So, Marley wins…I mean, ‘Bama wins. We sucked. It sucked. I drank and didn’t care after a while. But I still love my Piggies and I’m still a Houston Nutt supporter. Go Hogs. Sorry you brought home the big L tonight.
After the game and many beers, we pulled out the Fishdog’s new Mac Powerbook. I love this machine. I love typing on it and I love the fact that I can take funky pictures with it.
Me: Ian, you haven’t done your literature. It’s incomplete. It’s inaccurate.
Ian: (Shrug)
Me: Why?
Ian: (Shrug. Lip smack. Eye roll. ) Because it is.
Me: (steam flowing from my ears. Blood streaming from my nose due to the aneurysm) Explain why it just is. With words. Minus the visuals and sound effects. (I think I growled, and then I popped a ventricle from trying not to yell…)
Ian: I don’t like that teacher. That’s why it just is.
He doesn’t like his teacher? So in order to hurt his teacher, he doesn’t do his work?
Yeah. That’s some logic right there. I mean, that’s like uber-advanced-college-thesis-level logic. It’s so high level, I need a diagram to help me understand.
Fishdog refers to me as twfkam in his blog.
Several of you flit over to the flophaus and take a gander every now and then and then come back and ask me what the hell twfkam means.
The Woman Formerly Known As Momma.
See, I have this thing about my husband calling me momma. I hate it. Absolutely, fucking, hate it. With one exception…when he’s talking to me for the kids. “Momma, can you help Rader with his homework while I do something manly like light the grill?” That’s fine. I have no issue with that.
But, when we’re out together, just the two of us, or we’re at home, just the two of us, or the kids are in the room but Fishdog is speaking to me about something that has nothing to do with them, or if he is blogging about me– he is no longer allowed to call me momma.
It’s been a hard adjustment for him, but he finally did manage to stop referring to me as momma in his blog. Sometime this past spring he finally got a clue. It’s only taken me twelve years to get it into his head…but hey, at least he can be taught, right?
I bought condoms last night. (I’ll explain why later)
Do you know how long it’s been since I bought condoms? At least 15 years. FIFTEEN!
I’m at the cusp of the age where women stopped depending on the men boys to provide protection. In the early nineties, when I finally parted from my boyfriend of 4 years, I decided to take control of my sex life. (Just in case I found one again…) So, I bought my own condoms. At first, I would go to Wal-Mart late at night so I could study the boxes without too much interruption. (this was before the internet…where information was just a click away) Now, I’m not easily embarrassed by any stretch of the imagination–I can talk about sex to anyone. But for some reason, buying that first box of condoms was excrutiatingly embarrassing.
Fast forward 15 years later.
I’m at Wal-Mart, in this small town where everyone knows everyone, standing in the condom aisle trying to study my choices. (Just in case you didn’t know, the condom aisle is right in front of the pharmacy. I was there at 6:00 pm…and apparently so was the rest of Oxford.)
Suddenly, I’m completely embarrassed. I just know that everyone is staring at me and whispering. “Isn’t that Mark’s wife? Isn’t that Ian’s and Rader’s mom? Why is she buying condoms?”
It’s ridiculous, of course, because in the real world, who really gives a rat’s ass. But my conservative church upbringing was rearing it’s ugly head–shaming me–making me feel dirty. I’m a 37 year old woman and suddenly I felt the need to confess my sins.
And that just pissed me off. Why should I be ashamed?
With defiance pushing me, I picked up the economy size Trojans. I stuck them in the top part of the basket and made my way through the pharmacy crowd with my head held high. Even though my cheeks were blazing, I didn’t care. I would not be shamed because I was purchasing condoms. Especially since they aren’t even for me.
I bought them as a gift for a friend. It’s an inside joke and I hope it will make him laugh.
I figure last night’s adventure was good practice for the future. I’ve always said when my boys start dating, I’m going to keep a big-ass bowl of condoms at the front door. “Take a handful on your way out…”
Practice makes perfect, right?
Well, a question for the 5 (okay, 6) people who regularly read my blog…
any lurkers out there, chime in–I’m curious about this.
I found out today I’ve been “grammatically incorrect” my whole life. Apparently a phrase I’ve grown up saying (no, I’m not talking about “fixin’ to” which I rarely ever say anymore) is a colloquialism and that it is incorrect.
Funny thing is, I’ve never, ever, in my entire 37 years heard the “correct phrase” until today.
So, I’m curious. Which way do you say it?
I broke the vase on accident.
I broke the vase by accident.
I’m seriously curious about this. So chime in…please.
Bitchin' Fiction: Musings by author Melissa McKenzie / Melissa Francis 