is Keeping Him Down. I pointed out to him that he is The Man, what with being the white, middle-class, educated, well-compensated professional that he is.
No, he’s not, Patrick pointed out. Not until he owns property.
Thanks to our wonderful, wonderful realtor, Todd Weickardt, SH is now a property owner. Welcome to the conspiracy.
Mise en place: SH is going through boxes of his college books and notes. (He and I went to the same college and graduated the same year.)
Me: Why don’t you put those yearbooks in the trash?
SH: But it’s the Campaniles! I can’t throw away my Campaniles!
Me: But I have copies and mine are in better shape.
SH: Why wouldn’t we want two copies? I think it would be kind of cool.
Me: Well, sure, if we are going to get divorced in a few years. Then we can each have our own copies again when we divide our assets. But I’m confident enough about this relationship that I think we can have just one copy.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
9:45 Turn out lights.
9:50 Can’t breathe. Crap. I don’t want to take any more Sudafed because it dries me up so much.
9:55 Still can’t breathe. When was the last time I was sick, anyhow? Sick enough that I didn’t go to the gym – let’s see – August 1995 for sure. I don’t get sick. I am insulted that my body would betray me like this. I might as well not exercise, not eat right and not get enough rest if I am going to get sick anyhow.
10:00 Surrender. Take one tablet of Walgreen’s version of Nyquil. Read “Women’s Health” for the next half hour waiting for the low dose of Sudafed to take effect. Stupid magazine. It’s gotten crass and dumb. I’m going to cancel my subscription. I really don’t need to see “WTF?!!!”s scattered in reading material I have paid for. Yes, I know I am officially a grouchy old lady, but honestly, if you’re a good writer, you don’t need to resort to cheap tricks like cussing. Bill Cosby is one of the funniest guys around and he's clean.
10:25 Turn out lights. Again.
10:40 Waiting. Waiting. Good thing I didn’t make that chocolate latte this afternoon. I’d be buzzed just from the caffeine. But I think I’ll need it tomorrow.
10:42 What if SH's plane crashes? That would be so awful. If it did, I'm pretty sure Imelda would be calling me the next day to demand that I pay her alimony and COBRA out of his estate because she didn't care what the divorce agreement said. She would also probably want me to do all the work getting the life insurance paid to her. Now I'm mad. She can't even express condolences?
2:00 Wake up. Not congested so much but now nasal tissues dry and sore. Take aspirin and drink an entire glass of water, which is its own sentence to be up again in an hour.
2:30 Can’t fall asleep. I should probably not have children if I am turned into such a whimpering mess at the midpoint of a night with only a little sleep.
2:47 Fall asleep, then wake self up immediately with loud snore. So embarrassing. Good thing SH is in Arizona.
3:32 Jerked awake by shrill beep. Smoke alarm battery? Will it continue? Could it somehow be the crazy laundry people, finding new ways to torment me?
3:58 Sniffle sniffle sniffle. Not blowable. Too sticky in the back of the throat. Sudafed has worn off, but I don’t want to take any more.
5:27 Sun rises. I notice.
5:45 Massive headache. Take more aspirin, but only a handful of water from the sink to swallow because I don’t want to wake all the way up by going into the kitchen for a glass.
6:02 Crazy laundry people flush toilet.
6:04 Crazy laundry people running ladders in their bedroom.
6:45 Surrender. It’s going to be a long, caffeine-filled day.
Me: Have you ever seen that show "John and Kate plus Eight?"
My sister, the neonatal NP: No. I refuse to in any way support the idea that it's OK to have six kids at once -- that it's soooo cute.
Me: You mean, women aren't supposed to have litters?
My sister: Yeah.
Caller: Hi. I’m calling from the police association. We’re raising money to create a safer work environment and to create scholarships for youth. [Talk, talk, talk so I can’t get a word in edgewise.] This year, we’re having a celebrity basketball ga—
Me [very politely, even though I’m thinking, “Isn’t this what taxes pays for?”]: I’m very sorry. We won’t be able to participate. Thank you!
Caller: --but we have programs starting at just $20—
Me [again, very politely]: Thanks. Goodbye.
Caller: Well, you’ve been a big help.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Mise en place: I am unscrewing the elbow joint under the kitchen sink after a few handfuls of parsnip and turnip peels have (apparently) clogged the drain/disposal.
SH: What are you doing?
Me: Trying to unclog the drain.
SH: Why didn’t you ask me to do it?
Me: What would you do differently from what I’m doing?
SH: I don’t know.
Me: Would it make you feel better if I freaked out when something like this happens?
10 For i = 1 to N
20 Apply for mortgage so you can buy house in Wisconsin
30 Get a savings account with credit union so you can get mortgage from credit union
40 Show Wisconsin driver’s license to open savings account
50 Get Wisconsin driver’s license
60 Show proof of residency (ie, mortgage) to get Wisconsin driver’s license
70 Next i
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
So I have been on this crying jag that won’t end. I don’t know what’s going on. Yesterday, I got an explanation of benefits for a doc visit I had last month and it said I would owe $298 for the visit, even though I had seen an in-network doctor and the charges were allowable. I felt the blood drain from my face and my stomach start to turn. I had been so careful to find an in-network doctor and to check with the insurance company to make sure he was still in the network and to read the benefits brochure to make sure my stuff was covered and then I got this notice that I would be paying oh, $268 more than I thought.
One of my greatest fears is being poor, which is why I am a thrifty person. I buy the bruised apples from the bargain table because they cost $0.75/lb less than the regular ones. I don’t buy produce out of season. I get movies from the library for free rather than renting from Blockbuster. It goes without saying that I don’t buy books, either, even though I am a voracious reader. (Or maybe because.) I go to the cheap magazine website for my subscriptions. I buy my clothes at thrift shops. I do my own yardwork and minor house repairs. If I could figure out how to generate my own electricity cheaper than I could buy it, I would. I don’t waste money.
I don’t do this so I can have extra money to pay $298 for a doctor’s visit that I thought was going to cost $30. I do it so I can buy shoes. And pay off my mortgage early. And so I’ll have money when I’m old, because if history teaches me anything, it’s that I will probably live to at least 95, which means I have 51 years of expenses ahead of me.
So to learn that I would have this expense after I thought I had done everything right was more than I could bear. Serious Honey said not to worry, that we would pay it, that it wasn’t a big deal. Even after I called and learned there had been a coding error and that I didn’t owe the money, I was upset. SH didn’t understand. I tried to explain my (irrational, I hope) terror of being poor, but couldn’t.
Then we watched “The Color of Paradise,” which I had seen before, so I knew to be sad from the very beginning. When the sweet, loving little blind boy’s father shows up a day late to pick him up from the blind school to take him home for the summer and the little boy, Mohammed, is weeping as he tells his father he thought he had forgotten him, I started to cry. SH asked why. “Because it’s so sad,” I told him. “How could someone not want this sweet, sweet little boy?”
I cried when Mohammed was reunited with his grandmother and he stroked her gnarled, leathered hands and told her how beautiful they were. I cried when the grandmother didn’t want to let him go to school with his sisters because his father didn’t want anyone in the village to know about his blind son. I cried when the father tricked Mohammed and dumped him off with a blind carpenter to be an apprentice without even letting the little boy say goodbye to his grandmother and sisters. I cried when Mohammed wept because he had been abandoned and thought that nobody loved him, even God, because he was blind. It was a cryfest all around.
Even when the movie was over (and if you’ve seen it, you know the ending and that’s all I’ll say), I kept crying just thinking about it. Poor SH couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me and neither could I.
“Maybe I’m scared of being dependent on you,” I said, which I meant as in I have not been financially dependent on another person since I finished college and even though in theory, I have no problem with married women being dependent on their husbands, it is a very different thing when it’s me, who is used to running my own life and making all my own decisions, financial and otherwise, to suddenly feel like I can’t spend any money because I didn’t earn it even though SH is very generous and an excellent provider and has never, ever, ever implied anything of the sort and who even pointed out that I am the one bringing the assets to this marriage and that we wouldn’t be able to afford the house we’re buying if it weren’t for the down payment coming from the sale of my house in Memphis.
But, as I pointed out to him, logic and emotion have nothing to do with each other and I am a total control freak, so here I am about to surrender control of my life so I can share it with him, which I very much want to do because he is the Love of My Life and I am crazy about him and so happy we found each other, but my emotions are saying that if I cannot earn my own way, I am in big trouble. Why won’t my emotions listen to my brain?
SH: That's not "Rapper's Delight!"
Me: Yes, it is.
SH: No, it's the same people singing the same song, but it's like a different version.
Me: What's different about it?
SH: I can't say. It just is. It's like the 1986 version of "I Want To Kiss You All Over." Exile did the same song in 1979 and in 1986, but they sound different.
Monday, September 13, 2010
SH: How’s it working not using the Nutrasweet?
Me: I’m still using it.
SH: I thought that you got the Splenda so you wouldn’t use the Nutrasweet.
Me: Once I use up the Nutrasweet and when you’re around, then I’ll use the Splenda.
SH: I thought you bought it to do a test to see if not eating Nutrasweet made a difference in your headaches!
Me: I got it to get you off my back.
SH and I had our last pre-marital counseling session with Fr Joe. (In the letter he gave us, he referred to the “pre-Cannon” process.) It was just one of many things we had to get done this week – we are in the throes of “It’s our last Saturday/Sunday/Monday in Memphis; we need to go to Elmwood Cemetery/visit the Rock and Soul Museum/go to the Civil Rights Museum/eat at The Cupboard/El Mezcal/Central BBQ again.”
Father Joe was his usual funny self. Talking about how the wife shouldn’t interrupt the husband during a basketball game, he said,
In Chicago, some priests pray for “Please let the Bears to win the Superbowl.” When the Cardinal hear this, he say, “Come to my office.”
Saturday, September 11, 2010
1. “Convenient to restaurants, schools and shopping” is technically correct, but perhaps “next to the parking lot of Ray’s Wine and Spirits” might be a more accurate description.
2. A Glade plug-in does not eliminate the smell of wet dog; it merely makes the house smell like a wet dog that has bathed in Glade.
3. It is better to do nothing to your kitchen than to renovate it with a Home Depot DIY cabinet kit.
4. If your taste runs to mint-green walls, you should not be allowed to make permanent, expensive-to-undo changes to your house.
5. Saltillo tile doesn’t belong in a 1920’s Arts and Crafts bungalow. It just doesn’t. If you can’t remember that, then think this: it is one of the Vatican’s new sins to rip up 1920’s hardwood floors to replace them with anything from Lowe’s. I know you did it because the rest of the house still has the floors, which are incredible. Why, I beg you, why?
6. A corollary of #5: you will spend a lot of time in Purgatory for applying spray-on flocking to the original plaster walls of a brick bungalow. You might go straight to hell if you spray the flocking and don’t even bother to mask the trim or remove the switchplates.
7. If the original doorknobs are crystal, you are forbidden to install modern silver-plate knobs on the new hollow-core plastic doors you put on the closets. Make an effort, people.
8. If you are going to add a bathroom upstairs, please call an architect and a decorator before you start. Really. It’s not as simple as plumbing the northwest corner of the attic. It isn’t.
9. I’m going to say it again: no bright green walls.
10. Masking tape. Have you not heard of masking tape? I know you want that red trim against the white wall, but that’s an unforgiving combination. Invest in a $2.83 roll of masking tape. You’ll be glad you did.
My sweet grandmother (who lives in northern Wisconsin) sent me this letter:
Maybe you can come visit me sometime when you move to Milwaukee. Won’t that be nice! You bet. Your Mom ought to move to Wis, too. Tell her I said so.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Me: So are you going to return that Airborne?
Me: Why not? It’s a fraud.
SH: I don’t take it because of the health claims. Some people think it’s good to take megadoses of vitamins occasionally.
Me: And this would be because the water-soluble ones get peed out and the oil-soluble ones can poison you?
SH: Linus Pauling thought megadoses were good and he lived to be well into his 90s.
Me: My grandmother was a smoker and a drinker and she lived to be 97.
We need to find a house and fast. My wonderful Serious Honey spent most of Saturday and Sunday clearing out boxes from his office. He has a lot of stuff he brought with him five years ago that he hasn't opened since. He also has been saving boxes, knowing we would be moving. But on Saturday, we will be putting all of my possessions either into the apartment or into the storage space where he has his old car.
We took a huge pile of stuff to the Goodwill yesterday after we looked at about seven open houses (and drove past four others -- I should know by now that "convenient to shopping" means "backs up to the mall"). It's a buyers' market as long as you don't mind tacky, trashy houses that have had awful renovations with the cheap materials from Home Depot. (People! Get the high-end HD cabinets and bathroom fixtures! My sister and Ilene did and their bathrooms look great.) As in, we are still looking.
We also threw out a bunch of stuff and there is more to go. Anyone have any ideas about what to do with SH's college textbooks? I checked the online textbook donation places and they don't want 25-year-old texts, but honestly, has freshman physics and caculus changed that much?
1. He spent Thursday afternoon loading the 26’ truck with my stuff. I helped by carrying the light stuff and telling James, the friend who was helping us, which box went next.
2. He drove the truck 650 miles. I helped by not complaining that he wanted to listen to the NCAA tournament.
3. When we realized that we would not be able to get into the storage unit where he has his Corvair because of the snow, he found a new place to put my stuff. I helped by saying, “Where are we going to put everything? How will we unload?”
4. He unloaded the truck and got all my stuff into a 10’ x 10’ space, which required that he pack every square inch of it. Boxes are stacked to the ceiling, light things are stuffed on top of the mattresses, and all my chairs (I got about eight from my grandmother’s basement, in addition to the seven I already had) are linked in a complex puzzle on top of the sofa. I would have taken a picture except the batteries on my camera died. I helped by saying, “It’s never going to fit!” (Every man needs a challenge to reach his potential.)
5. He maneuvered the truck around almost impossible corners in the storage place with inches to spare, but didn’t get one scratch on it. (There would have been more room had it not been for the piles of snow pushed to the edges.) I helped by biting my fingernails and worrying.
6. He missed the Wisconsin game so we could get everything unloaded.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Me: You’re not supposed to say that stupid Billy Crystal “pepper” thing any more.
Serious Honey: But you’ve been chewing gum around me. I thought the deal was off.
Me: I haven’t been chewing gum in front of you in your space.
SH: Yes, you have. You were chewing it at your house when we were packing.
Me: I was chewing it in my room. I didn’t chew it in the kitchen where you were working.
SH: You’ve been chewing it here.
Me: Yeah, in the dining room when I’m at the computer. But I don’t go into your office and chew it in front of you.
SH: I could be in the dining room.
Me: But the dining room is my space when you’re working.
SH: It’s my space.
Me: It can’t be. I don’t chew in your space. I don’t chew in your office even if you’re not there because it has the potential to be your space. But the dining room is my space. You enter at your own risk.
SH: My space is the car if I’m in the car, the whole apartment if I’m in the apartment, but not the whole world if I’m in the world.
Putting dishes away before they are completely dry is a
1. Mortal sin
2. Venial sin
3. Not a big deal at all to normal, rational people who have been doing it for oh, 25 years, and have never suffered any ill effects from the practice
Clerk: What are you making?
Customer: Eggplant parmagiana. It’s for my restaurant.
Clerk: Italian restaurant?
Customer: Dino’s, up the street.
Clerk: There are no real Italian restaurants here. They always add something they’re not supposed to.
Customer: Ours tastes like it’s supposed to.
Clerk: Bah. I’m from Naples, Italy. I know Italian food.
Customer: We’ve been in business for over 100 years. The food in the restaurant tastes just like what I ate at home when I was a little boy.
Clerk: Where you from?
Customer: Sicily. [leaves]
Clerk: Sicilians don’t know s*** about food.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Father Joe on marriage:
Man and woman alone – no good! Remember, nobody perfect! Everyone need help. If you perfect, then you God and don’t need help.
Husband and wife supposed to try to make each other happy. If wife say, “I have head-aitch,” husband say, “Why you tell me?! Go get Tylenol on shelf.”
Is it not better when husband say, “Oh! You have head-aitch. Here two tablets and glass of water.” That how husband and wife supposed to be.
This Vietnamese woman tell me, “I don’t like cheese! I don’t like sandwich!” Then she marry American man. She study many cookbook so she can prepare him the food he like. After two years, she say, “Now I like cheese. There many different kinds of cheese. I did not know!”
Conversations about my car:
Caller: Yeah. Ah’m callin’ about that car you sellin’.
Caller: Where you stay?
Me: I live in Midtown.
Caller: How Ah get to you house?
Me: [give directions to house]
Caller: Um-hmm. Ah call you before Ah get there.
Caller: How ya doin’?
Me: [long pause] Fine.
Me: What can I do for you?
Caller: How ya doin’?
Me: I’m [still] fine.
Caller: I’m callin’ about the car.
SH: Why do you care if your doctor is older than you?
Me: I just do.
SH: I would not be bothered at all by having a young, attractive woman as my doctor.
Me: Trust me. The last thing I want in a gynecologist is an attractive man.
The moral of the story is buy stuff that people want and it won't take you long to sell it. The ad for my car ran this morning for the first time. At 8:02, I got a call from a guy who wanted to look at it for a friend of his. At 12:45, I had the money in my hand. Maybe I should have asked a higher price.
The buyer's grandmother came with her. It was cold outside, so I asked the grandmother to wait in the house while the buyer and the guy test drove the car. Grandmother asked to use the bathroom. Of course! Who would deny a sweet little old lady -- five feet if that -- a bathroom?
Lord have mercy. The candle is still burning in there. What are they feeding her?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
SH: [pathetic whimper, pathetic moan, repeat for 18 hours] I don’t feel good.
Me: [sympathetically] I know, sweetie.
SH: [various sounds associated with having a lot of congestion, i.e., snot sounds] I’m sorry. Excuse me.
Me: That’s OK. You don’t need to apologize every time. I’m actually tuning it out just fine as long as you don’t talk about it.
SH: But it’s rude.
Me: Don’t mention it. Really.
SH: I should go into the bathroom to make these noises.
Me: I mean it. We don’t need to talk about it.
SH: Would you make me some tea?
SH: Would you make me some turkey soup?
SH: Imelda never made me soup.
SH: She didn’t take care of me when I was sick.
Me: Um-hmm. Should I put peppers in it? I have some I need to use.
SH: Sure. Hey. I didn’t say it. [His annoying Billy Crystal “pepper” imitation that we agreed he would never say again in exchange for my not chewing gum in front of him.]
Me: Referring to it is just as bad as saying it. And you just used your last “But I’m sick! card.
A friend of mine (who is stunning) was talking to one of her suppliers.
"You know how there are these really hot women married to just ordinary guys? How does that happen?" the vendor asked.
"I don't know," my friend answered.
"I mean -- look at you! Your husband isn't that great," the vendor continued.
"Um. Well," my friend said.
Should she be insulted or flattered?