The Way Things Are






A mid-spring evening’s banter
2005-04-12, 11:56 a.m.

A mid-spring evening’s banter:

Him: Have you see my painting shoes?
Me: No. (revising attitude from sullen to singing...) No, I haven’t.
Him: You threw them away, didn’t you?
Me: No, I’d remember that.
Him: You found them lying around somewhere and you threw them away.
Me: No, I didn’t! Although I do remember them being in my way in the kitchen. The ones with mud on them, right?
Him: Um, yeah. You threw them away. I know you did.
Me: I did NOT throw them away! Quit saying that! I remember stumbling over them while they sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, but I haven’t seen them since yesterday.
Him: Oh. Well, I’ve had them since yesterday. I just lost them around an hour ago.
(disbelief with mockery bubbling under the surface)
Me: You know. There’s this thing that works really well sometimes. It’s where you have a place for things called “away”, and you put things “away” when you are done with them.
Him: Well, my painting shoes have a place, and it’s in my closet. And they are not there.
Me: Well, why is that?
Him: Because I didn’t put them there when I was done with them, obviously. Oh, I just remembered. They’re in my car. I put them there in case I need them tomorrow.
(it’s all making perfect sense to me now)
Me: You know, I love you, you silly bald pointy-headed little man.
Him: Bite me.

In which I wax ecstatic over unreality TV:

Does anybody else get an electric shiver of excitement down their spines when Nanny 911 comes on Monday evenings? Oh my God, I can barely contain myself. This is the nanny show on Fox, and I know there’s also one on regular network, but I like the Fox show because Fox likes to edit things to be just as trashy and sensational as they possibly can be. I mean, I get more than a vicarious thrill from this show. I marvel at the obliviousness of the “bad” parent, the parent who is edited to look like the problem. Oh sure, I know that the Bad Parent must already be a problem, but a hearty congratulation to the editing team at Nanny 911 for twisting, mixing, shading, and spinning that parent into Satan incarnate. On last night’s episode, the one with John and Stevi and their 4 horrid children (except for the daughter, who kept giving her little brothers well-deserved kicks in the nuts), the masterful editing made John look like Mr. Surly. The sullen expression, the resentment, the passive aggressive anger, the complete remoteness from the situation. The refusal to talk to his wife except to say dick-ass things to her. I kept speaking for him, “Ihavenosoul.Iamincapableofexpressingemotion.Thankyouandgoodnight.” Napping while she rassles with 14 loads of laundry and Satan’s little minions – her children. Acting like the salary he brings in exempts him from helping around the house, being a parent, or being a supportive spouse. And the guy’s a part-time “freelance videographer”? What is this? DW and I decided it must be a nice way of saying “porn”. A nice-looking, large house. Four children. A wife who is a full-time SAHM. How do they afford this with a husband who looks like he naps and watches TV for a living? Porn. The answer is porn.

Part of the Nanny’s strategery with John was to take the long-suffering Stevi to a spa for a day, and let John rassle the children and laundry and chores himself. I think, if I had been involved in the show, that at the end of the day, it would have been revealed to John that Stevi hadn’t been at a spa, she had been at her attorney’s office. And instead of a trip or new camping equipment for their prize at the end of the show, Stevi gets a credit card in her name with $10,000 on it so she can divorce John’s ass. I’d support that, I would.

Oooh, I get all worked up, aflame and ablaze over that show. It’s a little vicarious adrenaline surge.


Ah, my little punkin muffins. My sweet pets. The dual action of zinc supplementation is working nicely. My cold is about gone, and this morning, my stomach exploded in a display of mild stomach upset brought on by zinc. My plan of 10 pounds in 6 weeks is halfway accomplished in less than a week. However, that doesn’t mean that I was able to wear the pants that I ironed last night, intending to wear today. No, I had to fall back on my default pants. Don’t you hate that passive-aggressive little protest your pants do, where you can button and zip them, but your gut rolls over the top, and the front pockets gap waaaaaay open? It’s like the pants are saying “Gee, we can do this, but your ass is so big that I need to create some more room here. Let’s just fan these pockets open. Ahhhh.” What do you want, PANTS? Bite me, PANTS.

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