Today's post is an open letter to my husband.
It just occurred to me, moments ago, in our kitchen, as I put the glass of soda that I had JUST POURED back into the fridge and went about making a pot of noon-time coffee, that, if my dear husband had been standing in the kitchen when all of this happened, I would be sidelined for quite a while as I proceeded to answer his many questions.
Why did you DO that? Why did you pour yourself a soda only to put it away and THEN make a pot of coffee? This makes no sense! Why did you DO THAT?!?! What was going on in your head??
(Tiresome, and largely rhetorical, questions, to be sure.)
But instead of just dismissing them, today I decided to linger over them. Because I am growing weary of the What WERE You Thinking? Game. And it occurs to me now that my husband, perhaps, is NOT merely being a garden variety asshole by giving me the business with all the (what *I* consider to be fault-finding, and incredibly judgemental) queries. No, today, right here in my kitchen, I had one of those moments of clarity, much like the moment when The Grinch's heart grows three times it's original size. Except that I merely experienced certain realizations. My heart did NOT grow to three times it's original size. No, that should probably be treated as a severe medical condition, to any beings that are not relegated to two dimensions. That would be the kind of situation where the word "emergency" might get thrown around a lot. So let me be clear in stating that that did NOT happen to me today.
But it was a moment of clarity nonetheless, because, for the first time ever, I thought to myself: Hmm. Maybe he REALLY wants to know.
So who am I to stand in the way of a sense of better understanding??? I think we can all agree that I now have a moral obligation to enlighten him. And so I shall.
To begin with, when trying to answer the ages old psychological puzzle-box of Why Did You Do That/What Were You Thinking?, I think I should first make it known that there is almost never merely ONE, pat, one-size-fits-most kind of answer. So I think I will delve into each possibility individually.
WHY DID YOU DO THAT?
1.) I Was Probably Distracted.
This happens a lot more often than I intend.
What you probably need to understand (and if you already 'understand' it, then hooray! You're halfway there! Now all you need to do is understand it BETTER.) is that I have a RICH, and quite intricate, fantasy life. And it is happening 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. At this very moment, there are roughly 9 different plot lines (for stories and novels and screenplays and children's books and cautionary tales) that I am currently "fleshing out." (Seriously. Nine. I counted them.) And as I wander around everyday, doing my random, menial chores, running this errand or that, or setting the world on fire through the passion of my dancing, there is always a part of me (sometimes a larger portion than I would like, and occasionally the part that controls the 'logic' center of my brain) that is actively participating in another life entirely. I am taking care of my grandmother's farm during the day, and brushing up on hand-to-hand combat at night. I am leading a class on guided meditation for middle-school aged children in my garage, and I am beginning to suspect that my star pupil may be a Jedi. I am a powerful (but essentially 'good') sorceress, touring the western United States with my son, solving mysteries and stealing hearts. I am a secret member of the Rebel Alliance, and the revelation of my secret would mean my death, and the death of many innocent freedom fighters. I'm a rock star, I'm a talking cat, I'm Hunter S. Thompson.
And those are just the ones I can remember right NOW. So, as you can clearly see, there's really just a LOT going on up there.
So, occasionally, if I walk into a wall at such a time that said action was easily avoidable, or I don't realize that you just asked me a question, or I behave in a manner that leads you to believe that I recently encountered a hypno-toad. . . please. Just do me a favor and remember to practice your patience. Because, honestly, it's no minor miracle that I've managed to figure out which of my realities is actually 'real.' So show a little respect, huh?
2.) I Thought The Situation Called For Reevaluation.
I like to read books of quotations. Famous quotations, Shakespearean quotations, whatever. I'm not sure what this says about me as a person, and I don't particularly care. Anyway, at some point in my rich and storied life, I must've read a quote that inspired me to believe that it is a strength, NOT a weakness, to take time to reevaluate your position, and then make adjustments as needed. I'm not sure who said it, or where I read it. And once again, I do not care. But it is a sentiment that has stuck with me to this day, and one that I find invaluable.
It is merely Fate's twisted sense of humor that this valuable sentiment leads to exchanges that my husband, ultimately, tends to find irritating and completely unacceptable.
Example: I return from the grocery store, where I have purchased, among other things, Mt. Dew and pineapple juice. I immediately prepare for myself a glass of a mixture of the two. (Because I like this. Mt. Dew and pineapple juice is delightfully refreshing. If you haven't tried it, then you should probably broaden your horizons, instead of sitting there and judging me.) As I am walking around with my tasty beverage, it occurs to me that I am still unbelievably sleepy, and it is a LONG time til bedtime. Hmmm.
It is at THIS time, precious, that I reevaluate the entire situation.
And THAT is what leads me to conclude that making a pot of coffee is REALLY the only PRUDENT thing to do.
Yes. I feel very 'correct' in my logic. (You should probably get on board right now. I'd hate for you to feel left out later on.)
3.) I Might Be In Love With Robert Downey Jr.
I'm really not sure what relevance, if any, that this has on the issue at hand. I simply felt that I would be remiss if I neglected to mention it.
4.) It Needed To Be Done
This section actually comes with a prerequisite understanding that, yes. I have an innate, and ultimately unerring, sense of the balance of the universe. I just understand, in all ways and at all times, how things SHOULD BE, and how I, personally, could line up MY life with the flow of fate ("flow of fate"---just coined that term. Feel free to use it. Also--possibly the next great band's name.) in order to either expedite change, or allow for the least amount of friction possible.
It is really QUITE a heavy burden.
But do you ever hear me complain?!?
No. You do not. (At least not about THIS.) I like to think that I'm far too dignified to complain, but really it's probably something more like laziness on my part, because it'd just take far too long to explain to everyone My Great Gift, and how it's really quite a burden, and how I bear it with such dignity. Nay. I bear it with GRACE.
Yes. I think that sounds right.
Example: I breeze into the kitchen while you are making dinner. (Because that's how our life is: You don't trust me to cook, I spend my days just 'breezing' around.) You are talking, the baby is playing, and then. . . I sense it.
The kitchen needs someone to shake their ass in it.
It NEEDS to happen.
I can FEEL IT.
I hesitate.
I look to you. You're still cooking and talking, oblivious to the needs of the Universe.
I glance at the baby. For a moment, I feel that he MIGHT have some sense of cosmic understanding, that PERHAPS he has translated the Universe's call. . . but decide that it was just gas. Also he has, to date, shown no signs that he possesses the coordination to dance.
And so it is up to me.
And suddenly I BOUNCE from my perch on the counter and perform just an EXPLOSION OF RHYTHM in the center of our kitchen floor.
I am Movement. I am Joy. I am Passion. I am shaking what my mama gave me, and I am giving NO THOUGHT to the consequences.
Because it NEEDED TO BE DONE.
And I didn't see anyone else stepping up.
So I took Life by the horns, and without a moment's hesitation, I proceeded to shake it like I was trying to break it.
So.
There you have it.
I hope that this brief essay proves helpful in your effort to better understand how I think, and why I do the batshit, seemingly illogical, things I do.
If I had to boil it down into just ONE, key, take-it-with-you kind of thought, I'd say it's all about my sense of responsibility to my fellow man.
. . .And if I had to break it down into just TWO key thoughts, I'd definitely say that you just have to let your hips off the leash. Pretend like you're Shakira. Don't be a slave to the beat.
BE THE JAZZ OF DANCE.
But there are no hard-and-fast rules---it's really different for everybody.
Maybe the Universe wants me to dance in the kitchen, maybe the Universe just wants you to take out the trash.
I'm only a seeker.
And an interpretive dancer that believes it all depends on your interpretation.
=)
Just for the record, I have never been one of those people that takes great pride in "telling it like it IS."
This is NOT to say that I haven't, from time to time, and much more frequently than I would prefer, put my size 8 foot completely INSIDE my mouth. I am a MASTER of doing that, and even if I take into account the agonizing pain of a really bad toothache. . . I will still name verbally and unintentionally making an ass out of myself as one of the worst pains imagineable. (It just hurts so DEEP!)
But even with this near-terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease, I have never been one of those people that, generally upon your first meeting, introduces themselves as someone who "tells it like it is." (Too often, I have found that this is merely code for: I am about to hurt your feelings. A LOT.)
I know several of these people. Quite a lot, in fact. With more than a few of them making up some of the supportive branches in my family tree. . . And if I think of each one of them in turn, I can't think of a single one that would argue this point with me: There's a fine line between speaking your mind and being the "sassy little spitfire", and having no filter whatsoever and thus morphing into the "raving psychotic preparing to burn down the homes of their enemies."
Now I am NOT judging the tell-it-like-is-ers. I'm not. I will readily say that their way is not my way. But does that make MY way better? The short answer is No. It does not. And I'll tell you why. MY way has historically worked out to be this: I will get mad about something, and take it home with me. I'll shoot off at the mouth, in the comfort of my car or kitchen, and pepper anything within a 6 foot radius with swears that would make the proverbial sailor blush. Then I will think on it. From a period of anywhere from one day to 18 years. And, when and if the opportunity presents itself, I will completely, and without a nanosecond's hesitation, unload every ounce of fury that I possess onto the hapless victim that has, by now, completely forgotten about the time that they finished off all the salad dressing when I OBVIOUSLY wanted some more. . .
(God I hate bitches like that.)
And, if you've never been around to witness it, I'll just tell you:
It's too much.
Thankfully, it hasn't happened THAT often. . . but when it HAS. . . well. . . I'll just put it this way: The few times when it HAS happened, those are the times that keep me awake at night. Those are the times that, when I can't sleep, the way I behaved at those critical moments comes back to dance in my mind to some Tim McGraw or Men Without Hats tune that I simply CANNOT get out of my head, and to horrify me over and over again with moments that hurt someones' feelings. Moments that I cannot get back.
And deep regret is never a good thing to carry around.
So. . . maybe the tell-it-like-is-ers have figured out part of it that I have not, yet. Maybe everybody needs a pressure valve on the side of their head (possibly located behind the ear? That's a nice, out of the way spot.) that they can release when things start getting too pushy and shovey up top. And BECAUSE they do this, they never have a need to verbally eviscerate another human, then kick their entrails aside as they make their way to their car.
I don't know. These are big questions, and I am just one small person. I simply cannot say for sure.
But here's what I CAN say.
I have a lot of fine qualities, as human beings go. I can be compassionate, I can be incredibly kind, I'm generally perfectly satisfied with what I have, and I'm fairly easy going.
. . . You may want to note that "I am very patient and never irritable" did not make that list. . .
As for irritability. . . I'm not trying to make it sound as though I am perpetually pissy, because I'm not. I love to laugh and be goofy and play. . . it's just that I happen to have absolutely no patience whatsoever for laziness, or ignorance, or whininess. (This is one reason that I never watch the news anymore: It's just eaten up with whiny morons. Makes me too mad. Or possibly weepy. So I get most of my news from Comedy Central now.)
Pair that with the fact that I generally do not VENT these agitated feelings for fear that I might unintentionally offend or hurt someone else (and then I'll have to lay awake at night, feeling bad about it), and what you have is a powder keg that is in serious danger of going off, should some Jehovah's Witness ring my doorbell before I've finished my coffee. Oh, the bloodbath. . . OH! The HORROR. . .
And so. . . I've decided that today is going to be my Vent Day.
I'm just going to let it all out.
Things that I have been thinking for several months, and, for one reason or another, have not felt comfortable in expressing.
So some of these may apply to you. If so. . . who cares?
This is merely my attempt at a PUBLIC SERVICE.
You know---so I don't explode one day, like a meth lab in the sticks.
Here goes.
1.) Be a Big Girl.
If you are over the age of twenty, I expect you to act like an adult. (Trust me, I'm as surprised as YOU are that this made #1.) This means NOT whining constantly about relationships that are or are not working out in your life, NOT being passive agressive when things DON'T go your way, and basically just sucking it up, like the rest of us Adults do, and making the best of it.
A sidenote: If you have recently split with your significant other and, a month later you are still bellyaching to anyone that will listen, and wondering how you are going to go on. . . I have serious concerns for you. What are you going to do when you hit SERIOUS trouble in life?? (Because it hits everyone, eventually.) How are you going to behave when you have a REAL crisis?? And honestly, I have to feel a little bad for you. Because the only reason you could moan so long and so loud over something so MINOR is that you've never had anything MAJOR come along to upset your delicate balance. And if you've never had anything bad like that happen before. . . then duck and cover, honey. Because you are SERIOUSLY overdue.
2.) Keep Private Stuff Private.
Why do I need to know if you're gay? Why do I need to know what you and your husband fought about last night? Why do I need to know that you haven't had sex in 6 months, or that your husband takes testosterone injections?
I DON'T.
So for the love of God----Keep it to YOURSELF!!
Now, if you have known me for any length of time, you will know that I am NOT a prude.
I'm a hedonist. I like to be happy. I like to have fun. (Sometimes I have had TOO much fun.) But there are just some things that don't HAVE to be discussed with the world at large.
It's called decorum. (Look it up.)
But basically I'm just saying that this tendency to over-share does not serve any positive PURPOSE.
If I know you, if I know how you behave, how you treat me, how you treat your children, how you treat your family, how you treat your waiter. . . then that's pretty much ALL I need to know. It's not necessary that I know which way you swing. It's not necessary that I'm aware of all your health complaints, or even which church you frequent. If you are kind and accepting to me and mine, then I will be kind and accepting to you and yours. If I need to know more---I'll ask.
End of conversation.
3.) Are You Kidding Me?
I was going to name this section Practice What You Preach. . . but that seemed a little too narrow a net. So this section is for the people that I look at and all I can think is: Are you KIDDING me??
If you spend 6 days a week griping, complaining, and generally bemoaning the sickening and sorry state of your life, and then on the 7th day you make sure everyone is aware that YOU ARE HEADED TO CHURCH, then I really MUST say this:
Either YOU are not paying attention, or YOU are at the WRONG CHURCH.
(As a dislclaimer I will state that yes, I am AWARE that church-going folk experience the same trials and tribulations as everyone else. I know that. What I am talking about are the people that seem perpetually freaking MISERABLE, then feel it necessary to make sure everyone knows what church they go to. Either your church isn't working, or you're in the wrong place. So stop being a horrible advertisement for your religion.)
4. Politico? NO!!!
I could care less about your political leanings.
Really.
I can almost guarantee that they are different from mine, and I just don't care. If we're friends, then it is because I liked you enough to look past it, and vice versa. So kindly stop throwing it in my face every chance you get, because it is pissing me off.
Yes. You have a right to your opinions. But seriously---is that the MOST important thing going on in your life?? You really think I'm NOT aware of what is going on in Washington?? You REALLY think you're EDUCATING everyone??
Get your head out of your ass.
We ALL have opinions. You know whose opinions I like the most?
The people who keep it to themselves.
If I don't KNOW where you stand on the hot-button issues of our time? Then I think you and I are right where we should be. May the road rise to meet you, friend. Keep on keeping on.
Tell you what, why don't *I* spout off at the mouth like I see people do EVERY DAY?
Why don't *I* start a conversation with "Militant Christians fly in the face of everything your Lord stood for. Discuss."
Or "Who would Jesus bomb? Discuss."
. . . .
. . . anyone left who's still reading? ;)
So that was a little extreme, but I still think it needed to be said.
But that's it. The end of my little rant. And maybe I've gotten the pressure in my brain equalized enough so that I only have to do this every year or so. That would be nice.
Oh, and if I have pissed you off with this, I would like to say from the bottom of my heart that I am completely unrepentant.
Go defriend me on facebook.
I've been watching Catfish on mtv. . . I've got like 20 more accounts anyway.
=)
11:00 a.m. and I'm on my second plastic tumbler full of coffee.
I do not care for coffee mugs. Never use them. Three reasons for this:
1.) Coffee mugs are generally made of ceramic, or some other substance that is most assuredly breakable, and likely not to survive a fall of 3 feet,
2.) They are very sloshy, and do not come with lids. (I am a slosher. The fact that our white couch is now just a dingy gray, as opposed to a soft mocha-cream, is a minor miracle, and further proof for the theory that faeries not only exist, but intervene on our behalf on a regular basis.)
3.) Coffee mugs typically do not hold as much coffee as I plan on drinking.
So I'm slurping my legal stimulant, and trying desperately to get in the correct frame of mind to face this day.
It is rainy outside, and my toes are cold.
This is significant because cold toes mean a desire for warm, snuggy socks. Rainy, dreary days mean a desire to curl into the fetal position, inside a nest of blankets, and marathon-nap. These two things combined could be the death blow to a productive day. Which is why I am slurping coffee barefooted right now.
Fight the power.
The next order of business is to get the Took a nap, get myself presentable-looking, and meet with Pad's mom early this afternoon for Parent-Teacher Conference #2.
It is not something that I am eagerly anticipating.
Primarily because I have been worrying about this since Conference #1. Though I am quite surprised to report this, I believe in giving credit where credit is due, and I am happy to say that Pad's mom has actually been following through with doling out guidelines for the younger master, and has been sticking to some semblance of a schedule for him.
I never thought I'd see the day.
Seriously.
And by all accounts, his behavior at home has improved significantly.
Which is why we're all . . . not exactly 'shocked', but certainly dismayed, to learn that this has NOT translated into acceptable behavior at school.
I'm worried about him. It's as simple as that. I won't go into details, but I feel as though his intellectual growth is unintentionally being hobbled. This is a source of GREAT concern to both me and his father.
Another surreal element to today is. . . this is my SECOND Parent Teacher Conference. . .
And. . . I don't know exactly how to express my feelings about it. . . so I'll just say this:
Parent Teacher Conferences are HUGE.
They are Big News.
They call you to the school. They expect you to show up, be presentable, and (most importantly) be an ADULT.
They just take it as a given that you will show up and be an adult.
And, in situations like this. . . I usually spend the entire time worrying that my Adult mask is going to slip, and I am going to be revealed for the impostor that I am.
Scene: Me, Michael, Pad's Mom, and Teacher, sitting around a tiny circular table in a kindergarten classroom, discussing Pad's behavior and work ethic.
Teacher: "Blah blah blah, he's not showing proficiency with crayons, and his scissor-use is barely above a level 2, blah blah blah. . ."
Michael: **listening intently, and asking pertinent questions**
Pad's Mom: (Not a clue. I have NO idea what goes on in this woman's mind half the time. Not even going to hazard a guess. . . )
Me: (Studying the children's artwork that is taped up all along the huge painted bricks that every children's classroom everywhere is made up of) I could SO do better than that. . . these children have no talent at ALL. . . I mean seriously. . . Just the fact that the teacher wanted them to trace their own hands shows a COMPLETE lack of vision. . . The traced hand?? It has been done to DEATH. . . Hmm. . . those puzzles look like fun. . . OH!!! They have a kitchen!! . . . I wonder if they still have all the parts to the oven, or if half of them are lost. . . it could be---
Teacher: ". . .And so he's really showing no interest at all in what I have to say."
Me: "Oh. Wow. That's bad. Have you tried hitting him? Because sometimes we hit him, and it generally keeps him quiet for at least an hour."
Teacher: "???!!??"
(At this point it occurs to me that kindergarten teachers are roughly the equivalent of Sunday School teachers: Kind enough, in their own way, but completely lacking a discernible sense of humor.)
Shit.
It is always about 25 seconds too late that I remember important facts like this.
Which is why it is GREAT if you have a toddler that you can carry with you, in the event of an awkward social situation.
Me: "Oh! Would you look at that? Baby's wet. Excuse me please."
And then you can gracefully make a hasty retreat.
It works every time.
If you don't HAVE a baby. . . I guess you could use a dog. In a diaper. But teachers, and most authority figures in general, tend to frown upon people that take their dogs everywhere. Except for blind people. Or hell, maybe they frown on blind people too, I don't know. The blind people would never know, after all. (You can't 'hear' a frown.) And I've found that kindergarten teachers can be a judgemental bunch. . .
So the point is, if you DON'T have a baby, and you're not comfortable using a dog, then you're probably just shit out of luck, and are going to have to sit there with your husband and teacher and baby-momma for the duration of the conference.
Sorry.
Which brings me to my second point: Parent Teacher Conferences suck.
That's it. No silver lining. They just suck.
And the chairs are tiny.
And everything smells like pencils.
And little kids are fairly smelly in their own right.
And I think I either need a nap, or more coffee.
And Michael needs to use the computer now.
And somebody BETTER take me to McDonald's after this is all over.
The end.
(**At dealing with my husband.)
Michael has just returned home from the grocery store.
We do NOT do our grocery shopping together. Because he always makes me cry.
In the middle of Publix.
(I wish I was kidding.)
I will inevitably end up breaking down, and weeping quite uncontrollably, somewhere near the frozen food section. And then he will get this very stern (and mildly confused) face that he gets sometimes, and proceed to look at me as if he has no idea what has just happened.
It is just awful. (For ME. For him I imagine it is only slightly less fun than a trip to Six Flags. Possibly MORE fun. . . at least the snacks are reasonably priced.)
And, as I am sometimes SHOCKINGLY intelligent, and also because I really like the guy, and would like to CONTINUE to like him for at least several more decades, I decided several years ago that I would never shop for groceries with him again.
As in EVER.
Sidenote: In my life, I have several (very strict) policies in place, which serve to keep everything from collapsing into chaos all around me. One of these policies regards the copying and pasting of statuses on facebook: "Share this status if you hate cancer. Ignore if you want to drink the blood of innocent puppies over brunch." YOU know. . .
But I will forever consider the policy about No Co-Ed Grocery Trips to be one of the most integral to the continuing permanence of my marriage.
Now. . . some of you may be thinking: Why don't YOU just do the grocery shopping??
To which I would respond: What, just because I'm the WOMAN??!? How unbelievably backward of you! I thought we, as a society, were past these sorts of gender expectations.
=<
I would ALSO probably hazard a guess that you have NEVER actually met my husband.
I find that, in most all relationships, we relegate ourselves to certain roles. Sometimes it is of our own choosing, and sometimes certain roles get thrust upon us, and we just kind of go along with it because it is infinitely less complicated.
(I sort of pride myself on knowing what my role is in this relationship. On just about all others. . . I'm completely lost. So don't even ask. I understand this one, and I'm holding on to it. LET ME HAVE THIS.)
I am the flighty, oft-pajama-clad, crazy one.
NOT in the "Oh my god, she is SO much fun at parties!!!" kind of way.
Oh no.
. . . .Though that would really be nice.
(Insert wistful sigh here.)
But no. If I'm being a realist, I can safely say that I have never been accused of being the life of ANY party. It is simply not my way, and I have accepted that.
MY way is more of a "I get really nervous in social situations and frequently end up spending parties in the bathroom, telling my secrets to the resident feline and forging a lifelong bond."
(Seriously. There are probably more than a few cats out there that still miss me. =/)
Or, "I have the ability to clam up (once I feel that conversational expectations are being directed at me) and have NO idea what to say to you for approximately six years. Then one day I discover that you like the same authors I do and I am just not going to leave you alone. EVER."
I'm. . . a little neurotic.
(It is news to exactly NO ONE.)
And I've made my peace with it.
But, whether FUELED by my neurosis, or in SPITE of it, I still manage to get quite a few things done, and even have a few favorable qualities, which are as follows: =)
I make really great cookies. And cakes.
And pies.
And I can paint.
And. . . ummmm. . .
I can remember all the words to practically every song that I've ever heard more than once.
(Is that a skill?? Because I can TOTALLY do that.)
Matter of fact, once in high school, I was in a car with some friends when American Pie came on the radio, and I said "I LOVE THIS SONG!!! I KNOW ALL THE WORDS!!!"
And I didn't really feel as though the people in the car BELIEVED me hard enough . . . so I proceeded to sing EVERY FUCKING WORD to that beautiful, long-ass song.
MUCH to the annoyance and dismay of the others in the car.
(Because THAT is how hardcore I am sometimes.)
All IN YOUR FACE with my useless knowledge.
I digress.
What I'm getting at, in my REALLY roundabout way, is that grocery shopping is NOT one of the skills with which I am proficient.
I DID try it a couple of times. . . and found that I didn't care for it.
It wasn't really the SHOPPING that I disliked. . . it was more the EXPLANATION of the shopping that I found to be tedious. The questions of 'What the hell were you thinking when you bought THAT brand of ketchup?' and 'Why in the world do we need 5 jars of salsa??', and of course, the endless tirade about 'How can you come home with four boxes of marshmallow peeps, but NO toilet paper??!!??'
Seriously. I love him, but he is IMPOSSIBLE to please sometimes.
So at the end of one of these Grocery Trip Interrogations, I threw my hands up, said to hell with it (and probably several other things that were slightly more profane), and told my dear one that he could do it himself. From now on.
(Add LOTS of swears, and you'll have the general gist.)
But it works.
Partially because he is OCD enough to NEED to micro-manage every aspect of our lives.
And partiall because I KNOW, and have completely accepted, that grocery shopping is NOT my forte.
He LIKES to do it. It is smack in the middle of his skill set.
. . .Whereas MY skill set is more in the "comic relief" arena.
For example, today:
Michael comes home from the store. I help bring in the bags. He presents items that I might find pleasing (bagels, strawberry cream cheese, ooh! Wheat Thins!!), and I nod my approval, much like a gentle and benevolent Queen. Or, if I am REALLY excited (he got a HUUUUUGE thing of ketchup!!!), then I will smile and clap.
(Seriously. I will do this. Because I love him, I will clap for ketchup. Stop judging.)
And then he will put everything away, while I make jokes about demanding burritos.
And how they're not going to cook themselves. . . .
And did you know that the burrito is basically a hand-held dinner?? Fascinating.
And isn't it weird how all this chit-chat is happening, and I have STILL yet to see a burrito in front of me. Soooo. . . you know.
If you got time for talk-y, then you got time to make burritos.
. . . .
And he will laugh.
(Because he's weird like that.)
And I know this, and take advantage of it every chance I get. =)
And that is the story of how I ended up getting homemade burritos for dinner tonight.
Take notes, folks. But don't try this at home.
I'm an expert.
=)
