In the deep dark middle of nowhere last weekend, watching my Chargers voluntarily lose to the Denver Broncos with MB and my MIL. Tim Tebow is Denver’s new quarterback/savior/God thanker for any and all football victories. At this point in the game, when it’s all going horribly south, I’m completely irritated and irrational and prone to verbal spewing.
ME: “I’m Tim Tebow! Have I mentioned that I was almost aborted? Did you know I was almost aborted? In case you didn’t know, I was almost aborted!”
MIL: Why did his mom want to abort him?
ME: Becauuuse she was obviously A CHARRRGERS’ FANNNN!!”
Watching Tim Tebow again today. He fumbles the ball.
MB: Where’s your Messiah now, Tebow???
(Thank you, Edward G. Robinson.)
We shouldn’t watch sports, basically.
Best line from Arthur Christmas, which, yes, we saw last night for various reasons I’d rather not get into.
“That was the year all the kids got a sausage nailed to a piece of bark.”
We could not stop laughing at that image. Like, who comes up with that? Genius.
Little boy in the bookstore shopping with his dad. I’m guessing for mom, maybe?
BOY: She likes horses AND Batman!
I could have cried from the cuteness. (And that’s going to be an interesting Christmas morning, I’ll bet.)
At the only Thai restaurant in the deep dark middle of nowhere. Two women come in. The Thai owner shows them to the booth next to us. This exchange is just how it is in a small town, I’ve learned. Everybody up in your bidness, pippa.
LADY (to her friend as she slides into the booth): Oh, I have to be careful about my leg.
OWNER: What wrong with your leg??
As we leave the Thai restaurant with the takeout food, the owner follows us out the door.
OWNER: Now you take dat curry sauce and you save it and put it ower leftower turkey, okay? Den you have turkey curry, okay? It bery delicious, awight?
OWNER: Trust me. Bery good!
ME: Sounds good.
OWNER: Great, okay. You try it, yes?
US: Sure, yes, great, thank you, etc., all the way out to our car.
For the first time ever, even though he lives only a couple doors down from my in-laws, I finally met the son of a certain octogenarian publishing magnate with a penchant for robes and smoking jackets and much much much younger women. The son was very nice, quiet, looked a lot like dad and sounded exactly like him. It was a bit surreal. He helped my in-laws with their computers before heading out with his partner on a long road trip to dad’s for Thanksgiving. Must be an interesting visit for them.
My sister sharing her own MIL issues with me.
SIS: Tray, she is 76 years old and you know what I found her doing?
ME: No. What?
SIS: Standing IN the kitchen sink trying to plunge it!
SIS: I asked her what she was doing and she told me in her little Southern accent that she thought she’d get better leverage from up there because she’s so skinny.
ME: Oh, for God’s sake. She’s nuts. Did you tell her to get down?
ME: Good Lord. All you need is for her to break a hip and then she’d be staying with you for three months recovering from the surgery.
SIS: And eating her special marshmallow diet. I have to buy her marshmallows. She makes me a list of foods I need to have on hand.
ME: Is this a doctor-approved thing?
SIS: No! She makes it up! And she makes this weird vegetable soup thing with canned vegetables and pearl onions that stinks up the whole house. She puts in all in the little mini food processor I bought just for her. It all gets blended to baby food, but the green beans HAVE to be French cut.
ME: Hahahahaha. You know, you’re very good to her — buying her marshmallows, letting her crawl into your kitchen sink.
SIS: Then she puts the weird vegetable slurry in a pitcher and puts it in our fridge. When she wants some, she pours it into a bowl and microwaves it.
ME: Did you ask her for the recipe?
SIS: Hahahaha. NO. It’s disgusting. Then marshmallows for dessert.
ME: Uhm, where are you calling me from? I know you’re not at home with her.
SIS: I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Target reading a book and calling clients.
ME: When are you going back home? She’s going to lying on the floor somewhere, you know.
SIS: Probably. I’ll go back around noon.
ME: It’s 9 a.m.
SIS: That’s right.
I wish I could offer some snippets from that little ray of sunshine Sourface Lemonpants whom we encountered two Thanksgivings ago, but sadly, while she was there at my in-laws’ friends’ house for the holiday, she and her husband said nary a word to me or MB the entire Thanksgiving day. Not one word. They were first in line for the informal buffet, plopped themselves down alone at the table, and started chowing down before any of the rest of us had even gotten any food. By the time MB said grace, their plates were half empty. Charming people. I miss them.
For Christmas, I’m sending them a sausage nailed to a piece of bark.