Nebulous Mooch

This conversation occurred while driving in a car at mid-day.

My husband: I’d roll down the window, but the sun is so strong.

Me: That’s because you lost all your pigment living in England.

My husband: I never had any pigment to begin with.

He rolls the window a crack and turns his hat sideways to protect the side of his face.

My husband: The sun’s so strong! Imagine what it must be like in summer.

Me: You lived here for 15 years. You know what it’s like in summer.

Living in England has not only caused my husband to loose any color he had before–which wasn’t much–but has also seemed to wipe out his memory about what it’s like to live in Florida. He keeps forgetting to put on sunscreen, and he has gotten sunburned on his neck repeatedly. I hope this trip doesn’t result in skin cancer.

Besides the delicious food, the static filled headsets that hurt my ears and the stale disease-ridden air, the best thing about flying is the Sky Mall. I usually find myself flipping through it a few hours after take off. By that time I’m usually no longer able to concentrate on the book I brought along with me to read and I’ve already failed to complete the crossword puzzle in the back of the in-flight magazine

I like to flip through the pages and wonder who would actually buy things like this useful indoor dog toilet.

Complete with porous artificial turf that gives off a pleasant organic scent. The tray beneath can be easily emptied and hosed down. Is that turf porous enough to let a turd pass through it? It’s a bargain at only $149.95!

Oh, and this is a steal for only $199.95.

My husband made a startling observation the other day. When I heard it, I nearly fainted. Before you read the rest of this make sure you’re comfortably seated. Are you ready?

I’m 34. When did that happen? I’d been walking around for the past seven months living the life of a 33 year old. I’d been thinking 33-year-old thoughts and saying 33-year-old things. And all the while, I was 34.

This whole turn of events happened when I mentioned being 33 to my husband the other day. “You’re not 33,” he said. I was excited by this statement because I actually thought I was rounding up and that maybe he’d say, “You’re really 32.” He didn’t say that. This is what he said, “You’re 34.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You were born in 1974. This is 2008. That makes you 34.”

“No, I’m not,” I insisted. He obviously had no idea what he was talking about.

“You’re birthday’s in May. You’re 34 and I’m 43.”

“You’re 43!” This was completely astonishing to me.

“Unfortunately,” he said.

I’m glad I’m not the one that’s 43, I secretly thought as I left the room.