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Archive for January, 2012

We all know that I’m not very good at going to the grocery store.  Today’s visit highlighted another moment of awkwardness, and that is the question of what to do with the bag boy.  And no, I don’t mean it like that.  Geez.  Some people.  After paying for my mother-load of groceries today, some shy high-school student had the unfortunate task of walking me and my groceries to my car, all in the name of customer service.   I never know what to do with these little guys.   I usually have a few inches height on them, as well as about 30 pounds, so exactly what benefit it is to me to have a smaller, weaker person push my groceries to my car, after I’ve pushed them around the store for the last 45 minutes is a bit perplexing.

There is also the issue of how fast to walk and how much to talk.  I’m a quick walker, but today, I glanced back to see my groceries and my bag boy trailing me by about 15 feet.  I wanted to ask him to step it up, as now this bit of customer service has become customer disservice, costing me approximately 17.6 seconds of my precious weekend.    It is also hard to know how much to talk to this awkward, shuffling ball-of-teenage-angst or what to say.  It transports me back to high school immediately as I wrack my brain, “What should I say?  ‘Nice weather?’  No, geez no, only old people talk about the weather?  Am I old?  Well, no, but, yes, to this kid, I’m definitely old.  I’m literally twice his age.  Twice?!?!  That reminds me, I forgot to pick up moisturizer with sunscreen.  That skin around my eyes looks like total crap.  That’s why I need to make a list.  I forget things because I’m OLD!  So, should I ask him about school?  No.  That’s weird. And dumb.  He knows I don’t care about where he goes to school or if he likes this job or how long his shift is today.  He hates his job.  And he probably totally hates me.  And he thinks I’m old.  And fat.  And a weird, high-strung fast-walker.”

And by then we’re usually at my car and I say something dumb and painfully obvious like, “This is my car.  You can put the groceries in the trunk.” And awkward-ball-of-angst begins to unload my bags of boring, grown-up, high-fiber, low sodium food into the trunk of my super-cool sedan at a pace that my grandmother would find unhelpful.  I never know if I should tip those little guys either.  They’ve cost me time and anxiety and they are providing a service I didn’t ask for and I’d rather be doing myself.  And so I don’t tip them.  And I feel a little bad about it and also a little annoyed.  And I resolve to shop at places that would never think to provide courtesy clerks.  Because what’s so great about service, anyway?!?!?

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Mrs. Unabomber

Sometimes your team wins.  And sometimes they lose.  And sometimes, it is apparent that they are going to lose.  At our house, I can tell our team is going to lose based on my husband’s attire.  When we are winning, he sits forward on the couch and sometimes claps or animatedly yells, but his tone is positive.  As “we” begin to lose, he takes on a persona I can only describe to you as Unabomberesque.  As in, like the Unabomber.  He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and as the team declines in their ability to execute plays, my husband retreats further and further back in his hood until I can no longer see his face.  This is my sign to go read a book, or go to bed, or watch the game from our other TV.  In last night’s Sugar Bowl, this “moment” occurred early in the third quarter.

We are not over it.

We won’t be over it for a long time.

And yet.

We begin the countdown to the 2012 season today.  And I already cannot wait.  This may be the definition of insanity.

It’s a good thing I married the Unabomber.

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Have you ever wondered what happened to those geeky nerds you couldn’t stand in high school?  Well, sometimes they fall in love and get married and spend the rest of their lives bonding over nerdy things.  Observe:

Last night, we were tucking into bed and enjoying a few pages of reading, my husband (who wears glasses and has lovely, straight teeth), glanced over to my night stand and made a comment that I sure had a lot of books over there.  I’ve made two recent trips to the library  and did not return the first batch of books before I checked out the second.  What can I say?  I’m a rebel and a nerd.  A nerdy rebel.  Then the conversation went like this:

Husband (starting to laugh): It’s too bad they don’t have those reader programs for adults like they do for kids.  You’d win a pizza or an ice cream cone in no time!

Me:  No, the frequent reader program was through Pizza Hut, not the library, and I totally did that in elementary school.  I loved earning a personal pan pizza!

Husband:  Really?  When I was in elementary school, they did it through the library and you could earn ice cream cones and pizza from businesses in town if you read a certain number of books.

Me:  We had that too, in the summer, at the library, but you earned things like a water bottle or a tote bag….you know, to carry your library books.

Husband: (body beginning to be wracked by laughter, rendering him barely able to speak) A tote bag!?!?  What kind of a nerd WERE YOU?!?!  Who has so many library books that they have to carry them in a tote bag!?!?

Me:  What I MEANT was that it was a small tote bag, not a duffel bag.  I just wanted you to know.

Husband:  (laughing too hard to speak)

Me: —

Me: Ok, HEAD GEAR!

Husband:  I did not wear head gear…[My brother] wore head gear.  I wore a palate expander.

Me:  Oh, ho ho!  Well, then, OK, FOUR EYES!

And, scene.

 

 

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