I don’t want to be accused of false advertising any more than I already am on a daily basis with the hubs. Here’s what I mean by that:
“Oh, so it’s that same old excuse again tonight…you’re tired…” the hubs will start.
“Yep. Sorry, dude,” I’ll answer, kicking off my slippers and poking at the corns on my feet with the scissors, hoping that the action will turn him off. It won’t.
His eyes will rest for a moment on my corns, because he knows full well what I’m trying to do. “You know, trimming your corns and shuddering and puking are not appropriate responses when your husband is feeling amorous. It’s not like it’s easy for me, either—I’m going out on a limb here. You’ve got whiskers and your breath is bad a lot of the time. But I still make the effort. I still want to do it.”
“I know, sweetie,” I’ll reply, clicking my tongue in an attempt to sound sympathetic, but quickly turning it into a gag so that there are absolutely no questions left as to where I stand on the issue. Just in case, I start scratching my toes and acting like the Athlete’s Foot is back again. “Maybe if you rub my feet?” I’ll suggest.
The hubs will continue, ignoring me. “When we met, you were so fun,” he’ll say, a distant look in his eyes as he reminisces about the college days. “Such a drunken skank. Now, you have one glass of wine and go to bed so you can be all responsible with your parenting and jobs and whatever else it is you do all day.”
“Mm-hm,” I’ll reply, because I’ll know where this is going.
“Seriously,” he’ll complain, shooting me an accusing glance, “What’s happened to you? You know what they call that, don’t you? Don’t you?”
I’ll mouth the next words along with him since I’ve heard them so many damned times: “False advertising.”
I know I can never go back to being the drunken skank that he fell in love with (believe me, I’ve tried), so he’ll just have to honor those pesky marriage vows that he took several years ago and stick with me. You, my dear readers, on the other hand, do not have to honor any vows.
So to appease you with the trash that you expected today when you came to this blog and to make sure that you come back next week for more, I’ll skank it up by sucking on a Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoking a Marlboro Red while I write. There…is that better? Look, I even coughed up a phlegm ball right onto the computer screen…oh, oh wait, here’s another one. Alright, then, let’s get to the cutesy Christmas stuff.
A couple of weeks ago, my sister-in-law texted me:
What does the preschooler want for Christmas? I got his name.
Since this year it seems to vary by day, I went straight to the source to ask. “Hey, kiddo,” I said, “Aunt Steph drew your name for Christmas. What should I tell her to get you?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders while coupling (I totally learned that word on Thomas) some trains on the train table.
“Well, sure it matters,” I insisted. “Otherwise, how will we know if you'll get everything you want?”
“Mom,” he said, looking up to roll his huge, exasperated, 4-year-old brown eyes at me. “God and Santa know what I want, and that’s all that matters. I’m good.”
“Hm,” I started. “Hmm.”
I can memorize things like a champ, my peeps, but otherwise, I’m just not that smart. My older sister liked to call it "no common sense" growing up; I liked to call her "nast-ay skank." I think both of our descriptions pretty much hit the nail on the head. So I was at a damned loss as to what to say to my son at that point. I tried to think of something while opening and closing my stupid mouth for a minute or two, hoping smart words would come out, but that’s never worked in the past, so I’m not sure why I thought it might work now. See? No common sense on this one.
So I just replied to my sister-in-law’s text with this: You’re on your own, beeyatch.
Have a wonderful, blessed Christmas. I hope you get everything you want.
I’m pretty sure my kid won’t since nobody (except for God and Santa) knows what the hell he wants.