I Find It Kind of Funny, I Find It Kind of Sad

A friend loaned me his copy of MadWorld for the Wii. Fun game, but ridiculously, comically, waaay-over-the-toply violent. If Congress ever sees this game they will outlaw pixels.

It’s so bad that I’ve been hiding it from my wife like porn, playing it only when she’s elsewhere in the house. Which has led to some awkward moments.

I frantically fumble with the remote control as The Queen enters the living room.

               The Queen
       What's with all the chainsaw noises and
       "motherfuckers" out here?


Tears and Gears

I just watched The Road while on the trainer. If the biathlon was “cycling and sobbing”, I’d be in Canada right now wearing a bronze at least.

While consoling me immediately afterward, The Queen said, “I am not laughing because you are crying. I am laughing because you smell terrible.”

The Secret

Me: Hey, it’s February 17th

The Queen: And?

Me: And it’s our wedding anniversary.

The Queen: Oops.

You know, I’m just going to assume that the “Oops” was in reference to her forgetting the date and not to her original decision to get hitched.

In fact, I strongly suspect that such assumptions are how we’re remained together for eight years.



Squiggle & I

So lemmie tell you about the (mostly healed, in this photograph) wound on my forehead. Kind of a funny story.

Last week The Queen and I rearranged the furniture in our bedroom, to make space for my new Craftsman 1470 pc. Professional Tool Set. (I like to store it all laid out like that, so I can easily find things.) As part of Operation Squabble (we cleverly embarked upon this plan when we were already tired and cranky, like at midnight), we decided to put a dresser into the walk-in closet. We’re talking a full-sized bureau here, about five feet high.

I grab one side, The Queen grabs the other, and we hoist it across the room. Between the lifting and my slightly hunched-over posture, the top edge of the dresser is level with my eyeline. Also, the corners of the thing are incredibly sharp. That’s a little thing we in the literary business like to call “Foreshadowing”.

So I’m backing into the closet. As I do so, the back of my head makes contact with the … you know, the thing. The rod. The hollow, wooden tube that runs below the shelf, on which you place the clothes hangers? That thing. I touch it with the back of my head. But I am so startled that I jerk forward, slamming my forehead into the corner of the dresser.

“Ohh god!” I howl, hastily setting my end of the dresser down and clutching my forehead. “Oh man. God, that hurts. Jeeze, I really got myself. I’m going to have a splitting headache within five minutes, I bet. Probably have a huge bump tomorrow, too. Wow, that was pretty bad. Yeah, that’s gonna be a goose egg.”

I look up at The Queen, and she’s completely stony-faced. Not a trace of sympathy. “Can we finish this?” she says. So I mutter under my breath a bit, and we finish putting the dresser into the closet.

About an hour later The Queen is in bed reading, and, as I climb in, she glances my direction. “Holy smokes,” she cries, “what happened?!”


“Your forehead! There’s a huge red mark on it.”

I do a slow burn for a moment. “That’s where I hit it. On the corner of the dresser.”

“When did that happen?”

“When did …?!” I splutter a bit. “Did you miss the part where I was clutching my head and yowling?”

“Ohhhhhh ….” Realization sets in. “I didn’t see you hit your head on the dresser. I though you were reacting to having backed into the closet rod at, like, one mile an hour.”

“I had my hand on the front of my head!” I point out.

“Yes,” she says, “That’s how I knew you were faking.”

We Hates It, We Hates It Forever

In bed reading, before we turn off the light:

Me: Oh hey, guess what: Guillermo del Toro might direct The Hobbit.

The Queen: Oh.

M: Yeah, and they are going to break the novel up into two movies.

Q: [Returning her attention to her book] Mm.

M: Ah c’mon, I thought you’d be interested. You loved Pan’s Labyrinth.

Q: Yeah, but I hated The Hobbit.

M: You didn’t even read it!

Q: I tried to read the other books, but they were super long and boring. So why would I read The Hobbit?

M: Because it’s much simpler than the Lord of the Rings. It’s almost a kid’s book.

Q: But I hate fantasy.

M: Wha-?!

Q: I hate fantasy. Of course I do. When have I ever said otherwise?

M: Every 20 minutes for the last eight years, in reference Harry Potter.

Q: The Harry Potter books were great.

M: You always do this. You always say you “hate” things that you like just fine. Like, remember the day you told me you hated jazz, and I pointed out that you like Louie Armstrong and Elle Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole and Billie Holiday and Miles Davis?

Q: Well, I just like a little bit of everything.

M: “Liking a little bit of everything” is not the same as “hating everything.”

Q: Yes, but the advantage of saying “I hate everything” is that it usually stops people from yammering on about The Hobbit.

Apples and Oranges

Being married to a professional botanist has its ups and downs. It’s nice on day hikes, for instance, having someone around who can instantly identify every plant we see. On the other hand, I don’t need to be notified of every ecological incongruence in the films we watch. The Queen spent much of the Lord of the Rings trilogy leaning over to me in the theater and whispering, “pfff, I can see why they call this a fantasy–they have polystichum munitum growing in a tropical upland climatic zone.”

Last night we went to a wreath-making party last night. Our host provided us with wire frames, fir boughs, holly, and pine cones; before dinner, while I read stories to Squiggle and put him to bed, everyone else got all elfy in the garage.

At the end of the evening we collected our wreath. Ours, while beautiful, was the least ornate of the bunch, consisting only of boughs. As we carried a sleeping Squiggle out to the car, I asked The Queen about this.

Me: Why didn’t you put holly in our wreath?

Queen: Because holly berries are poisonous, and when Squiggle saw them he pointed excitedly and yelled “cherries!”

M: Ah, good call. But what about the pine cones? You could have put a few of those on there.

Q: No I couldn’t. They were the wrong kind.

M: What do you mean?

Q: The boughs were from one species of tree and the pine cones were from another. It would look weird to have them on the same wreath.

M: What, seriously? Nobody would know but you.

Q: Yes, it would look weird to me. That’s what I’m saying.

M: Oh, come on. What’s the big deal?

Q: Let me put this into terms you can understand: imagine if you went to a Star Trek convention and saw a bunch of people dressed as Jedi.

M: Oh, god. Right. Gotcha.

Insufficiently Shy

The Queen, after reading yesterday’s post:

Q: You’re playing raquetball? What is this, the eighties?

M: Lots of people still play racquetball. It’s one of the most popular activities at my gym. It’s a great cardiovascular workout, exercises all major muscle, and is a lot of fun.

Q: Sorry, wasn’t listening. I had a Kajagoogoo song stuck in my head.

Ice Queen

The Queen rubs the top of her head and makes the ow-that-hurts air-through-the-teeth noise.

Me: What’s wrong?

Q: I have a bump on my head and it’s getting bigger. Feel it.

{I engage in some impromptu phrenology}

M: Wow, that’s a good ‘un. How did you get it?

Q: I got hit by a block of ice.

M: Did it knock you out cold?

Q: It’s not funny.

M: Sorry. What happened?

Q: I wanted to pack the cooler for our weekend camping trip, so I went to the grocery store and bought a big block of ice. As I was walking back to the car I tumbled — honestly I don’t know what happened, I just suddenly went ass over teakettle — and when I threw my arms up the ice flew into the air. Then, after I landed on my butt, the block of ice came down and hit me on the top of the head.


Q: What?

M: Nothing, I’m just waiting for the part of the story that’s not funny.

I’m A-Start Some Drama

I walked into the kitchen this morning to find The Queen groggily gathering coffee-making accoutrements.

“Wha’cha gonna do wit all dat junk?” I asked her. “All dat junk inside yo trunk?”

She scowled at me as a reminder of the household’s “no conversation before caffeine” rule, but then asked, “What are you saying?”

“No no, that was all wrong” I said, disappointed. “You are supposed to reply …” — I switched to falsetto — “… I

The Final Word

In my post about The Squirrelly’s burgeoning language skills, I neglected to mention that The Queen and I recently established his first word. It happened during a conversation with a friend of ours.

Friend: What was The Squirrelly’s first word?

Me: “Kitty.”

The Queen: “Mama.”

M: [To Queen] Well, really he started saying “kitty” first.

Q: [To friend] It was “mama.”

M: [To Queen] I mean, yes, he made “mm mm” sounds before he said kitty, but, you know, in order to officially be considered a word they have to say it three times in the appropriate context, so —

Q: [To me, accompanied by The Look] His first word was “mama.”

M: Well, but I … I, um … uhh …


Q: [To friend] It was “mama.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how facts are made.

This wasn’t the first time she’d used The Force on me. About a year before The Squirrelly was born we got a second cat to keep Louie, our first, company.

Q: What should we name him?

M: Oh, whatever you want.

Q: I named Louie, so it seems only fair that you get to name this one.

M: Really? Wow, okay. Well, he’s black, so maybe something like “shadow” or “licorice.”

Q: You want to name him “licorice?”

M: Well, no — “licorice” doesn’t really roll of the tongue. But he does kind of look like a big licorice jellybean, you know. So maybe — oo, that’s a perfect name: “jellybean.”

Q: “Jellybean. ”

M: Yeah, “jellybean.” What do you think?

Q: I think I like “Edgar.” We’ll call him “Edgar.”