Nebulous Mooch

When we were walking around downtown the other day we saw an interracial couple walking in front of us–black woman, white man. This is the conversation that ensued.

My husband: Look at that. There’s more of that around here these days. That’s good.
Me: I guess we were forerunners for the area.
My husband: Yeah. It’s not like the old days when people in trucks would yell at us while we walked down Bay Shore.
Me: Or the treatment we would get from people in Save A’Lot.
My husband: Yeah.
Me: But I guess we deserved it for being someplace like Save A’Lot.

Note: My husband would have a problem with the first part of this post because he no longer refers to people as black or white. He’s having some sort of issue.

This is the conversation we had last night while watching the news. So it makes some sense to you I should let you know that the news stories were about the Boy Scouts discrimination against gays, an asteroid nearly hitting Earth, and the blackout during the Super Bowl.

Me: Don’t you think it’s odd that the Boy Scouts have banned gays yet they have an activity called a jamboree?

My dad: If a gay asteroid wants to join the football team they should let him.

Me: If a gay asteroid wants to be queen of the jamboree I think they should let him do that too.

Okay, maybe knowing what the stories were about didn’t help that make sense. Since when do conversations have to make sense? With me and my dad it’s more like I say something, then he says something totally unrelated, then I say something else, then he says a whole lot of stuff.

If you throw my stepson into the mix then you really have an interesting conversation. My dad says something that is the completion of a thought going on in his head that none of us are aware of. I say something. My dad explains himself. My stepson says something very loosely related that involves mentioning a dictator or political figure’s name. And so it goes in a round of confusion. We do still manage to communicate though.

Note: I have no idea what a jamboree is, but it sounds like a big party where people dance and wear clothing that sparkles. Maybe it’s kind of like a rave with less ecstasy and more neckerchiefs.

Another note: In case you didn’t know, we are still trying to buy a house. That’s why we’re still living with my parents. You can find out about our latest adventures in house buying on my guest post at Aiming Low.

Me: I haven’t made my schedule for next week yet.

My husband: You’re doing that again?

Me: Yeah. It really helped with my productivity.

My husband: It helped you complain about how you weren’t following your schedule all week.

Me: No, it didn’t.

My husband: Yes, it did. That’s all you talked about. “I’m supposed to be writing from 10 to 12, but I don’t feel like writing so instead I’m checking emails, but this is writing time.” Why not make a list of tasks instead?

Me: … but schedules work for me.

My husband: Schedules don’t work for you. You never follow them. A list of tasks works too and it doesn’t take as long for you to make.

Me: … but schedules are better because I put them on Google Calender, and I can color code tasks, and it’s pretty. I like schedules. You don’t have to like them. I like pretty. You don’t. You’re a man. Now I’m going to go spend an hour of my time making a color coded schedule that I’ll only loosely follow instead of trying to correct the code on my massage site that is making some of the pages shift to the left. Thank you very much for offering your opinion.

Me: I just want to lay on my back and have a potato chip fountain drop potato chips into my mouth.

My stepson: I’d be afraid of choking.

Me: This is a fantasy. There’s no choking in fantasies.

My stepson: I’d still be afraid of choking.

Me: I don’t understand how you could be afraid of my perfect potato chip fantasy.

My Father: I love you, Honey.

Me: Thanks, Dad. I love you too.

My Father: I don’t care what you have to say.

The other day I was in the kitchen with my mother when she put an intact, whole, raw egg in a strange little plastic container and stuck it in the microwave.

Me: What are you doing?

My mother: I have to boil an egg quickly for you father.

Me: Can you do that in the microwave?

My mother: I’ve done it before. That’s what this container is made for.

(She starts the microwave.)

Me: I don’t know. It just seems to me like it will explode.

(There is a large bang and exploded egg covers the inside of the microwave.)

My mother: That always happens.

My father has been struggling with kidney problems for years and is starting dialysis this week. This means he’ll have to make some changes in his diet. The other day I overheard this conversation while my parents where looking over his dietary guideline.

My mom: This says you’ll have to eat more protein.

My father: Protein?

My mother: Yeah, you should try to eat protein with every meal.

My father: Does that mean I can eat more pie?

All of my dog talk has rubbed off on my father. We had this conversation today.

My Dad: I think I’m going to buy a lapdapdoodle.
Me: What’s that?
My Dad: You know a dog like the President has.
Me: Do you mean a labradoodle?
My Dad: Yeah. One of those.
Me: You’re not allowed to have a dog that big in this complex.
My Dad: I’m old. I have … what do you call it … seniority. I can do whatever I want.
Me: Does the condo association know that?
My Dad: I’ll get a puppy. Puppy’s are small.
Me: Yeah and once it grows up whenever you take it for a walk, you can throw a raincoat over it and tell people it’s your cousin Walter.

I looked it up and the Obamas don’t have a labradoodle. They have a Portuguese Water Dog which is also known as a lapdapdoodle.

Photo by rickhogan.

I used to want a pet fox. Then I wanted a pet donkey. My interest in exotic pets has waned recently. Now I just want a dog. I want a dog so badly that I check the Humane Society’s website every night to see who is up for adoption. I want a dog so badly that I talk about dogs all the time. My husband is probably getting sick of it.

Me: I don’t understand why anyone would want a small dog like a chihuahua. They’re just too small.
My Husband: I don’t really care about the size of the dog. What’s wrong with a small dog?
Me: I don’t know I just think a medium sized dog is much better. What can you do with a small dog?
My Husband: Walk it and play with it just like any other dog.
Me: … I don’t know a medium sized dog just seems better.
My Husband: What makes a medium sized dog better?
Me: That’s easy. You see the thing a medium sized dog has going for it is that it’s not a small dog.

Even though I’ve lived in the UK for close to five years now there are things that I’m still learning. I never bothered learning to drive here so there are a few road signs that I just never bothered to learn what they meant. Like this one:

What’s that look like to you?

Up until recently I thought it indicated that there was a picnic area nearby. Doesn’t it look like a picnic table? I used to think that Brits were very into picnics because I see this sign all the time. Then one day I was going somewhere with my husband and I commented on it.

Me: We could always stop and have a picnic there.
My Husband: Where?
Me: Where that sign was.
My Husband: What sign?
Me: You know the picnic table sign.
At this point my husband is just looking at me like I’m insane. Then we pass another picnic table sign.
Me: That one.
My Husband: That sign means we’re approaching the beginning of the motorway.
Me: What do picnic tables have to do with the motorway?
My Husband: They’re not picnic tables they’re roads.

So all this time I thought that sign had something to do with going on a picnic. I thought the sign that I often see with a line through the picnic tables meant that there was no place to have a picnic in the area. Apparently, that sign means you’re coming to the end of the motorway.

Now I know, but I wish I didn’t. Picnics are so much nicer than motorways.