Susan Says Goes to Washington...

I recently took a break from this blog so that Seth and I could visit the boys as well as enjoy a family reunion of sorts down in Washington, D.C.

I thought the entire experience would help refill the depleted vessel of my creativity and provide me with blog topics for weeks, if not months, to come.

After all, I'd be doing a lot of driving, which -- in the past -- has given me ample material: left lane laggers, non-yielders, women putting on mascara while doing 90 all make for some good snarky stuff.

Everyone was
very polite...

But people on the road were on excellent behavior. They moved out of my way accommodatingly when I bore down on them with my hi-beams blazing, were pleasant at merges and waved me in repeatedly when I attempted to join traffic.

What the hell?

Surely the hotel would provide some fodder...idiots in the elevator, a bad mattress, a nasty desk clerk perhaps? Nope. While extremely crowded for the Easter weekend, people in the elevator were festive and pleasant, the mattress was exceptionally comfortable and I slept like a baby and the front desk staff was gracious to the point where they kind of scared me.

Bad food in the restaurants? Nope. Horrible babies banging spoons and howling? No. There were babies but they were the best behaved damn babies I've ever seen. And if one of these magical babies even so much as looked as if they were going to blow, they were whisked away by attentive and considerate parents.



Many of the babies wore
 tuxedos and carried
walking sticks.



What was going on here??

Lousy waiters? No again. Gracious and attentive, they brought extra parmesan without being asked, made sure my water glass was filled and picked up my napkin every time it slid off my lap.

Did Tom or Charlie do anything to piss me off? No, the bastards. How about Seth? I couldn't even count on him.

This should have
been me.

Like most Americans, I was starting to suspect a plot.

And, thanks to my lovely niece, Lauren, we had a series of government tours scheduled. Here, surely, there would be some mishap--an unintentional security breach ending with me in a strait jacket, being wheeled out on a dolly after being tasered.

There would certainly be some pratfall where I crashed down marble stairs, landing on a precious antique or a confrontation between me and Bo the White House Dog after he smelled cat on my pants hems and attacked me, both of us ending up on the front page of the Washington Post....

But no.

I smell those cats
but I'm a Democrat.

While I admit that the security guards and Secret Service (despite their recent interest in South American prostitutes) have absolutely no sense of humor, I sailed though the metal detectors without a hitch, kept my footing on the stairs and was ignored by Bo despite, at one point, actually being within smelling distance of him.

In fact, our tour of the White House was perfect. Inspiring. Moving. We stood where JFK conferred with his brother by the Rose Garden, leaned into the Oval Office for a long look and stood in the lobby where foreign dignitaries are seated as they wait for the president to receive them.

We stood here.

Jokes were put aside as I gazed through the same windows as FDR, DDE, JFK and LBJ had during their administrations.*

Our tour of the Capitol the following day was equally stirring. My normal jackal-like sense of humor was on hold and my hyena calls of laughter were silenced as we quietly walked through the beautiful hallways of Congress.

I even passed Nancy Pelosi's office without having to squelch a single wisecrack.

We sat in the cool dimness of the House floor and while, for a fleeting moment my hushed conversation with my sister did touch on digestive difficulties occasionally experienced when away from home, mostly we just thought about the history that had been made within the walls of this great chamber.

The back of Mount
Vernon faces the Potomac.

We rounded out our weekend with a trip to Mount Vernon, the magnificent home of George Washington without me making a single comment about wooden teeth. We just soaked it all in....the beauty, the history, the leadership and sacrifice of the man who had gazed at the Potomac from his back porch and died upstairs in the sunny bedroom we'd respectfully filed past.

I am obviously going to have to pick a fight at Walmart, slip in some cat vomit or torture Seth in some way in order to provide a new stream of blog topics since everything went so well in Washington.

Hey, I see a patch of cat vomit now...wish me luck!

*This would have been a perfect place to insert (hahahaha) something about what Bill Clinton might have gazed upon while Monica was under the desk but, in the solemn spirit of this post, I will not do so.

I'm very sorry but this was too good to leave out.

The Pillow

Grandma, age 13.

My pillow and I rarely spend a night apart and, since I have been away from my keyboard lately, I thought you might enjoy this archived post...especially since it's from very early in the life of this blog and many of you had not yet discovered "Susan Says..." See you very soon!

My grandmother brought some interesting stuff across the ocean. Arriving from Hungary in New York City in 1916 and, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of packing light, she brought many things from her old home to her new. One thing that made the trip is still in daily use by me today—the down in my pillow. 

    

An old steamer trunk

Hungarian down, like other things Hungarian—our tempers, good complexions (except in my case, thanks for nothing, DNA) and our ability to follow you into a revolving door yet, somehow, come out first—is very famous. The down must have been considered precious even then because it made its way across the ocean, safely packed inside my grandmother’s  steamer  trunk. This trunk, by the way, was built to last. It looks like something from a movie with its huge domed lid and exaggerated hardware. I could use it when I travel but pirates would think I was hiding my doubloons in it and this might cause a stir.

    

Down can have a very long life if treated properly. 

Until several years ago, I would make the trip back to my old neighborhood of Boro Park in Brooklyn and hand over my pillow, drool stains and all, to a stooped gentleman who would remove the down from its case, put it into some sort of magical machine, sterilize it and return it to me in a fresh ticking. I have slept on that down since I was old enough to sleep on a pillow. It knows more about me than any living human, having faithfully absorbed my pre-sleep thoughts from tiny-hood to today. I have a hard time sleeping on anything else. God help poor Seth if I come to bed and find that he has mistakenly fallen asleep on it. I will pull it out from under his head and laugh cruelly as he blinks in confusion. It’s my pillow, get off.

Hungarian geese are
famous for the quality
of their down.

    

Pillows matter. 

Without the proper pillow, a bad night is confirmed. Hence, upon arriving at a hotel recently in Washington DC, I eyed the pillows on my bed suspiciously. Artfully arranged in a white pile of fluffiness, I knew that their style would outweigh their sleepability.  I had forgotten, in my haste, to bring my pillow along and had little choice but to try each one before making my selection.  One was too firm, others too soft, too small or too square…none were right and as a result, I was not good company at breakfast.

    

I usually remember to bring my old friend with me. It gets all dressed up in the pillowcase I keep just for such occasions so that it can feel proud when it meets the other pillows and not be embarrassed in the elevator.  If we stay for a few nights, I always fear that the maid will either mock it or, depending on her ability to discern fine Hungarian down, steal it. After all, I have known this pillow longer than my husband or children.

    

Once, I left it in a hotel and only realized it was missing when I got sleepy in the car.  It was all I could do not to call the local police and demand that the hotel be put in lockdown. Instead, I called the front desk to alert them, describing it in detail (“it’s delightful and fluffy and soft and lovely”) lest it be mistaken for a pillow of lesser importance.  Indeed, they located jt and it was waiting for us, sealed--heartlessly-- in a plastic bag. And it only took us four hours out of our way.

    

 I realize that nothing lasts forever. The man with the magical down sterilizing machine has disappeared like so much else from a bygone era. The day I say goodbye to that pillow will be a sad one. Its contents started out on the tummy of a white goose from the Carpathian Mountains in rural Hungary and traveled across a turbulent ocean in the trunk of a dark-eyed 16 year old girl who had no idea what awaited her in  America. It eventually cushioned the dreams of her granddaughter who has held fast to not only the physical comfort it has provided but the intangible comfort of continuity, family and the determination to survive a trip from the old world to the new. Lofty concepts for just a pillow, I know…..but it’s not just any pillow.  It’s seen the world.

The Stoop, Part II

My stoop, after a big snow.

"Susan Says..." is still out in the field, so here's the second installment of "The Stoop." I hope you enjoy it and look forward to seeing you with a new post on Thursday...

First kisses, games, performances of popular music of the day--I am not the only one who enjoyed and, subsequently, treasures the memories of a special stoop. I may, however, be the only one to have made a gruesome discovery on a trip back to my old house.

Other...

On a sunny day, a few years after the brownstone of my youth was sold by my aunt, I packed up my two boys to visit the old neighborhood. I had moved out of New York City but occasionally returned to my old stomping grounds to visit, shop and buy a specific pastry only found in the local bakeries (something heavenly I always called a "chocolate bell"--a moist, rich hunk of chocolate cake topped by a dollop of chocolate cream and totally enrobed in dense, shiny chocolate ganache---in the shape of a bell.The chocolate bell is, perhaps, the greatest invention of mankind edging out penicillin and the light bulb by a crumb) and gaze lovingly at the exterior of my old house and, of course, actively hate the new people inside.

On this fateful afternoon, I pull into the spot by the fire hydrant directly in front of the house and look upward only to get one of the most extreme shocks of my life as well as a whole new reason to hate--and plot to murder--the people now occupying my former address. Brace yourselves, stoop lovers--the stoop was gone.



....Brooklyn

Completely. Lopped off. No more. In it's place was a paved parking spot. Gone, also, was the silver maple I had planted when I was four and which had grown into a magnificent shade tree. Gone was the small garden with the mock orange bush. Gone were the four o'clocks, the irises, the wild chives and the clumps of purple violets. Gone.

The front of the house had been redone entirely. The only entrance was on the ground floor now. I think I blacked out because I, literally, don't remember what happened next. It must have involved some form of hysteria because I had black trails of mascara running down my cheeks and the kids were screaming.

My stoop was gone. The lions, gone. Where were they? In a dump? Their granite faces staring at nothing from the bottom of a mountain of refuse. I am feeling faint just writing this.

....stoops.

The house is like a body without a head now. I still visit the street and sit sadly in front. Yes, I believe in progress. And, yes, I know the value of a place to park but to remove a stoop is a criminal action. I am too scared to ring the bell and try to talk to the monsters within so I just sit and think awful thoughts about them. Often my grown sons accompany me. Only the older of the two ever played in that now-spectral front yard but both share my sense of loss.

Even in its wildest dreams, my stoop never imagined an internet that would host its tribute. I will return again to sit and hate the people who removed it and then drown my sorrows in a chocolate bell...or three.

I will also enjoy my memories--when my block was the most beautiful place in the world and I was the ruling princess of an artfully built structure made of limestone and sandstone known by the term "stoop." To exist in memory is not such a bad thing, I suppose....especially when the memories are as good as mine.

The Stoop



My own personal lions



"Susan Says..." is heading out into the field for a few days to gather material for more blog posts. In the meantime, I am posting a few old favorites. I hope you enjoy them!

I recently received a comment about a photo I posted of the house in which I grew up. More accurately, it was a photo of the stoop.

To the rest of the country, the word "stoop" means to bend slightly, lowering oneself to an acceptable level to accomplish a specific task. Or, simply, to slightly droop about the head and shoulders. To New Yorkers, past and present, it means something entirely different.

A "stoop"--technically, a small concrete platform leading to the entrance of one's home, is infinitely more than its definition. It is often the social hub of your existence--especially,but not exclusively,in the warmer months. Elevated and removed from the activity of the streets below, my stoop--guarded by a pair of dignified stone lions--was the safe perch from where, for many years, I observed the world.

Sitting with any one of an assorted number of family, neighbors or friends, I watched life stream by. In the summer, there was the parade of strap hangers returning from work after a steamy ride on the "B" train--the crispness of their morning pep, significanlty compromised by the crowded ride over the bridge. I anticipated the daily line-up (the "elevated" was just down the street) and the regulars became the cast members of my daily life. Occasionally, people we knew would take a few minutes to climb halfway up to fill us in on the happenings in "the city." Who needed a newspaper when you had a stoop?

The stoop was a place to read--- the "Little House" series or the Tolkien trilogy and, later, magazines like Glamour or Seventeen where I gazed longingly at the long legs and straight teeth of the models on the glossy pages. Back then, I would have traded those attributes for my stoop despite how I loved it. The stoop understood, silently accepting my adolescence and waiting for it to pass.

Stoops are for courting, as well...and telling secrets. They are for eating an ice cream cone (bought from Bernie's on the corner) or, if it's hot enough inside, an entire meal, balanced on one's knees. Long before I was born, my grandmother would sleep out there on the hottest summer nights, waiting for a breeze. Believe it or not, if the wind was exactly right, you could get a whiff of the ocean--or the garbage dump, if the wind was wrong--from my stoop, as well.

Stoops are for giggling at your neighbor's new haircut or sitting on all night during a blackout in July. They absorb tears, too but prefer laughter as you brace your feet on the limestone ledge, scooting over on the step to make room for your mother's folding chair or your cousins, visiting their grandma next door.

In tomorrow's post, I will tell you what happened to my stoop....stay tuned.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Yesterday, Seth and I were involved in assorted around-the-house maintenance.

 It was typical weekend stuff--minor chores, minor errands, the occasional cruel mind game...the usual. 

Halfway through the day, somewhere between genuine productivity and the traditional slow-down of post-lunch afternoon, he insisted that I meet outside so he could "ask" me something.

He sounded irked.

Busy as a bee, I kept telling him I'd "be out in a minute" only to have  his annoyance grow as a few hours ticked by before I stumbled out in the backyard with him.

Before me was a tableau of destruction. There was the heavy metal barrel -- with the tight lid -- we keep on the deck. It had recently been refilled with seed for our hungry bird pals...but, what was this?

It appeared to have been hurled down the stairs, the lid pried off and the seed strewn about in a five foot periphery, black sunflower seed everywhere. The scoop was halfway across the yard.

"Did you do this?" Seth asked me with disgust, gesturing dramatically to the destruction.

"Yes, Seth, I did," I admitted, turning to go back into the house.

I also wash apples in the stream with my tiny hands before I eat them, wear a black mask and have a fluffy ringed tail.

When I Win the Mega Millions Lottery...

Yep, I bought a lottery ticket. 

Actually, Seth bought it and it's at times like these, when that ticket is about to relocate me to Easy Street, that he and I suddenly become "one."

Technically after 20 years in the state we call home, what's his is mine anyway. I'm not sure he knows this.

First, I will buy the rocking chair I saw in Target today. It had just the right amount of cushioning and it was very comfortable. It was more of a glider than a rocker and relaxed me almost immediately even though it was up on a little display platform and people were looking at me since I was kind of sweaty and, in essence, on display.

I didn't care.

I needed a rest and no one who worked there dared say anything to me...I wanted to eat a package of Easter Peeps while I rested but decided that would be pushing it.

I want huge tires and lights
on top.

Then, I will buy a Jeep Wrangler.

As I approach my dotage, I have a limited number of years in which to enjoy a Wrangler since, despite their redesign a few years ago, they are still kind of jouncy. Not only that but they are very high off the ground and my legs seem to be getting shorter by the minute.

I'll need a color to match the Jeep.

In the warm months, I will remove the doors and top and drive too fast and people will wonder who that super cool, silver-haired hot rod mama behind the wheel is.

So, when I win all that money, I will buy a two door jeep in the color of red and when the police pull me over for speeding, I will now be able to afford the ticket. And when I have so many tickets that they try to take away my license, I will buy the judge. That's pretty easy, according to the New York Post.

Then I will buy lipstick. As many as I want. All colors. And not just from the drug stores, from the cosmetic counters, too. And some shoes. And I will hire Gary Puckett and the Union Gap to put on a concert in the backyard and make sure they play all their greatest hits at least three times each. Yes, I know Gary is now 69 years old but I'm not so young myself.

Hello, again.

Then I will buy the New York Mets.

I will give them to Tom and Charlie as an early Christmas present. I will tear down Citifield and have then re-erect Shea Stadium exactly as it looked in 1986 and I will eat hot dogs and drink beer while my sons save the team.

Bye bye.

Of course I will be philanthropic, too. Don't worry. And I will put aside enough to invest so that my fortune will make more fortune. I am really looking forward to this.

Have a great weekend. Look for me on the new holding up the giant check they give all the lottery winners.

 

Now, enjoy a little Gary Puckett. Here's the classic

"Young Girl."

Things My House Says...

"Roller SKATE!"

The door that leads to the tiny bathroom off my bedroom has a squeaky door.

When pushed open, the squeak very clearly says "Roller SKATE!" Emphasis is on the second word and it's loudest at 3 a.m.

 

Right outside that window is a very tall bush which shelters a bird that, every morning during the warmer months, screams "Jeter!" at the top of its lungs. Lured home early by the mild weather, the "Jeter Bird" is already in full swing, daily announcing his loyalty to the Yankee captain. While slightly disconcerting to a Mets fan, one cannot help but admire the bird's enthusiasm...and wonder if his feathers are blue and white pinstripes.

That bird loves me.

There is a cabinet door in the garage where Seth stores some of the tools he never uses to fix things that produces a three syllable squeak that says, "Throm-BO-sis." Thankfully, it's not the dreaded "deep vein thrombosis," but just the regular kind.

There's the whirl-hiss of the water softener, the whoosh of the oil burner when it kicks on, the rattle-rattle-ping of the closed flue in the chimney when it meets a gust of air and the creak-shudder when the wind hits the front of the house head on. Don't forget to factor in the hum of the fridge and the rattle of the loose change in the dryer, too.

There's the scrape-scrape when someone enters the side door downstairs, pushing it against the concrete flooring. That's one of my favorites because it signals that someone I love has arrived home. Often the scrape-scrape is followed by Charlie's whistling or Tom's singing and followed again by the slam of the inner door and the sound of big feet bounding up stairs.

There are the unexpected sounds like the chirp of a smoke detector when its battery starts to die or the startling pop-tinkle of a light bulb flaming out just as you turn on the lamp.

There are the sounds associated with the flip of a switch like the churn-rattle-swish of the dishwasher or the fuzzy burp of the TV when, with remote in hand, you press "power."

There are external sounds like the screech of bicycle brakes as neighborhood boys come to an abrupt stop in their mother's driveway or the soft murmurs of the lady urging her dog to hurry up and do his business as she walks him before work in the morning.

The mailbox says creak-squeak and the postal truck has a soft motor, while the sound of the UPS man throwing his truck into park makes me glance out the window every time to see if he's walking through the grass to bring me a package.



You can count on the excited trilling of the cats when they hear the can opener. They know they soon will enjoy an entree of wet food served on a paper plate.


There are the scary noises the house makes when no one else is home and those same noises, not so scary, when someone else is here with me.

There's music from someone's radio, the tumbling cascade of cereal filling a bowl when Seth gets up early and the soft snores of Buzzy as he dreams on the couch.

But there is no sweeter sound than the voice of someone on the other end of the phone after you've been trying to reach them for a while and have gone all nutty with worry.

It goes something like this:

Hello?

Hello!

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Averting Disaster in the Produce Aisle and Watching it on TV Later...

For those of you who ever might think that I fabricate (or hallucinate) any of the conversations I occasionally relate here, please be assured that I do not.

My husband and children, any combination of whom have often lurked in the background while these exchanges take place will confirm, with resignation and embarrassment, that they are true. For whatever reason, I seem to bring "it" out of people.

It is with this humble preface that I now share yesterday's encounter with the produce guy in a supermarket not too far from my house.

I saw him from a distance. White haired and florid, he was belligerently stuffing bags of salad into lucite slots, while wearing his produce visor at a somewhat rebellious tilt. He was all but lying in wait for a victim, I could sense it.

It came off him in waves that smelled slightly like dill.

I approached, angling myself to quickly pluck what I'd come for -- a bag of Italian mix (romaine, radicchio and a bit of frisee) --  from it's shelf and make my getaway. The express check-out was only a few yards away.

 

I wasn't in the mood for being a sounding board for the disgruntled that day. At that moment, Seth was home, popping corn for an afternoon of disaster shows on the National Geographic Channel. I had places to be...hurricanes and tsunamis to witness.

I gunned my motor and zoomed by, cart a-rolling. Slowing down slightly, I grabbed, tossing my bag of pre-washed greens into the cart. Mission accomplished. I could smell the popcorn.

But then I heard it, clear as day...

"People are idiots!" growled the produce guy.

I stopped. I simply cannot resist a good "people are idiots" story. "Why do you say that?" I asked.

"BAGGED SALAD!" he answered, voice now raised.

Realizing that I was one of the idiots to whom he was referring, I reconsidered my commitment to this conversation. Especially since I harbor huge guilt about buying bagged salad.

It's expensive and often a little on the wilted side. Plus every time I buy a bag, I feel like I am dissing my grandmother who, when I was a very little girl not only chopped her own vegetables but actually plucked chickens in the kitchen--holding the freshly killed bird between her knees as she pulled out the pinfeathers.

Sensing weakness, Produce Guy grabbed a bag of salad and waved it at me, ordering me to read the expiration date. 

I was now a little scared but leaned toward him to see that  the date was in April, nearly two weeks away. I also took this opportunity to try and determine if he'd been drinking but smelled nothing other than the white hot consternation of a vegetable purist.

"Wow," I don't think that salad will still be fresh by then..." I mumbled.

"EXACTLY!" he bellowed. "Do you know how many people are going to buy this after looking at the date, open it and then bring it back because it's not fresh??!!

He grabbed a three-pack of romaine and wiggled it around, suggesting I choose that instead. "It's tastier, " he encouraged, looking at the bags of salad as if they contained little Nazi flags instead of spring mix. "It will stay fresh longer and you won't be back tomorrow to return it."

"I've never returned a bag of salad in my life," I said lamely, thinking of Seth and popcorn and the disasters unfolding without me.

"Trust me, YOU WILL!" It was at this moment that I decided not to reach for the bag of pre-shredded carrots I coveted and cut my losses. Putting back the salad from my cart, I took the romaine from his out-stretched hand and fled.

After all, disaster awaited....

What Would Happen if You Call 911 When You Can't Sleep...

Operator: "911, what's the emergency?"

Me: "I can't sleep."

Operator: "Excuse me, did you say you can't sleep?"

Me: "Yes."

Operator: "That's not an emergency!"

Me: "Oh, really?"

Operator: "No, ma'am, it's not."

Me: "Tell that to the guy who's sleeping next to me."

Operator: "There's a guy sleeping next to you?"

Me: "Yep."

Operator: "An intruder?"

Me: "Nope."

Operator: "Then who is it?"

Me: "It's my husband."

Operator: "Your husband? Your husband is sleeping next to you?"

Me: "Yep."

Operator: "And exactly what is the problem, ma'am?"

Me: "He's sleeping. I'm not."

Operator: "Ma'am, I am going to hang up now. Unless you have an emergency. This is 911, it's for emergencies."

Me: "There's cat litter in the bed."

Operator: "Uh, what, ma'am?"

Me: "There. Is. Cat. Litter. In. The. Bed."

Operator: "I have to ask. Why is there cat litter in the bed, ma'am?"

Me: "I tracked it in on my feet."

Operator: "How did that happen, ma'am?"

Me: "I tracked it in on my goddam feet because I had to put a litter box in my bathroom because if I didn't, Fritzi would pee all over the house because the Mad Pooper bullies her."

Operator: "The Mad Pooper, ma'am? Who is that? I assume Fritzi is a cat..."

Me: "Yes. So is the Mad Pooper."

Operator (audibly sighing): "Ma'am. I repeat, this is not an emergency. Hang up and have a nice glass of water."

Me: "Water will make me pee and peeing is how I got cat cat litter in the bed in the first place."

Operator: "By peeing, ma'am??"

Me: "Yep. I got up to pee roughly 600 times last night and that's when I tracked in the cat litter."

Operator: "Come on, ma'am, that's not how many times you got up to pee."

Me: "You're right. It was more like 800 times."

Operator: "Ma'am...."

Me: "Plus, it's really hot in here."

Operator: "It is kind of warm, Ma'am. But some people like it."

Me: "I am not some people. I am kind of, well, in the change."

Operator: "Ahhhhhh, that explains it. Ma'am, you are right. This is an emergency. Listen to me...is there any chocolate in the house?"

Me: "Yes, I bought some Easter chocolate but that sleeping bastard next to me said it's only for good little girls."

Operator: "Ignore him, ma'am. Go find it. Unwrap six small eggs and eat them immediately."

Me: "But it will keep me up."

Operator: "Ma'am...forget sleeping, this is an emergency."

Me: "That's why I called."

Operator: "Eat the chocolate. Then, by any chance, do you have any DVRed episodes of House Hunters?"

Me: "Actually, I do."

Operator: "Watch them. And don't yell at the screen when they complain about the paint color. You know as well as I do that's an easy fix."

Me: "I know. Why do they always complain about that."

Operator: "I don't know, ma'am. It is extremely annoying."

Me: "It sure is. But what I really want to do is hit the sleeping man with a rolling pin."

Operator: "You have a rolling pin? Is it the long skinny kind or the kind that actually rolls on a dowel?"

Me: "It's the long skinny kind. It belonged to my Grandma. I'm gonna use it..."

Operator: "No, ma'am, you are not. Do as I say. DO AS I SAY!"

Me: "Oh...okay."

Operator: "Do you promise?"

Me: "Yes."

Operator: "Right away!"

Me: "OKAY! Sheesh."

Operator: "Good luck, ma'am. Have a nice day."

Me: "Thanks, you too."

And the Conversation Ends Here...

There are certain things my husband will gladly discuss.

For example, last Saturday while in the car, the conversation turned to what might happen if the earth wrests free of it's axis and the poles shift.

We pondered...

Maybe the warm parts of the world would become cold, high winds would flatten everything in their path, deserts would become oceans and the seabeds would heave and quake until they became deserts. 

Jon Hamm, I will destroy you.

Obviously, we'd slide right off the face of the planet to float helplessly forever, everyone's breast implants would explode, the Kardashians would survive and rule outer space showing no mercy to Jon Hamm as he floats by in need of help.

Oh God...

Or, maybe cats would be in charge and dogs would be their servants, I would be the new host of Cash Cab and have my own cooking show on the Outer Space Food Network and Sarah Palin really would see Russia from her front yard....we discussed these possibilities until we were satisfied that we'd covered the most likely events and felt prepared.

I toldja but you didn't
believe me!

He might even discuss the fact that Lou Diamond Phillips has aged badly, agreeing that, career-wise, his high point appears to have been when he portrayed Richie Valens in "La Bamba." 

He will remain polite when I wonder aloud if Dr. Phil's wife, after all these years, is sick of sitting in the audience for every single show and he may even comment when I opine if David Letterman wears white socks because he's allergic to dye.

He may smile when I mention that there's a woodpecker in the backyard who's out to get me and might listen as I rhapsodize about how much fun it is to dispense your own yogurt in that new place in town.

I am out to get her.

But he will absolutely, unequivocally not engage in any discussion about how frustrated I am with the polish selection at my nail salon. 

He will not chime in about how he understands what a problem this is because I love the two women who work there and what great pedis they give because they last for nearly three weeks with no chipping unless I bang a toe into something. Nor will he engage in any way about how I don't want to bring my own polish because the cost of the pedicure includes the polish and it's expensive enough already.

There appears to be just so far one can go with husbands.

 

Now, enjoy Lou in his prime.