I've said it before, and I'll say it again. When Brad dies I am going to buy a tombstone that reads "What is that smell?" because he's my little sniffopotamus. Sweetpea is going to get one that says "Wait, what?" because she says that a lot. Like, a whole big fat lot. If I die first and Sweetpea picks my stone, I imagine mine will read "Ya'll." That's my all purpose phrase and depending on the tone of my voice, it could be short for "you all" or "guess what," or "omigosh" or "knock that stupid crap off right now."
Side note to my mother: if I go away for a weekend and Brad installs a new patio and then writes the words"NOTHING TO SEE HEAR" in the wet cement, start digging. And you should probably wear a mask because he misspells stuff when he's nervous.
Since I'm not dead yet, I like to try new things. And if I buy something new, I like to use a coupon. That way if it sucks, at least I've only lost a minimal investment.
So the other day I was at a drug store and I grabbed a package of what I thought were panty liners. It was a new brand, one geared for women over 40. They were called Panty Fresheners. It wasn't until a couple of days later that I realized I had not purchased mini-pads. What I bought are little round stickers that smell like church lady and they go on the outside of your underwear and claim to provide "up to 4 hours of freshness."
I'd bought pootie diffusers.
If you think I could hold in my hilarity, well, I appreciate the vote of confidence but you are wrong. Dead wrong. I brought them to the dinner table.
"Ya'll. Look at these. Smell them."
Brad was all, what is that smell? and Sweetpea was like, old lady stickers? why?
And I asked Brad, "Remember when you said someone should invent breath mints for your butt so when you fart it would make a cool refreshing smell? I think this is the same thing, except completely different. This will instantly mask your toots. The picture shows it on the front of your undies but I think you're really supposed to wear it over your tailpipe."
Brad was still staring at me but Sweetpea got it right away. "So like you walk by someone and you hear 'pffftt' but then *sniff sniff* you're like, Morning Breeze!"
I was all "EXACTLY!" and Brad was all, "Guess that'll go good with the Fiber One cereal."
Honestly, I don't know what the heck these things are for but they have been cracking me up for days.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Super Bowl Smacktalk...But Not About The Teams
I love my Brad. I love him because he makes me laugh and I love him because he is every bit the good dad I always thought he would be. I love him so much that I usually don't comment on his dreadful Yankee family. But today, those people have gone too far. They ruined my Super Bowl.
Buncha jerks.
Super Bowl is a holiday at our house. It's the one school night of the year that I serve junk food for dinner and everyone stays up as late as they want. We have chips and dip and cheeses and meatballs and those little wienies and caramel apple dip and mac and cheese and crab dip and bacon and cookies and beer and soda. Just the three of us. It's the only holiday that we don't have to make something and traipse across town to someone else's house for pot luck. Super Bowl is mine, all mine, and I do not appreciate it being taken from me.
Sadly, one of Brad's nephews has a birthday in February. Brad's sister and parents tend to think the rest of the human race is as enamored with that unfortunate creature as they are. And today we have a command performance to come and celebrate the anniversary of that child's birth. Even though there is a game on.
I hate them. It is mutual.
Even so, I spent my morning wrapping Christmas presents for his parents. They did not want to see us in December, electing instead to visit Thomas Jefferson's estate. Again. In lieu of seeing their only son and granddaughter, they mailed checks. Mine came in a card that was signed only with their first names. No "Merry Christmas" or "Love," or "Happy New Year." Just their first names. Which I'm pretty sure means, "Cash this quickly because if we find out that our son has finally taken our advice and left you we will stop payment." Fair enough, because every year I totally scour stores looking for a Mother's Day card to send her from Sweetpea that says something like, "Happy Mother's Day. I hope it does not rain." or something equally vague.
I bought the nephew a gift card. And this morning, I did my dutiful rounds, shoving the birthday card in front of Brad and Sweetpea for their signatures. Sweetpea asked me if she should write her last name. I told her I didn't care, just please use her best handwriting because they will be grading her. Brad wrote "Uncle Brad" and drew a smiley face. I wrote my first name. I feel awful, disliking a child, but I cannot find one redeeming quality in that kid. He's violent, he's unattractive and he's good at math. The math thing is almost cool, except he'll probably spend his teenage years developing computer viruses.
As for me, I am armoring myself with the only tools I have: cosmetics and clothes. Eyeliner is not going to help, but I'll feel better if I give them less to criticize. I've carefully chosen my outfit: jeans and a cardigan. Brad's mother and sister will give me a thorough look as soon as I get there. If I look too nice, they'll make some dig about how it must be nice to buy so many things for myself. If I look too casual, they'll ask me if I slept in my clothes. No matter what I wear, Brad's dad is going to ask me if I'm keeping my weight off. I am. Not that he is.
These are not nice people. They have no friends and none of their relatives speak to them. They are mean to my husband and my child. I often ask Brad if he remembers any other kids at his house when he was little because I know they weren't allowed to have friends over. He says no, but I wonder if there were other siblings, and maybe Brad and his sister were just the strongest ones.
And at the end of the day, when we're back at home catching whatever is left of the game, I know I'm going to love my husband a little bit more, for getting out of that OCD, ADD, A-S-S-H-O-L-E house and growing into the good man that he is today. Until then, I'll be the quiet blonde wearing muted colors in the corner, humming "We Shall Overcome."
Buncha jerks.
Super Bowl is a holiday at our house. It's the one school night of the year that I serve junk food for dinner and everyone stays up as late as they want. We have chips and dip and cheeses and meatballs and those little wienies and caramel apple dip and mac and cheese and crab dip and bacon and cookies and beer and soda. Just the three of us. It's the only holiday that we don't have to make something and traipse across town to someone else's house for pot luck. Super Bowl is mine, all mine, and I do not appreciate it being taken from me.
Sadly, one of Brad's nephews has a birthday in February. Brad's sister and parents tend to think the rest of the human race is as enamored with that unfortunate creature as they are. And today we have a command performance to come and celebrate the anniversary of that child's birth. Even though there is a game on.
I hate them. It is mutual.
Even so, I spent my morning wrapping Christmas presents for his parents. They did not want to see us in December, electing instead to visit Thomas Jefferson's estate. Again. In lieu of seeing their only son and granddaughter, they mailed checks. Mine came in a card that was signed only with their first names. No "Merry Christmas" or "Love," or "Happy New Year." Just their first names. Which I'm pretty sure means, "Cash this quickly because if we find out that our son has finally taken our advice and left you we will stop payment." Fair enough, because every year I totally scour stores looking for a Mother's Day card to send her from Sweetpea that says something like, "Happy Mother's Day. I hope it does not rain." or something equally vague.
I bought the nephew a gift card. And this morning, I did my dutiful rounds, shoving the birthday card in front of Brad and Sweetpea for their signatures. Sweetpea asked me if she should write her last name. I told her I didn't care, just please use her best handwriting because they will be grading her. Brad wrote "Uncle Brad" and drew a smiley face. I wrote my first name. I feel awful, disliking a child, but I cannot find one redeeming quality in that kid. He's violent, he's unattractive and he's good at math. The math thing is almost cool, except he'll probably spend his teenage years developing computer viruses.
As for me, I am armoring myself with the only tools I have: cosmetics and clothes. Eyeliner is not going to help, but I'll feel better if I give them less to criticize. I've carefully chosen my outfit: jeans and a cardigan. Brad's mother and sister will give me a thorough look as soon as I get there. If I look too nice, they'll make some dig about how it must be nice to buy so many things for myself. If I look too casual, they'll ask me if I slept in my clothes. No matter what I wear, Brad's dad is going to ask me if I'm keeping my weight off. I am. Not that he is.
These are not nice people. They have no friends and none of their relatives speak to them. They are mean to my husband and my child. I often ask Brad if he remembers any other kids at his house when he was little because I know they weren't allowed to have friends over. He says no, but I wonder if there were other siblings, and maybe Brad and his sister were just the strongest ones.
And at the end of the day, when we're back at home catching whatever is left of the game, I know I'm going to love my husband a little bit more, for getting out of that OCD, ADD, A-S-S-H-O-L-E house and growing into the good man that he is today. Until then, I'll be the quiet blonde wearing muted colors in the corner, humming "We Shall Overcome."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)