Me: I'm going to press our clothes for K's wedding, Which suit do you want to wear?
Him: My suits are too small.
Me: You're just going to have to suck it up. You should have gotten them altered 6 weeks ago, now it's too late, so you're going to have to deal.
Him: But I just want to wear comfortable clothes!
Me: This is a very nice wedding at a very nice church. No flip-flops allowed.
Him: God doesn't care what I wear!
Me: But your wife does.
Him: You're not God.
Me: silence
Him: I'll wear the brown suit, please.
Showing posts with label Conversations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Conversations. Show all posts
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Short Conversations
I go to a strength training class once a week at my gym. Because it begins at 9:30 in the morning, it is populated primarily by stay at home mothers and retired women - people with whom I have very little in common. But there’s another woman about my age who has a job outside the home and she and I bond. Today she and I were stretched out on our backs, doing leg lifts. We had been discussing how hard it is to keep up with laundry.
I raise both my feet up over my head.
“Hey,” I say. “My socks don’t match.”
My friend collapses into giggles.
I don't see what's so funny.
--
The mister owns a book on weight-lifting written by Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is huge and has pictures. The pictures scare me, but this is not the point. My brother was perusing the book and looked up suddenly.
“I find that this book is more interesting if I narrate it to myself using an Ah-nold accent.”
I reply, “I find that my entire life is more interesting if I narrate it using an Ah-nold accent.”
Him, considering: I’m going to try that.
--
I am walking my dog along the river. It is 5 below and I am wearing enough clothing for a family of 5. My dog is doing that annoying thing where he sniffs, sniffs, sniffs, looking for the perfect spot to poop. Drives me nuts, because, hello! Here am I with this little bag, I’m going to pick that up as soon as you’re done anyway, so stop being so picky and just go!
Anyway, I’m standing there, freezing, while Charlie thinks about pooping and another lady comes up with her dog. Both dogs drop a deuce at the same time and we both sigh and bend over to scoop.
“The only good thing about this horrible weather is that I don’t have to walk around with a bag of steaming dog poop. It freezes so quickly,” she says.
I never thought of that.
I raise both my feet up over my head.
“Hey,” I say. “My socks don’t match.”
My friend collapses into giggles.
I don't see what's so funny.
--
The mister owns a book on weight-lifting written by Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is huge and has pictures. The pictures scare me, but this is not the point. My brother was perusing the book and looked up suddenly.
“I find that this book is more interesting if I narrate it to myself using an Ah-nold accent.”
I reply, “I find that my entire life is more interesting if I narrate it using an Ah-nold accent.”
Him, considering: I’m going to try that.
--
I am walking my dog along the river. It is 5 below and I am wearing enough clothing for a family of 5. My dog is doing that annoying thing where he sniffs, sniffs, sniffs, looking for the perfect spot to poop. Drives me nuts, because, hello! Here am I with this little bag, I’m going to pick that up as soon as you’re done anyway, so stop being so picky and just go!
Anyway, I’m standing there, freezing, while Charlie thinks about pooping and another lady comes up with her dog. Both dogs drop a deuce at the same time and we both sigh and bend over to scoop.
“The only good thing about this horrible weather is that I don’t have to walk around with a bag of steaming dog poop. It freezes so quickly,” she says.
I never thought of that.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
"Well, this is awkward."
About a month and a half ago, back when I was gainfully employed, my female boss had a suit made up.
From scratch. (Or however you say "not off the rack.")
I'm pretty sure the cost was somewhere in the neighborhood of astronomical.
She apparently gave my name to the tailor as someone that might be interested in buying made-to-fit clothing.
The poor bastard called me yesterday, trying to sell me a clothing package.
First we ran through where I like to shop (Ann Taylor). Then, we discussed my clothing challenges (long legs, monkey arms, and big thighs). Then, he went in for the sell.
"We'll be glad to send someone by your office to take some measurements and discuss options with you."
"Well, [boss], who gave you my name, just laid me off, so, first, no office, and second, my need for professional clothing has plummeted along with my ability to spend extra money on clothes."
Pause.
"Well, this is awkward."
I laughed and we said our goodbyes, him promising to call me in a couple of months when, hopefully, I've got a new job and will be able to use his services.
From scratch. (Or however you say "not off the rack.")
I'm pretty sure the cost was somewhere in the neighborhood of astronomical.
She apparently gave my name to the tailor as someone that might be interested in buying made-to-fit clothing.
The poor bastard called me yesterday, trying to sell me a clothing package.
First we ran through where I like to shop (Ann Taylor). Then, we discussed my clothing challenges (long legs, monkey arms, and big thighs). Then, he went in for the sell.
"We'll be glad to send someone by your office to take some measurements and discuss options with you."
"Well, [boss], who gave you my name, just laid me off, so, first, no office, and second, my need for professional clothing has plummeted along with my ability to spend extra money on clothes."
Pause.
"Well, this is awkward."
I laughed and we said our goodbyes, him promising to call me in a couple of months when, hopefully, I've got a new job and will be able to use his services.
Friday, February 13, 2009
And suddenly, all the working out is starting to be worth it
Earlier this week the mister and I went to the gym together and sweated our way through spin class. Later that evening we were in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. I was brushing my teeth while he was flexing and admiring his muscles in the mirror.
Mister: flex flex flex My biceps look nice.
Me: mumble around a mouthful of toothpaste and my whirring Sonicare
Mister: flex flex flex Check out those pecs!
Me: mumble mumble spit
Mister: flex flex flex And these triceps!
Me: puts down toothbrush and flexes triceps, rotating arm so he can see the definition.
Mister: jaw drops. Wow.
Me: That’s right.
Mister: flex flex flex My biceps look nice.
Me: mumble around a mouthful of toothpaste and my whirring Sonicare
Mister: flex flex flex Check out those pecs!
Me: mumble mumble spit
Mister: flex flex flex And these triceps!
Me: puts down toothbrush and flexes triceps, rotating arm so he can see the definition.
Mister: jaw drops. Wow.
Me: That’s right.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Tell me something good
This morning, 7:05
Me: climbing back into bed after getting dressed, just to cuddle with the mister because I’m feeling all shaky and vulnerable and have that heavy anxiety pit in my belly.
Mister: It’ll be okay, baby.
Me: tearing up and taking that gasping breath that comes right before a big ol’ snotstorm of crying.
Mister: probably panicking because he really cannot deal with any more tears from me, especially before he’s had his coffee. Really, it’ll be okay. Just get through today.
Me: deep breath. Okay. Tell me something good, something nice.
Mister: Your ass looks good in those jeans.
Me: So not what I was thinking, but thanks.
Me: climbing back into bed after getting dressed, just to cuddle with the mister because I’m feeling all shaky and vulnerable and have that heavy anxiety pit in my belly.
Mister: It’ll be okay, baby.
Me: tearing up and taking that gasping breath that comes right before a big ol’ snotstorm of crying.
Mister: probably panicking because he really cannot deal with any more tears from me, especially before he’s had his coffee. Really, it’ll be okay. Just get through today.
Me: deep breath. Okay. Tell me something good, something nice.
Mister: Your ass looks good in those jeans.
Me: So not what I was thinking, but thanks.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Conversations regarding the location of motivation and luck
My brother's employer announced that they will be closing their doors in a few months. They announced this in a meeting on Tuesday afternoon.
My brother, e-mailing a coworker: Have you seen my motivation? The last time I saw it, it was running for the door around 3:30 Tuesday afternoon.
His coworker: It's probably with mine, which also fled the joint on Tuesday. They're probably hanging out at a bar somewhere.
***
I was IMing my brother in law.
BIL: How's the job search going? Any luck?
Me: Hahaha. No. I think my luck packed up, left town, and is shacked up with its skanky ex-girlfriend.
My brother, e-mailing a coworker: Have you seen my motivation? The last time I saw it, it was running for the door around 3:30 Tuesday afternoon.
His coworker: It's probably with mine, which also fled the joint on Tuesday. They're probably hanging out at a bar somewhere.
***
I was IMing my brother in law.
BIL: How's the job search going? Any luck?
Me: Hahaha. No. I think my luck packed up, left town, and is shacked up with its skanky ex-girlfriend.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
E-mail Exchange
Me: Had veggie wrap for lunch (not quite the burrito I wanted, but, you know, veggies). Am now experiencing ominous rumblings from digestive tract. Was something wrong with my veggies? Am worried there might be a blow out in my near future.
MJ: Oh no. It must be because feral pigs pooped on the veggies when they were in the fields. Maybe you have salmonella.
Me: Well, THAT’S a leap. I was thinking more along the lines of Juan behind the counter forgetting to wash his hands before slicing up the tomatoes, but maybe you’re right about the feral pigs. Do feral pigs exist? Bacon on the hoof! In the wild! Awesome!
MJ: Maybe Juan behind the counter forgot to wash and then rubbed his germs all over the veggies – but I like the feral-pig theory better. Oh yes – they do exist. [Husband] says that if you see a feral pig when hunting, you can shoot it without a pig-hunting license. Free wild bacon! I bet feral pigs aren’t very tasty though – they’re so angry.
Me: Well, you know, Burger King has the Angry Whopper. (Have not eaten it, have just seen the signs.) I think some Angry Bacon would go great on an Angry Hamburger. But only if you could top it with some Angry Cheese, perhaps from a cow whose mama was insulted while it was being milked.
MJ: Oh no. It must be because feral pigs pooped on the veggies when they were in the fields. Maybe you have salmonella.
Me: Well, THAT’S a leap. I was thinking more along the lines of Juan behind the counter forgetting to wash his hands before slicing up the tomatoes, but maybe you’re right about the feral pigs. Do feral pigs exist? Bacon on the hoof! In the wild! Awesome!
MJ: Maybe Juan behind the counter forgot to wash and then rubbed his germs all over the veggies – but I like the feral-pig theory better. Oh yes – they do exist. [Husband] says that if you see a feral pig when hunting, you can shoot it without a pig-hunting license. Free wild bacon! I bet feral pigs aren’t very tasty though – they’re so angry.
Me: Well, you know, Burger King has the Angry Whopper. (Have not eaten it, have just seen the signs.) I think some Angry Bacon would go great on an Angry Hamburger. But only if you could top it with some Angry Cheese, perhaps from a cow whose mama was insulted while it was being milked.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Creepy
I take public transit into and out of downtown Minneapolis. I drive my car a few miles to the local lightrail (train) station, park, and ride the train for 40 minutes to my office. If I drove, more often than not I could be to my office in under 20 minutes, but with traffic, road construction, weather, and my tenuous grip on sanity, it’s best for everyone if I take the train. I can put in my head phones, read a book, knit, or zone out and life is uneventful.
Mostly.
Last night I got on the train a few stops before I normally do (the equivalent of 4 blocks) because my legs were sore from spin class and didn’t feel like standing. If I get on at one of the earlier stops I usually get a seat.
I settled into a seat and someone immediately plopped down into the seat next to me.
He was about my age, perhaps a couple years younger, with greasy hair and some sort of rowdy chin-fur. He smelled bad.
He said hello and I nodded politely while I tugged off my hat and mittens and crammed them into the front pocket of my purse. Then he began chatting. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks.” I responded to a text from the mister and dropped my cell phone back into my bag.
“Is your hair color natural?”
“Mostly. My highlights are pretty grown out.”
“I’m a tattoo artist. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Yes.” Digging in purse for ipod.
“Can I see?”
“No” Digging FRANTICALLY in purse for ipod.
“I design tattoos with glow in the dark ink.” Goes on at length regarding glow in the dark tattoos, spiderweb tattoos, and snake tattoos. Offers to draw on my leg with pen to show how snake tattoo would look. I pass. Where is that damned ipod?
“I also beatbox and rap.”
“Interesting.” I bet I left that thing on my desk. Shit. Why is it taking so long for the train to fill up?
He begins beatboxing/rapping and pauses a few seconds in. “What’s your name?”
“Susan.” (Not my name.)
He continues beatboxing/rapping and drops my fake name into his little song. By this point I am looking around, hoping the train gets to the next stop soon so it will fill up quickly and there will be other people nearby in case this guy goes psycho.
He pauses at the end of his little song, expecting applause, I think. I, of course, haven’t been paying any attention, since I’m eyeballing the exits and wondering if I can crawl over this guy fast enough to run out at the next stop.
“Uh, wow, that was cool.”
“Hey, Susan,” he says. “Susie,” he says dreamily. “Can I call you Susie?”
“Uh-huh.” Cell phone comes out of purse and I surreptitiously punch in the digits 9-1-1 and let my thumb hover over the green call button. Just in case
“Susie, what kind of ring is that?” he asks, gesturing to my left hand.
“My wedding band.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a big guy?”
“Huge,” I lie. I lie shamelessly.
“Are you happy?”
“Very.”
“Are those real diamonds in your ring?”
“Yes. Oh, look, I see a friend, excuse me!” I hop up, clamber out of my seat, crawling over his legs in the process, and bolt for the far end of the train. I position myself next to a perfect stranger and whisper, “I’m sorry, just act like you know me.”
Creepy guy is watching me talk to this poor woman. I think the wide-eyed look of desperation I was given her earned me some sympathy.
“Um, okay,” she says. “What’s up?”
“See that guy,” I ask, nodding in his direction. He’s STARING at us.
She glances briefly and looks back at me. “Ick,” she comments.
“I know. I ran away.”
The rest of the ride is uneventful, thank God. My new friend goes back to reading her magazine and I clear the just-in-case 911 call from my phone. Creepy guy gets off at the VA Hospital and new friend exits at the next stop. “Thanks,” I call after her. She waves absently as she navigates the slippery platform.
Time to refill my pepper-spray keychain.
Mostly.
Last night I got on the train a few stops before I normally do (the equivalent of 4 blocks) because my legs were sore from spin class and didn’t feel like standing. If I get on at one of the earlier stops I usually get a seat.
I settled into a seat and someone immediately plopped down into the seat next to me.
He was about my age, perhaps a couple years younger, with greasy hair and some sort of rowdy chin-fur. He smelled bad.
He said hello and I nodded politely while I tugged off my hat and mittens and crammed them into the front pocket of my purse. Then he began chatting. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks.” I responded to a text from the mister and dropped my cell phone back into my bag.
“Is your hair color natural?”
“Mostly. My highlights are pretty grown out.”
“I’m a tattoo artist. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Yes.” Digging in purse for ipod.
“Can I see?”
“No” Digging FRANTICALLY in purse for ipod.
“I design tattoos with glow in the dark ink.” Goes on at length regarding glow in the dark tattoos, spiderweb tattoos, and snake tattoos. Offers to draw on my leg with pen to show how snake tattoo would look. I pass. Where is that damned ipod?
“I also beatbox and rap.”
“Interesting.” I bet I left that thing on my desk. Shit. Why is it taking so long for the train to fill up?
He begins beatboxing/rapping and pauses a few seconds in. “What’s your name?”
“Susan.” (Not my name.)
He continues beatboxing/rapping and drops my fake name into his little song. By this point I am looking around, hoping the train gets to the next stop soon so it will fill up quickly and there will be other people nearby in case this guy goes psycho.
He pauses at the end of his little song, expecting applause, I think. I, of course, haven’t been paying any attention, since I’m eyeballing the exits and wondering if I can crawl over this guy fast enough to run out at the next stop.
“Uh, wow, that was cool.”
“Hey, Susan,” he says. “Susie,” he says dreamily. “Can I call you Susie?”
“Uh-huh.” Cell phone comes out of purse and I surreptitiously punch in the digits 9-1-1 and let my thumb hover over the green call button. Just in case
“Susie, what kind of ring is that?” he asks, gesturing to my left hand.
“My wedding band.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a big guy?”
“Huge,” I lie. I lie shamelessly.
“Are you happy?”
“Very.”
“Are those real diamonds in your ring?”
“Yes. Oh, look, I see a friend, excuse me!” I hop up, clamber out of my seat, crawling over his legs in the process, and bolt for the far end of the train. I position myself next to a perfect stranger and whisper, “I’m sorry, just act like you know me.”
Creepy guy is watching me talk to this poor woman. I think the wide-eyed look of desperation I was given her earned me some sympathy.
“Um, okay,” she says. “What’s up?”
“See that guy,” I ask, nodding in his direction. He’s STARING at us.
She glances briefly and looks back at me. “Ick,” she comments.
“I know. I ran away.”
The rest of the ride is uneventful, thank God. My new friend goes back to reading her magazine and I clear the just-in-case 911 call from my phone. Creepy guy gets off at the VA Hospital and new friend exits at the next stop. “Thanks,” I call after her. She waves absently as she navigates the slippery platform.
Time to refill my pepper-spray keychain.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
DaddyBuster: 1, LittleBrotherBuster: 0
My parents have become world travelers in the last few years. They go to Mexico at least once a year and usually there’s another long trip thrown in, plus several weekend getaways. They’ve been to Spain, Italy, Malta, San Francisco, and Mexico all within the last 18 months.
I usually get the fun jobs of (1) driving them to the airport at unreasonable hours, (2) picking them up at the airport at unreasonable hours, and (3) driving out to their house in the sticks every other day while they’re gone to check on their fish, the cat, and the general state of things.
This time my parents are heading to Mexico and somehow I dodged the chauffer/house sitter bullet. My younger brother is picking up the slack. My parents’ furnace has been on the fritz and they’re worried about pipes freezing or bursting while they’re out of town. Since they know damned well that I’m not about to pack up my dog and husband and go out there to housesit, my younger brother is going to do it (he’s minus the dog and husband, though his girlfriend is less than delighted that he’s moving out for two weeks).
He and my dad had the following email exchange (edited to remove references to a car they are repairing):
DaddyBuster to LittleBrotherBuster:
We should make sure you know what you need to know about the house anyway, which we could do Thursday evening. Things like how to run the washer and dryer, where the reset switch is for the furnace (it’s been running great lately, but ya never know), where mom keeps the cat food, a bit about the aquarium, etc.
LittleBrotherBuster to DaddyBuster:
Jeez, I’m 23, don’t ya think I know how to run the washer and dryer…?
DaddyBuster to LittleBrotherBuster:
Actually, in a couple of weeks, you’ll be 24. But we’re parents, so we’re pretty sure you don’t know shit.
And the score is: DaddyBuster: 1, LittleBrotherBuster: 0.
I usually get the fun jobs of (1) driving them to the airport at unreasonable hours, (2) picking them up at the airport at unreasonable hours, and (3) driving out to their house in the sticks every other day while they’re gone to check on their fish, the cat, and the general state of things.
This time my parents are heading to Mexico and somehow I dodged the chauffer/house sitter bullet. My younger brother is picking up the slack. My parents’ furnace has been on the fritz and they’re worried about pipes freezing or bursting while they’re out of town. Since they know damned well that I’m not about to pack up my dog and husband and go out there to housesit, my younger brother is going to do it (he’s minus the dog and husband, though his girlfriend is less than delighted that he’s moving out for two weeks).
He and my dad had the following email exchange (edited to remove references to a car they are repairing):
DaddyBuster to LittleBrotherBuster:
We should make sure you know what you need to know about the house anyway, which we could do Thursday evening. Things like how to run the washer and dryer, where the reset switch is for the furnace (it’s been running great lately, but ya never know), where mom keeps the cat food, a bit about the aquarium, etc.
LittleBrotherBuster to DaddyBuster:
Jeez, I’m 23, don’t ya think I know how to run the washer and dryer…?
DaddyBuster to LittleBrotherBuster:
Actually, in a couple of weeks, you’ll be 24. But we’re parents, so we’re pretty sure you don’t know shit.
And the score is: DaddyBuster: 1, LittleBrotherBuster: 0.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Email Exchange
I'm cleaning out my very full e-mail inbox at work today because we've officially hit the holiday slump, where there's just not much going on. And my inbox is VERY full, mostly with junk or funny emails from friends.
I stumbled across this gem:
Me: I forgot to put on deodorant today and I'm starting to offend myself.
AP: It happens to the best of us.
Really? I think she was just being nice, because I find it hard to believe the rest of the world is as batshit insane as I am and forgets such basic stuff. Have you ever forgotten deodorant? What about other things, like socks? Or am I the only one that has to keep a full change of clothes and a toiletry kit in her office?
I stumbled across this gem:
Me: I forgot to put on deodorant today and I'm starting to offend myself.
AP: It happens to the best of us.
Really? I think she was just being nice, because I find it hard to believe the rest of the world is as batshit insane as I am and forgets such basic stuff. Have you ever forgotten deodorant? What about other things, like socks? Or am I the only one that has to keep a full change of clothes and a toiletry kit in her office?
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Why we don't go out that often
Me: (spent 20 minutes in bathroom attempting to achieve perfect smoky-eye for evening out)
The mister: Dude, what happened to you? Did someone punch you?
Me: (turns back, heads into bathroom, scrubs face)
***
Me: Don’t forget, we’re going out for a nice dinner tonight.
The mister: How nice?
Me: You have to shave.
The mister: Do I have to dress up?
Me: Yes.
The mister: Which kind of dressed up?
Me: There are kinds?
The mister: Yeah. There are levels.
Me: Levels?
The mister: Yes, levels. Level one: jeans. Level two: jeans without holes. Level three: shirt with buttons. Level four: shirt with buttons all the way up. Level five: pants that are not jeans and a shirt with buttons all the way up. Level six: tie. Level seven: suit. Level eight: tux.
Me: Let’s go with Dress Up Level Five tonight, huh?
The mister: Why?
Me: Because I’m wearing pantyhose and heels. And uncomfortable underwear.
The mister: That translates to Level Five? I figured that put me at a Three, maybe a Four.
Me: Five. You’re lucky I’m not pushing for Seven.
The mister: Fine. Five. I need you to iron my shirt.
***
In the car, headed out for evening with my brother and his girlfriend. The mister is driving. He hands me a lighter.
Me: What the hell do you want me to do with this?
The mister: (hands me a cigar)
Me: I repeat, what the hell?
The mister: I want a cigar, but I can’t drive and light it at the same time.
Me: (highly doubts his previous statement, as has noticed a distinct cigar stink after he drives her car; he must’ve figured out how to light them one handed or drive with his knees) Again, what the hell do you want me to do?
The mister: Do you want me to draw you a picture? Light the cigar, please.
Me: Uh, no.
-argument continues for several more minutes, I capitulate and light the cigar-
The mister: That is so sexy.
Me: (cough, cough, gag, choke, cough, cough) Ugh. This thing tastes the way dirty socks smell. (hands over lit cigar)
(commences digging through purse for gum, breath mints, Listerine Pocket Pack, anything to get the taste out of my mouth, settles for peppermint lip gloss)
The mister: Dude, what happened to you? Did someone punch you?
Me: (turns back, heads into bathroom, scrubs face)
***
Me: Don’t forget, we’re going out for a nice dinner tonight.
The mister: How nice?
Me: You have to shave.
The mister: Do I have to dress up?
Me: Yes.
The mister: Which kind of dressed up?
Me: There are kinds?
The mister: Yeah. There are levels.
Me: Levels?
The mister: Yes, levels. Level one: jeans. Level two: jeans without holes. Level three: shirt with buttons. Level four: shirt with buttons all the way up. Level five: pants that are not jeans and a shirt with buttons all the way up. Level six: tie. Level seven: suit. Level eight: tux.
Me: Let’s go with Dress Up Level Five tonight, huh?
The mister: Why?
Me: Because I’m wearing pantyhose and heels. And uncomfortable underwear.
The mister: That translates to Level Five? I figured that put me at a Three, maybe a Four.
Me: Five. You’re lucky I’m not pushing for Seven.
The mister: Fine. Five. I need you to iron my shirt.
***
In the car, headed out for evening with my brother and his girlfriend. The mister is driving. He hands me a lighter.
Me: What the hell do you want me to do with this?
The mister: (hands me a cigar)
Me: I repeat, what the hell?
The mister: I want a cigar, but I can’t drive and light it at the same time.
Me: (highly doubts his previous statement, as has noticed a distinct cigar stink after he drives her car; he must’ve figured out how to light them one handed or drive with his knees) Again, what the hell do you want me to do?
The mister: Do you want me to draw you a picture? Light the cigar, please.
Me: Uh, no.
-argument continues for several more minutes, I capitulate and light the cigar-
The mister: That is so sexy.
Me: (cough, cough, gag, choke, cough, cough) Ugh. This thing tastes the way dirty socks smell. (hands over lit cigar)
(commences digging through purse for gum, breath mints, Listerine Pocket Pack, anything to get the taste out of my mouth, settles for peppermint lip gloss)
Friday, September 12, 2008
Conversations with my Father
A week ago:
Daddy Buster: Hey, when you’re out at our house this week, find out what size your mom wears. I want to get her some new clothes for her birthday, clothes she can wear when we’re in Mexico.
Me: Dad, she wears an 8. But you know, you can find out yourself by sneaking a peek at the tags inside her clothes.
Daddy Buster: Tried that, she cuts them all out.
Me: I’m telling you, she wears an 8.
Daddy Buster: Check anyway.
***
I ask her, couched in a conversation regarding how much weight she’s lost and what size she’s down to.
She wears an 8.
I tell my dad.
He goes shopping.
I get the following frantic phone call.
***
Daddy Buster: The store only has small-medium-large shirts. What does that translate to?
Me: Dad, I’m at work. WORKING. Aren’t there clerks there? Can’t you ask one of them?
Daddy Buster: They scare me. You tell me.
Me (rolling eyes): Fine. Good lord. An 8 is on that weird line right between a small and a medium. I’d aim for small, since Mom’s pretty delicate, unless the shirt looks like it will be too tight.
Daddy Buster: Well, the shirt is sort of puffy, so maybe I should get the small.
Me: Puffy?
Daddy Buster: Yeah, kind of crinkly.
Me: Puffy and crinkly?
Daddy Buster: Yeah. And pink.
Me: Jesus, Dad. Puffy pink? Have you even met Mom?
Daddy Buster: Okay. No on that shirt. The other one I’m looking at is, um…long.
Me: Can you a bit more descriptive?
Daddy Buster: It has kinda short, kinda long sleeves.
Me: Put the sales girl on. No, no arguing. Do it.
Sales girl: Uh, hello?
Me: Don’t let my dad by that pink crinkle shirt. My mother will hate it. What’s the other one he’s looking at?
Sales girl (chuckling): The “crinkle” shirt is actually coral colored chiffon. The one he’s looking at now is a tunic with ¾ length sleeves and a v-neck. Cotton/silk blend.
Me: Colors or patterns?
Sales girl: Brown, white, and paisley.
Me: He’s looking at the paisley, isn’t he?
Sales girl: Yes.
Me: Make him put it down.
Sales girl: Sir? Your daughter says put that down.
Me: He can get the white or brown. How’s it cut?
Sales girl: straight sides, no tailoring, a little flowy.
Me: Thank you. Put my dad back on. Dad, you can get the white or the brown in a small. Get a gift receipt.
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