Jul
19
July 19, 2007
I just want to say for the record that my husband is sometimes an exceedingly thoughtful lug. For instance, last night after I flopped onto the couch with a giant tired sigh, he wordlessly queued up the latest recording of “So You Think You Can Dance”, a show he would probably normally watch only if the alternative was death by toenail-pulling. And he watched all of it with me, even the judge commentary with that woman whose teeth look like the grill of a Mack truck.
In case that sullies his reputation as Cavemannish Male, though, I should also point out that later in bed he asked if I wanted to “hit it”. Then hastened to assure me he would brush his teeth beforehand, should I so desire.
(Note to anyone hoping to get a little late-night action: brushing your teeth before the Smooth Proposition greatly increases the odds of receiving a positive response, rather than a deflating cackle of disbelief.)
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In thrilling remodel news, here’s what our kitchen currently looks like:
That’s looking in from the living room, to a sawdust-filled expanse where once there were walls and cabinets. It’s very strange to see all the way to the end of the house. Also, I’ve given up on trying to stay on top of the dirt. Our house is a dust-choked hovel and there’s nothing I can do about it.
We still have use of our stove and fridge, but without cabinets or countertop power we have a temporary kitchen storage area in the living room. Which Riley has not yet pulled down on his head, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
This alone is going to make up for all the hassle: the beams on the left indicate the new kitchen wall — the back of the fridge shows where the previous wall was. That’s going to make a huge difference in our tiny kitchen area.
Riley is oddly unimpressed by it all.
Probably because he’d much rather be lying around naked with a good book. Hey, I know I would.
Jul
18
July 18, 2007
A few weeks ago my coworker T and I were talking about Top Gun. T put forth the oft-repeated theory that Top Gun is in fact a thinly disguised celebration of male homosexual love, and this being one of my favorite subjects—Top Gun and its homage to hot man-on-man action, that is—I immediately launched into a frothy-mouthed monologue about how of COURSE it is, how about that VOLLEYBALL scene, or the carefully arranged naked legs in the LOCKER ROOM OMG, and how about all those lines of dialogue like “He’s on my tail coming hard!” and oh, Top Gun is just the gayest movie that ever gayed, it’s just SO INCREDIBLY PORNISHLY GAY, and really, it’s sort of a work of art in its gayitude, and I think I may have used the term “sausage fest” more than once, and then? Then, later that afternoon? I was talking with my office-mate A, who had been present for the entire Top Gun conversation, and while I was in mid-sentence about something or other, probably about how Tom Cruise huffs so much dong, I glanced down at his shirt and saw the white on black lettering that read, wait for it, TOP GUN.
That’s right, my coworker had on a freaking Top Gun T-SHIRT (it read “Wingman” on the back). Which I had somehow managed not to notice during my entire sermon about the cornholing gayness of Top Gun.
Lesson learned: if one of your coworkers slinks away snickering while you are busy pointing out the various reasons why a well-known macho movie is more gay than a truck full of parrots, you should probably look around to see if any other coworkers are wearing a shirt advertising said movie. Then shut your big dirty trap before you find yourself saying “snowballing” in reference to Iceman.
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