four refrigerators for us
2006-01-11, 1:43 p.m.
I realized this morning that the new baby fridge (or as my mother calls it, the frigefrator) makes four refrigerators for us. Four. Does anybody else out there have four refrigerators? If so, please let me know why. Iím trying to figure it out for ourselves.
Actually, my in-laws have four of them, now that I think about it. It may just be in my husbandís genetic material to never get rid of a fridge. That genetic inclination sure came in handy over Christmas, though. Our then-three full-size frigefrators were full. One was just full of beer and wine. SWEET! Those were the days. O how I miss them.
Can you tell Iím struggling with things to talk about today? I got nothiní.
Well, I do have something. But I hate talking about it because it makes me look like a victim: weak, a trainwreck.
I had another run-in yesterday with my notoriously inappropriate co-worker, Mike. The short version is, he asked me out to the Spurs game, I snubbed him very coldly, but I didnít tell him off like I should have, then I panicked at the thought that Iím having to deal with this at all, and then my imaginary friend in the computer (YES, YOU, DEAR and THANKS!) talked me down from my ledge of heart-pounding anxiety and near-hysteria, threatened to come kick my ass if I didnít shut Mike down properly, and gave me some good examples of what to say the next time it happens.
I have been TOTALLY rehearsing what to say. Honest. I cut and pasted a couple of really good, succinct, deadly no-nonsense lines, and I am rehearsing so that my feeble brain will dredge the words out of one of those tired little brainial wrinkles and deliver the goods AT THE TIME I ACTUALLY NEED IT TO. I tend to freeze up in moments of stress and duress, and itís only a few days later that I can figure out what I shoulda said or done. I know many, if not most of us are like this. I am your leader, as I excel in it.
Anyway, this is the reason Iím not very good at arguing, fighting with my spouse, debating, whatever. I just freeze up and stare death-rays out of my eyes, and hope that that will suffice as far as response. It says ďyou fucking suck so bad that I canít even respond," but all it really does is piss off DW. But itís my instinct kicking in, and how do you fight that? Behavior modification, I guess.
When somebody is a clueless enough oaf to hit on a co-worker, whether seriously or jokingly Ė who knows? - they arenít going to be quick and nimble enough to interpret the Death Rays of Hate. So Iím memorizing a response that doesnít rely on anybody interpreting anything.
Wow. If thatís the short version, is anybody still awake for the long one? Hereís the exchange that happened in the hall yesterday afternoon, after I haplessly wandered down there looking for somebody else.
Co-worker: Do you want to go out and play?
Me: Huh? No - I have work to do Ė what are you talking about?
Co-worker: I got tickets to the Spurs game tonightÖ
I just kept walking past him. No response. So far today, it has been strictly professional.
What a fucking tool.
In other news, I earned the complete undying respect and awe of my kid when I rattled off the following in the car (listening to the Weird Al cd): ďBah witta ba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy said the boogie said up jump the boogieĒ. He looked at me with his mouth hanging open and said ďWow!Ē
Tell me: how does my brain store that and spit it out with no notice, but not allow me to store, retrieve, and use any one of the number of deadly shut-downs that I need?
To behavior modification! ::clink::
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