Nebulous Mooch

My Husband: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Me: What?

My Husband: You don’t know that? It’s a famous poem.

Me: I know, but you said “Let me count the ways.”

My Husband: That’s the way it goes.

Me: No it’s not. It goes “Let me count the waves.”

My Husband: No it doesn’t. That doesn’t mean anything.

Me: It’s a poem. You’re not supposed to understand it. It’s just supposed to sound nice.

My Husband: You’re wrong.

Me: I’m not. It’s “Let me count the waves.”

Later I looked it up and he was right, of course.

I shouldn’t make any excuses for myself, but I’m going to. I originally heard the poem on The Love Boat when I was a child. A man and a woman were standing on deck and the man said, “How do I love thee? Let me count that waves.” Or at least, that’s what I thought he said. It made sense at the time. They were on a boat and there were a lot of waves. That’s a whole lot of love. Right?

I called an ambulance to take me to the emergency room last week. This is the conversation that occurred in the ambulance.

Paramedic: (Filling out my intake form) Your date of birth?

Me: 19-05-1974

Paramedic: Age?

Me: I’m 34.

Paramedic: (Looks up from the form) No you’re not.

Me: Yes, I am.

Paramedic: No, you’re not. I’m 34, and I was born in 1975. You were born in 1974 so that makes you 35.

Me: But my birthday isn’t until May 19th. That hasn’t happened yet so I’m 34.

Paramedic: (Rolls her eyes and writes 35 as my age on the form.)

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.

We had kale greens with our lunch today.

Me: I love greens. They’re my favorite food.

My husband: That’s not true.

Me: Yes it is. I love greens.

My husband: How many times a day do you think about eating greens?

Me: I don’t know. None.

My husband: How many times a day do you think about eating cereal?

Me: Maybe six or seven.

My husband: Looks like cereal is your favorite food.

Me: Silently thinking about eating some cereal.

Sometimes I just say exactly what I’m thinking. This isn’t always a good idea. Especially when what I’m thinking isn’t very smart. This is what happened last night at dinner.

“Where do chickens come from?” I asked.

“Eggs,” my husband laughed.

My stepson flipped through his world history book ignoring yet another ridiculous dinner conversation.

“I mean you don’t see them in the wild, so who invented them?”

This question was met with even more laughter. “You don’t invent an animal,” my husband said.

“They must’ve come from somewhere. Like maybe someone cross bred a turkey and a duck or something.” I have an excuse for this statement. You see, I’ve been very tired the past few days and my brain hasn’t been working right.

This got my stepson’s attention. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Where did chickens come from?” I asked him. He knows a lot about history. I thought he might give me a good answer.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged and resumed his reading.

After dinner I looked up the history of the chicken on the internet. No they are the result of a breeding experiment involving turkeys and ducks. Chickens were found in the wild in China and India and where first domesticated in 7000BC. That answers my question.

The other day I was talking to my husband when I noticed something strange going on. He was holding himself and dancing around like a child who had to go to the bathroom. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“Nothing. Why?” he said looking suspicious.

“What’s up with your pants?”

“I’m warming up my harmonica,” he said. He reached down his pants and pulled the harmonica out.

Horrified, I asked, “Was that just down your pants or was it down your underwear too.”

“I have to have it next to my skin so it’ll be warm enough. That way it plays better.” He started playing it as he wondered into the next room.

I just hope he doesn’t start doing that on gigs. What will people think?