(After mentioning someone old before his time.)
HIM: Dude, it’s called Touch of Grayâ„¢ not Shock of Old.
*********
HIM: So you have two kids but you’re not married? Sheesh. Put a ring on that cervix.
That man is out of control these days. He’s some kind of crazy grouchaholic now and I must really be weird because I think IT IS AWESOME.
We are driving past two dudes running together. Generally, dudes in our neighborhood don’t run together unless they’re, uhm, really together. I notice their calves because I always notice calves because MB has the best calves I’ve ever seen in my life.
ME: They both have pretty nice calves. Not as nice as yours, though.
HE: Well, being gay gives you lots of time to work out.
ME: So you’re saying it’s a time saver?
HE: Yeah. “I was really pressed for time so I decided to become gay.”
“You have to look at Outing Person like Old Yeller at the end of the movie. He was good for a time and then … he got the rabies and it was over for Old Yeller. He just wasn’t any good for anyone. And his best friend had to shoot him in the head.”
Hahahahahahahaha.
He speaks my language, that man.
We pull up to a stoplight on Sunday, chatting about this and that. As we’re waiting, a guy runs up; he’s working out, but misses the light. I do a double-take because, well, the guy is practically naked. He’s lean, muscled, obviously a regular runner, and wears ….. God help me, I do not know. They’re running shorts, but shorter; they’re boxer shorts but tighter; they’re tighty whiteys but with a flounce. Or something? Whatever they are, they’re very low-riders and a manly aqua. On his feet, these silvery ballet-like slippers.
While he waits for the light, he prances and sashays. Spins and leaps. He doesn’t stay in one spot politely jogging in the typical compact way you see runners do.
Oh, no. He’s a stoplight Nureyev, dahling, and he
uses
his
stage.
It’s mesmerizing. Distracting. Basically, I can’t look away.
MB, on the other hand, sighs in exasperation.
“Oh, for the love of Europe.”
One glance at his furrowed brow and I howl the whole way home.
ME: He’s like the Cheetos leopard or something.
HE: Uhm, do you mean the Cheetos cheetah?
ME: No. No. I stand by what I said.
*****
ME: It bothers me that when I try to smother you with the pillow, you play dead better than I do.
HE: I’m ….. sorry?
ME: Well, good.
*****
Old family snippet that my dad never stops mentioning. A summer evening at the dinner table ….. yeeeeears ago …..
DAD: So, who will go work in the garden with me?
(dead silence from his three children)
11-YEAR-OLD ME: God will go with you, my son.
ME: That place has such an awesome bathroom. I hate it when places don’t live up to their bathrooms …. kind of like church.
HE: (scrutinizing me) Wow. It’s early, but you are ON today.
ME: I know!
***********
We are having a Dom Squab, a domestic squabble. Somewhere in the middle …..
ME: (singing like a Vienna Boys’ Choir boy) You’re as cooold as iiiice ….
HE: Oh, brother.
ME: …. you’re willing to sacrifice our looooove ….
HE: You’re lame.
ME: …. you never take adviiiice ….
HE: (eye roll)
ME: ….. but someday you’ll pay the price, I knoooow ….
ME and HE: (again, like the Vienna Boys’ choir) ….. I’ve seen it before, it happens all the tiiiime, you’re closing the door …. you leave the world behind, you’re digging for goooold, you’re throwing awaaaay a FORTUNE IN FEELINGS BUT SOME DAY YOU’LL PAAAAAAY!!!
HE: It makes me feel necrotic and awful.
Yes. Necrotic AND awful.
So we’re at Saturday breakfast — part of our regular Saturday morning ritual. There is a man sitting alone at a table behind and to the left of ours. I am facing him; MB has his back to him. Occasionally, during our breakfast, I notice him glancing at me. I ignore it. He seems harmless. An apple-pie-and-ice-cream type.
When we’re done, MB gets up to pay the bill while I sit and sip those final drops of coffee. Suddenly, the man bolts from his seat, bounds up to me.
He speaks and I startle, almost spitting out my coffee.
“You look really familiar.”
For a split second I think Uh-oh. Do I know this guy? I have no clue who he is. AWKward.
He charges ahead, smiling.
“Do you have a video on YouTube?”
Uhm, what??
“Noo. What kind of video??”
I can’t help it. It just slips out because, well, my mind is basically screaming WHAT KIND OF VIDEO??
He doesn’t elaborate. He stares at the floor.
“Oh, well …. I saw this video yesterday and I thought — ”
“Uh, yeah, sorry, no.”
At that, he slinks back to his seat. MB approaches and I say, “We need to leave now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Shh. Just go.”
In the car I explain it all.
“You should have said, ‘Ooh, well, what part of it was your favorite?’ then you would have found out what kind of video it was.”
“Yeah, great.”
“Some nerve to approach you the minute the man you’re with gets up from his seat.”
“Maybe it was a How to Bowl a Strike video or something.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that’s why he marched up to you the minute I left.”
“He seemed so apple pie.”
“Those kind are the worst.”
“I don’t know what to think now that I’m some kind of whore.”
“The worst,” MB mutters.
“I’m a whore,” I mutter.
And we drive a bit in silence digesting this, my newfound whoredom.
I’ve posted this before, but I just really like it.
Our shoes.
I should never be in a car with anyone ever.
Just don’t get in a car with me, okay?
Because if you do, I might force you to talk about 50,000-hand piles or play the “Million Bucks” game or I may cluck the theme to “Rocky” to cheer you up.
Or I just might make out with you. It’s a real problem.
Or like the other morning.
The spirited discussion in the car went like this:
ME: You’re chewing gum?
HE: Uh-huh.
ME: You are? It’s 7:45.
HE: Uhm, yeah? What are you saying?
ME: Doesn’t that seem early?
HE: I dunno.
ME: Seems early to me.
HE: Well, so, are you saying there’s a socially appropriate start time for gum chewing? Like “Don’t drink before noon; don’t chew gum before …..ah, when, exactly?(smacksmack)
ME: (wavering in the face of the exaggerated smacking) Uhhh ….
HE: Well, you must have a time in mind (smacksmacksmack).
ME: I don’t, okay? It just seemed early.
HE: (smacksmack) I think you do.
ME: (I’d rather discuss how soon I can kill you. Let’s discuss that.)
HE: Nine a.m.? Ten a.m.?
ME: Maybe before 9:00 is early.
HE: (smacksmacksmack) Hm.
ME: Hm, indeed.
SMACK. And KAPOW.
Honestly, one of us is not gettin’ outta this thing alive and, well, it’s not gonna be me.
All right. So I put it to you, pippa: Thoughts on an “appropriate gum chewing hour”?
You know …… the minutiae we cover on this blog truly staggers me sometimes.
But what is life made up of if not the minutiae?
