I was flipping out slightly on the phone yesterday. And by flipping out I mean “mostly pretending to be flipping out because spazzing about not-that-bad-things is better than having something horrible to spaz about.” Anyway I was discussing being greviously outnumbered by penises in the Melee Household when my best friend Nico pointed out that my husband isn’t like a GRR SPORTS and YARRRR MAN kind of man. In fact, he’s more likely to be online or reading comics when things like the Stanley Cup are on and I am dancing around a coffee table screaming.
True Story: My happiest memories of my honeymoon are watching the Stanley Cup finals in a big theater on a Carnival Cruise Ship out of Tampa. It’s rare to find an occasion where it’s totally kosher to yell “HIT HIM!!! FUCK!!!” in a fancy dress in a fancy room with a fancy drink in your hand.
When Nico pointed out that we don’t necessarily grow testosterone monsters around here, I told her about S’s mad dancing skills. The kid is totally a choreographer in the making. He’s a showman. I know all toddlers like amusing their parents, but until you experience it with you own kid I think the trend is Mostly Annoying.
Last night we asked S what Sheriff says. (This was after we ran through all known barnyard animals.) Sheriff is a character in Disney’s Cars. Unfamiliar with it? I can recite it for you if you want.
Anyway S lowers his chin and his voice and somehow develops this bizarre gritty tone and says “not in my town.” As Pablo would say, I must capture this on film!
Today Black Hockey Jesus instated Charles Dickens Fridays and I immediately pussied out and failed to comment with my Best and Worst Times Ever. Then I thought about it and tried to figure out why and realized I’d have to sit here all day thinking about horrible things to decide what my Worst Time Ever is. It’s not like I have this huge barrel of Horrible Things to sift through to pick the biggest and brightest example.
I think it goes against my nature to conjure really bad times. Especially to write them down. I don’t want to give extra life to things that aren’t currently paining me. And my blogger cajones aren’t quite impressive enough to start outing childhood memories. Those are mine.
I’ve been fortunate in my adult life that nothing has been so bad that it would immediately rise to the top.
So, for this, on Charles Dickens Friday, I am profoundly thankful.
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