I Still Don't Understand

Husband and I were having a "discussion". I was trying to get him to tell me his feelings on a certain situation. At some point, he throws out the following winner argument, and if you can understand it, I would appreciate it:

Husband: If I told you what I was really going to do, then you would know what I was going to do, and then I'd be an idiot. So I'm not going to tell you what I'm going to do, because otherwise you'll think I'm just telling you what you want to hear.

Me: So, wait, if you tell me something, then you're lying?

Husband: No. You're not listening.

Me: Yes, you said you wouldn't tell me what you were going to do because then I'd know and you'd be an idiot, so you won't tell me what you're really thinking because then I'd know. But then how do I ever know what you're thinking?

Husband: Look, imagine I'm your nemesis. It would be like if I built a machine, told you about it, and told you about the self-destruct button.

(He does get points for the Perry the Platypus/Doofenshmirtz reference)

Me: No, it's like if you told me you were going to build a bridge, and you did, but then you don't want me to know about the bridge.

Husband: No, a bridge with a trap door, it has to be devious. You're not listening.

(He's getting really angry at me at this point, but at least I know what he's feeling)

Seriously people, I have no idea what his argument was. At some point he told me he was mad, but based on the "argument" above, I don't know if that means he's telling me what I want to hear, or if he's psyching me out so I'll fall through a trap door on a bridge. But I do know I will stop asking him to build me a drawbridge into our landscaping design. That just seems like I'm asking for it.

Wild Pigs

Mom: I finally figured out why they trap the wild pigs on all those shows.

Me: (just staring at my mother)

Mom: You know, I've been wondering why they trap them instead of killing them.

Me: I'm sorry, did you say "shows", as in plural?

Mom: Yes. It's okay to hunt them, because they're overpopulated-

Me: No, let's start with these multiple shows you're watching with people hunting wild pigs. Why are there more than one, and please tell me what shows these are.

Mom: You know, hunting shows.

Me: Hunting shows? On what channel?

Mom: The hunting channel.

Me: Why are you watching the hunting channel?

Mom: I don't know.

And that, my dear friends, is how most of my conversations with my mother go. It's like an adventure, you never know where she's going to take you. And in case you need to know, the reason they don't kill them, is because the meat is valuable and they can't store it, so they pin them up and keep them alive until they are ready to slaughter them so the meat won't go bad. Knowledge is power.

I Believe the Children Are Our Future

That's right, Whitney Houston said it, and I believe it. For the most part. I mean, technically, yes- all children, as our progeny, are the future of each parent's genetic longevity on Earth. But are ALL children our future? Sorry, but I refuse to claim the woman at Wal-Mart's kid as my future. Period. However, there are children that will actually be a part of the future of the human race that will propel society forward. Much like the highly entertaining and yet undervalued Eddie Murphy movie, The Golden Child, there are children who simply by their birth contain hopes and dreams they have yet to fulfill. The Dali Lama of each generation. A little kid named Jesus. And now, the child I have personally been waiting for, Jay-B. That's right, the king of Hip-Hop and the Queen B herself have finally genetically engineered the future of music.

Now, I'm not crazy. Seriously. This is what everyone was hoping would happen with Michael Jackson and Elvis' daughter. This is what genetic engineering is all about. This is the ultimate of ultimates combining. This is the culmination of talent and good genes that I have personally been waiting for since I heard they were dating after Crazy in Love and Bonnie and Clyde.

So when I read the Beyonce had announced her pregnancy at the VMAs, I freaked. Thomas was at the grocery store, while I was at home making sure that our family's future food for the soul aka music, was taken care of. So I'm researching the pregnancy announcement, when the Queen takes the stage herself. And at the end, she rubs her baby belly, Kanye jumps up and down and hugs Jay-Z, and Hova himself is beaming. There are tears in my eyes. Tears of joy. Because I know, if Kayne West is flipping the eff out, it's real. It's real, and omg my dreams have come true.

I have been referring to this future offspring as Messiah, meaning my Musical Messiah. And I understand that people may take offense to that. But I still maintain that this much God-given talent that is sure to be passed on must be recognized in some way.

So Thomas is still at the store. He's gone for at least an hour. And this time, I have worked myself up to quite a tizzy. I am literally waiting for the headlights in the window and I rush to the kitchen where he's dropping off groceries. Knowing what monumental news this is, and knowing that he knows how important this is to me, I immediately tell him.

Me: Thomas- omg, guess what has finally happened!!

Thomas (in as bored and grouchy a tone as possible): I don't know- what.

Me (With smiles, tears in my eyes, and hands to my face to show excitement: Beyonce's Pregnant!!!

Thomas: ...

Me (Waiting expectantly):...*smile*...

Thomas: Great (*eye roll*).

Me (Yelling towards the end): I can't believe you! You know hoe much I've been looking forward to this!!!

I then proceed to turn around, and run out of the room and go to the bedroom.

Thomas eventually comes to me- after actually putting up the stupid groceries. His "apology" is something along the lines of "I'm sorry I don't care about Beyonce being pregnant". I tell him "You mean you're sorry for being such a jerk when this is something that is really important to me". He replies in the affirmative, and I'm sure there was some muttering about me being crazy.

But I'm not crazy. I just love me some Jay-Z and Beyonce. And I think that every now and then, Whitney Houston has a point.

It's Kickball, not Rugby

My husband has a hobby, which is playing on an adult kickball team. They play every Thursday then go out for drinks afterward. It makes him happy, gives me one evening a week to have some alone time, and is cheap. Win-win situation. Except for the fact that my husband seems to think that kickball is a full contact sport and/or one that he can make into a professional career. Every week, he makes some ridiculous play that leaves him battered. While I can usually ignore the wounds, we have now come to a whole new level of stupidity with this week's injury. But first, a recap.

As can be expected, most of his injuries consisted of a scraped leg from trying to slide or dive for the ball- acceptable. There have been a few ankle sprains from running to base, etc., fine. But there have also been injuries that seem avoidable- running into the net backing, protecting home so fiercely he had his ribs bruised in a full-on collision with a 100 lb girl, etc. But this week, we have reach a whole new level of ridiculousness.

He has a wound approximately 3 in long, at least 1 1/2in wide, that oozes gross stuff from attempting- ATTEMPTING- a catch. He did not make the catch. (Most of his flair for the dramatic is during catching attempts.) When asked how he possibly ended up with the wound on his elbow, his answer was that he put his arm just so when he hit the ground to avoid landing on his head. LANDING ON HIS HEAD PEOPLE! Though I am starting to think that perhaps that may have helped in some way... Now, if this were a full-contact sport, or a sport that required this type of devotion, I would understand. Or even if this particular league- or even his team- were this dedicated that they expected blood to win the title of Kickball champs, I would understand. But his own teammates mock his weekly injuries. I couldn't even look at this week's wound, and instead of sympathy, he got anger and chastisement. Therefore, in addition to my obsession with the constant Turn Lane Fruit, I am now going to openly report on Thomas' weekly injuries to the world. Because really- it's freakin' kickball.

An Open Letter to Kai Lan

Dear Kai Lan:

I want you to know first of all that I write this letter out of concern, and not out of judgment. Obviously, we have never met. All I know about you is from your show, Ni Hao Kai Lan, but what I have seen is enough to cause me to worry. As a mother of a young daughter, I feel it is our responsibility as parents to monitor our children's friends, especially those that may be a negative factor in our kids' lives. I don't know what has happened to your parents, but they clearly have a limited role in your life. I think your grandfather is doing the best he can, but it is difficult for a man his age to take care of young children. First, let me tell you that no matter what your parents may make you feel, you deserve to be loved. And love doesn't have to hurt.

Which brings me to Ho Ho. I am very concerned about this monkey's role in your life. I have seen him yell, ignore your grandfather, but it was when I witnessed him physically abusing another person that I felt the need to write this letter. I do not think your other friends are angels either, especially that tiger, and I worry that Ho Ho represents an escalating pattern of behavior the others will follow.

Violence is never the answer, and I worry that your Grandfather's mild "discipline" and allowing these animals to remain in your life is only going to lead to a life full of pain and acting out. We all saw what happened to Hannah Montana. And you're better than that Kai Lan. As a Chinese female celebrity, I hope you will be a good role model for my daughter who is half-Chinese. I hope that you will get rid of these negative forces in your life, and take the wiser and healthier path in life. Please don't become another child star statistic. We have enough Lindseys and Vanessas, enough naked pictures and bad/pathetic sequels.

So please Kai Lan, please make good choices. You deserve it.

Husband's Present

So the parade of presents continues. Today, on my actual day of birth, I got to open my present from my husband, and Lo of course. My initial impression is that yes, I am psychic. Without fail, Husband buys me my presents at Target unless he is specifically instructed to buy something from a different store. I can't complain too much, since Target is really his favorite store in the whole world, I tend to buy him presents from JCrew and Gap since those are mine. And at least he didn't go buy it today-on my birthday. He had to have at least planned ahead by 12 hours, which is pretty huge. So my gift starts with a bag of cotton candy. I do love cotton candy. It then follows with a Dairy Queen t-shirt.

Me: A Dairy Queen t-shirt? Why did you get me a Dairy Queen t-shirt?

See, we took a road trip to Arkansas during which we joked about Thomas getting a job at Dairy Queen so he could learn how to make a Blizzard cake. I thought he got the whole inside joke wrong...

Thomas: Because that's where we met, in 6th grade. Though apparently you don't remember. Still.

At this point, I do feel slightly chastised...unfortunately I find his pathetic face and attempt at being romantic hilarious, and I immediately bust out laughing at him. I'm like 0 for 2 at this point.

Me: Oh, I was just confused because we had joked about you getting a job there last weekend, so I thought that' what you meant....

Good save?

The present ended with perhaps the best and most perfect card ever. A picture of an open fridge with a bottle of vodka and some coffee with the caption "You can tell a lot about a person by what they eat". See? Most perfect card ever.

So he didn't do such a bad job, plus I saw him trying to buy tickets for the Jay-Z Kanye concert for me, even though he didn't buy them, so that counts a little.

Birthday Present

Mom gave me my 30th birthday present. I was feeling hopeful since for Mother's Day she did pretty well with a spa gift certificate. Maybe she had finally figured me out...

The background should be set for you to fully appreciate my anecdote. My mother is a stereotypical Texan. Big hair. Make up. Sparkles- sequins, jewelry, all of it. I, however, am not. Yes, I talk with a twang, yes I am blonde- I assure you it's natural- but I do not tease my hair, I do not wear make up every day, I don't even own a girdle. This chasm of girliness has created more than a few spats over the years- the reminders to suck in, put on make up, and I'm still suffering PTSD from the In-styler debacle of 2010. I haven't been innocent either, there are jabs about how big can her hair get, is there some immediate danger that requires her to wear that much jewelry, etc. I've tried to push my more subdued style on my mom, she's tried the same, but I always thought this was understood between us. She is froof and fluff, and I am sleek and pencil skirt. I have never been so wrong...

So I open the gift sack and pull out a collection of stationary. Seems harmless. 30 is the paper birthday. Then I reach back in and pull out the companion gift- a note pad with a feathered pen attached. Let me paint the picture so it's clear in your mind. It's a ball point pen, with feathers 3-4 inches long coming out the end. Brown feathers. And beads. The feather circumference is at least another 4 inches. I somehow hide my reaction- I'll let you guess what it is- and look at my mother and say, "A pen?". "Not just a pen, a feathered pen!" Thanks for the clarification mom, I'm less confused now. "I figured that you can take it up to work [that's a great idea] and when you get mad at clients, you can use the pen!"[or I could continue to scream, curse, hit my desk, and complain to my co-workers. That seems to be working for me now] "I was going to send it to Jenn Lee for her to give to you and tell her to make sure you use the pen when you're mad!" I should explain that Jenn Lee is my very good friend at work. Who my mother has met once, though heard many stories about. That makes my mom good enough friends with Jenn to donate a kidney if needed. Which is great for Jenn.

During this little explanation, I still haven't really spoken. If you can't say anything nice and all. Finally, I'm able to ask "So what exactly about me says 'feathers'"? Let's face it, I really do need to know this. Mom's responds, "You like shoes!" Oh. So I should start going barefoot? Or just stop wearing feathers on my shoes.

So now, it's the eve of the anniversary of my birth. I can't wear shoes anymore, but I have a sparkly feather pen that will really make the pain of gravel and turning 30 ebb away. Thanks Mom. But you really should've stopped with my first bday present- you know, life. You were never going to out-do that one. Though spa gift certificates are still appreciated (and a VERY close second).