The last few weeks have been especially stressful. We’ve seen the rise of my Inner Shaniqua. And now there’s the emergence of MB’s Lurking Hobo.
Out of the blue, as we’re driving in the car tonight … his face is set, his eyes forward, determined, as he mutters:
HE: I’m totally gonna take a d*mp in the ice machine.
ME: You are NOT gonna take a d*mp in the ice machine. Who has access to the ice machine? Everyone would know you took the d*mp in the ice machine.
HE: (without missing a beat) I’m gonna pee on the floor in the bathroom.
ME: (trying to soothe) Okay …. okay.
Sometimes you just gotta understand what your man needs, you know?
And I got an email from someone who’s never commented before and to that person: Uhm, HE’S KIDDING.
And if you knew the day he’d had — or the situation at ALL — you’d understand. Sheesh.
Oh, for the love of Pete, of course he’s not serious.
I love this anecdote, though – especially your calm zen-like, “Okay … okay ….”
I love this so much, I’m still smiling and chuckling like a dope. (And who could ever think MB — MB! — would be serious about that?)
When hubby and I are at Mass (where it is deadly silent and all reverent), 2 or 3 minutes of our worship time are spent laughing and acting like goofballs. Tef is constantly inventing fake reasons to give me a “grandma” pinch, while I’m giving him wet-willies and then blowing in his soggy ear. (Well, between whispered pleas to let me lick his face.) And forget about it if one of us gets the giggles. It’s O-VAH!
Embrace your inner hobo, people! Or at least your inner five-year-old! 🙂
/Embrace your inner hobo/
Hahahahahahaha, WG!! Preach it, sistah!
wow…Shaniqua and the Lurking Hobo. Sounds almost like you’ve got your hallowe’en costumes all wrapped up right there.
It must be fun to have a secret personality. I don’t think I have one. (I’ve been known to mutter at work, “I could…burn this place down” but that’s more as an homage to Milton Waddams than it is a serious threat.)
There IS something kinda satisfying about imagining all sorts of mayhem. . . and not needing to act on it.
I’d probably be the one doing imaginary clothing designs for those bearnekkid lady-pitchers.
(And WG–sometimes those of us up in the choir loft get bouts of silliness during Mass, too. I’m the youngest one and I’m not usually the instigator! Although I can’t help giggling when my dad’s making faces to express his feelings about the homily from his seat behind the organ.)