Wifey & I Discuss Olympic Curling

I’ve been waiting for Curling to come on TV so I could let the kids see this glorified old-folks game of shuffleboard on ice. Secretly I also want to see the women wearing short skirts, squatting, and yelling passionately at each other…oh shit, did I say that out loud?

Anyway, so it comes on and I’m all, “sweet…kids come check this out.” The family gathers and we settle in to watch some Olympic goodness when all hell breaks loose:

Wifey: “Why are they brushing in front of that stone thingy?”

Me: “You know you’re the reason our daughter talks like Sarah Palin and ends all her words with “y.”

Wifey: “Is it some kind of static electricity thing that helps the stone?”

Me: “Who, Sarah Palin?”

Wifey: “Yes, moron…I’m asking you if Sarah Palin uses static electricity to move the stone thingy along the ice.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but how do you get static electricity on ice? And how would that help the stone move on ice? You think this is the Olympic version of the Hairy Gary game?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I was just asking.”

Me: “It’s a brush that smoothes the ice out so the stone thingy goes further…SEE!!! Now you’ve got me talking like thaty withy the “y”eee.

Wifey: “And why are they yelling at each other?”

Me: “The Denmark women-folk are telling the American women-folk their douchebags, suck at this sport, and are going to dry hump their brothers. Curling is a big shit-talkers’ sport.” (the kids had left the room by this point out of sheer boredom.)

Wifey: “You seriously have so many issues it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we talk like a normal couple?”

Me: “Oh…I have issues. You’re the one that thinks those magical brooms they’re holding weld super static electric powers that allow the stone thingy to go where they want.”

Wifey: “You said “thingy” again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Wifey: “I could totally do this sport.”

Me: “Oh, I have no doubt. Hell, just last night you were crouched down in the kitchen while holding a broom, pointing and screaming, ‘really!!! I JUST swept and already there’s pieces of crackers, cat hair, and a grape on the floor!’”

Wifey: “I’ve got good aim, and it would be one hell of a leg workout.”

Me: “You know what else would be one hell of a leg workout?”

Wifey: “You walking up the stairs backwards so I can watch TV in peace?”

Me: “You wanna have sex don’t you?”

Wifey: “No…and will you promise me something? Promise me you didn’t get that breath from eating out of the cat box?”

Me: “Rawr…feeling feisty aren’t you? I’m gonna go brush my teeth, slip out of something comfortable and get ready for your sexiness to join me.”

Wifey: “You do that slugger. I’ll be right there…”

Me: “Don’t forget to put on that sexy thingy I like.”

Wifey: “You said ‘thingy’ again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Back-Off Old Lady!

This past weekend I took the boy to the grocery store for some much needed staples and people watching. Along the journey I gathered my regular stock of the alcoholic suds and tossed them carefully in the buggy along with my other goods, not even realizing they would soon instigate rage within one innocent by-stander.

A few minutes later I’m putting groceries on the conveyor belt while a few moms are smiling at the boy’s eagerness to help. I then lift from under the buggy a case of beer and put it along with the rest of my grub. Being the kind, gentle being that I am, I then grab the line-break plastic thingy and placed it behind the case of beer to let the nice little old lady behind me know she could now begin putting her old-lady groceries on the belt.

As I smiled at her and give her a friendly nod, the devil himself ripped through her skin and said loudly, “how could you do THAT!?! Buying alcohol in front of such a young impressionable boy? SHAME on you!”

My initial reaction was to clench my ass, as not to shat myself, pull my son close to me for protection and roam the store with my eyes to make sure I wasn’t on some lame-ass hidden camera show. What seemed like hours passed between when she spat her verbal stupidness to when the rage from within me boiled to the point of explosion.

Pushing the boy behind me I say, “what do you THINK I’m going to do with it when I get home you psycho bitch?!”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that was not a well thought-out response. In fact, it was just wrong. But I was pissed. Who feels they are ever righteous enough to say something like that to someone? In my mind I’m thinking:

• Why didn’t she just shake her head in disapproval then go call her friend Marge to bitch about it?

• Didn’t she notice it was just beer? And cheap canned beer at that! It’s not like I was on a playground buying crack using my son’s piggy-bank for the loot.

• Why did she have to say it so loud? Oh…cause she needed to hear herself cause she’s probably hard of hearing…never mind. That one was legit.

I could have yelled at her for buying so much prune juice and raisins, pointing-out the fact that the sewer issues in this city are because of people like her!

Regardless, what gives her or anyone else the right? What I do in my own home is not for her or anyone to assume, conjecture, and act upon in a public arena. If she wants to go home and journal about it and use it to make herself feel better about her own dysfunctional family, fine!

We’d all be better people if we could keep our comments to ourselves and come down from that ivory tower long enough to….

Ahhh…who am I kidding, if that were the case, people watching at grocery stores, malls and airports wouldn’t be such an important part of my life and I’d be unhappier for it. Judging is human nature. It’s what makes us wake up in the morning and think, my life isn’t as shit as that guy’s life! So judge away kids…have fun with it, but just keep it to yourself. And, just know that no matter your age, race, or sex, if you take the risk of voicing what you’re judging me for, you’re gonna get it right the hell back!

Ode to the Dangly Shoelace

Despite the fact my son can do multiplications…he can’t tie his shoe.

Despite the fact he knows monsters aren’t real,

Isn’t scared of the dark,

And can rip a worm in half on a fishing trip …he can’t tie his shoe.

We went cross-country skiing this past weekend,

From the seat of my ass,

Deeply implanted in the snow,

He stood there coaching me to “use your polls to go!!,”

But he can’t tie his shoe.

He’ll steal sushi from your plate if you’re dozing for a second or two,

But he can’t tie his shoe.

He can wipe his own ass….but he can’t tie his shoe.

He’ll tell a complete stranger Happy Birthday,

Climb a tree faster than me,

Be on my front wheel on a 15-mile bike ride,

Throw himself in a pool whether he’ll swim or come in with the tide,

But he still….can’t tie his shoe.

He calls his sister his “enemy,”

Until I see him lying next to her laughing.

He’ll put tacks on the floor,

Won’t bother to hold a door,

And tell me “you’re mean!” when I punish him.

Yesterday he held his foot out with his regular pitiful look,

His knot-tying plea,

I said, “you’re seven, why don’t you tie your own shoe!”

He said,

“Cause everyone always does it for me.”

My son can tie his own shoe.