Tuesday, July 21, 2009
One of My Favorite Games
One of the joys of being married is that you always have someone to antagonize when you're bored. There are many immature, idiotic things I like to do (setting alarm clocks and kitchen timers to go haywire in Bed, Bath & Beyond has always been a favorite of mine) to make my wife's eyes roll, but yesterday I did another of my favorites. It's very simple, but it produces hilarity (at least to me) every time.
We men like to grab asses. Clearly, this is not news. But what I like to do is the surprise ass-grab. Even better is when you can get somebody else in trouble for it. We had to go to a store and so she said I could wait in the car. I waited until she was inside and then went in, saw he standing in line and sneaked up behind her, grabbing a handful. Of course, the reaction was an instant spin-around, and then the realization that it was me. Fun.
But it's even better in a crowded place. I used to always love doing this at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden, where anyone who grew up going to those places knows everyone is edgy and reader for a fracas, especially if you start to eyeball Vinny's girl.
One of my favorites was when wifey was in the beer line at MSG and there was a stranger behind her. A male stranger. I had gotten something elsewhere so she didn't know I was approaching. I cruised by the line and pinched her ass-cheek on the opposite side that I was passing on, thus causing the involuntary turn to that side. And I just kept moving, but kept an eye on the situation. She spun around and looked at the guy behind her. His face was priceless. And it wasn't necessarily the "Crap, I didn't do that!" face... but more a face that most of us males would make. Kind of like a chagrined, "Well, if I knew I was going to get in trouble for something I'd enjoy doing anyway...."
It never gets old.
We men like to grab asses. Clearly, this is not news. But what I like to do is the surprise ass-grab. Even better is when you can get somebody else in trouble for it. We had to go to a store and so she said I could wait in the car. I waited until she was inside and then went in, saw he standing in line and sneaked up behind her, grabbing a handful. Of course, the reaction was an instant spin-around, and then the realization that it was me. Fun.
But it's even better in a crowded place. I used to always love doing this at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden, where anyone who grew up going to those places knows everyone is edgy and reader for a fracas, especially if you start to eyeball Vinny's girl.
One of my favorites was when wifey was in the beer line at MSG and there was a stranger behind her. A male stranger. I had gotten something elsewhere so she didn't know I was approaching. I cruised by the line and pinched her ass-cheek on the opposite side that I was passing on, thus causing the involuntary turn to that side. And I just kept moving, but kept an eye on the situation. She spun around and looked at the guy behind her. His face was priceless. And it wasn't necessarily the "Crap, I didn't do that!" face... but more a face that most of us males would make. Kind of like a chagrined, "Well, if I knew I was going to get in trouble for something I'd enjoy doing anyway...."
It never gets old.
Labels: ass-grabbing, married life
Monday, July 20, 2009
Bustication
I don't want to hear bitching about it being hot where you are. I just don't. Because unless your car almost explodes simply from sitting in the heat, you don't know what I'm dealing with.
Sure, sure, I always make the point that our trade-off is worth it here in Tejas -- that wearing flip flops and shorts while Christmas shopping is rather awesome, and highs in the 70s and 80s on Thanksgiving is neat-o. And I stand by that. Our A/C bills are insane-o in the summertime and stepping outside at 6 AM to let the dog out feels like walking into a blast furnace. And that you find yourself seriously considering figuring out a way to mow your lawn at night because it's still 104 with 90% humidity at 5:30 PM. But I can deal with all that. I rather enjoy it, actually, in a weird way.
But what pisses me off is when things like my car can't handle it. Look, car, you get to live in a warm climate. You don't have to deal with snow. Or salt. If you were in the north, you'd practically decompose underneath because of all the road salt. But no, we live here in Texas. And what do you do? Well, you sit in the heat at the airport for a few days... and then when I return and leave to head home and have the temerity to spritz my windsheild to clean the dirt/dust off that accumulates there when in an off-site parking lot, what happens? Yeah, that's right, the damn windshield makes a pop sound like I ran over an aluminum can. But instead of being an aluminum can it's my windshield springing a huge crack.
The fun doesn't end there, though. Each day, the crack grows. It's like a little game each day when I come out to the car after work. How far will it have grown and in which direction? Which pre-existing chip will it head towards?
The crack now exists from below my inspection sticker diagonally up to a chip in right about my line of sight, and then it forks off into two different directions. Neat-o! This will continue all summer, I would imagine, and eventually I'll be accused of a hit-and-run because it will look like a human has been smashed against my windshield. Which might happen as I get angrier.
Sure, sure, I always make the point that our trade-off is worth it here in Tejas -- that wearing flip flops and shorts while Christmas shopping is rather awesome, and highs in the 70s and 80s on Thanksgiving is neat-o. And I stand by that. Our A/C bills are insane-o in the summertime and stepping outside at 6 AM to let the dog out feels like walking into a blast furnace. And that you find yourself seriously considering figuring out a way to mow your lawn at night because it's still 104 with 90% humidity at 5:30 PM. But I can deal with all that. I rather enjoy it, actually, in a weird way.
But what pisses me off is when things like my car can't handle it. Look, car, you get to live in a warm climate. You don't have to deal with snow. Or salt. If you were in the north, you'd practically decompose underneath because of all the road salt. But no, we live here in Texas. And what do you do? Well, you sit in the heat at the airport for a few days... and then when I return and leave to head home and have the temerity to spritz my windsheild to clean the dirt/dust off that accumulates there when in an off-site parking lot, what happens? Yeah, that's right, the damn windshield makes a pop sound like I ran over an aluminum can. But instead of being an aluminum can it's my windshield springing a huge crack.
The fun doesn't end there, though. Each day, the crack grows. It's like a little game each day when I come out to the car after work. How far will it have grown and in which direction? Which pre-existing chip will it head towards?
The crack now exists from below my inspection sticker diagonally up to a chip in right about my line of sight, and then it forks off into two different directions. Neat-o! This will continue all summer, I would imagine, and eventually I'll be accused of a hit-and-run because it will look like a human has been smashed against my windshield. Which might happen as I get angrier.
Labels: car trouble, Houston
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Please Stop Singing
Let's get right to the point -- I hate "Happy Birthday." Not the act of wishing a happy birthday, but the song.
There are multiple theories on who actually wrote the lyrics, and pretty much all of the people who are potentially responsible are long since dead, so I don't have anyone to beat to death with a lead pipe over this. But I really hate Happy Birthday.
I think it's mainly because I feel like it's a song for children. Children enjoy birthdays and having the song sung to them, etc. Adults don't. Or they shouldn't, anyway, if they're really adults. It's a childish song, and having someone like my dad singing to you is just.... weird. It's always an awkward exercise, made especially so when your mother-in-law or co-worker is singing to you. Where else might this happen? I mean, seriously, when else might Jenny in the next cubicle be singing to you? (Well, get a few drinks in her first, maybe...)
I think what also bothers me is that it's a stupid tradition that has turned into something of a superstition to people at this point. You have to sing "Happy Birthday"! You just have to! This was basically the explanation my lovely wife gave me when I was bitching about it one time and asking why it's necessary. She really didn't have an answer... just that it's what we do. Even when it's just a group of adults in the room? Come on.
If it's a little kid's birthday, then by all means. Let's sing. I'll even participate. But if it's my birthday? Ah, no. I'll be 34 effing years old this year. I'm not a toddler. I don't need a song sung to me on my birthday.
In fact, what I want for my birthday more than anything is a moratorium on singing that infernal song.
There are multiple theories on who actually wrote the lyrics, and pretty much all of the people who are potentially responsible are long since dead, so I don't have anyone to beat to death with a lead pipe over this. But I really hate Happy Birthday.
I think it's mainly because I feel like it's a song for children. Children enjoy birthdays and having the song sung to them, etc. Adults don't. Or they shouldn't, anyway, if they're really adults. It's a childish song, and having someone like my dad singing to you is just.... weird. It's always an awkward exercise, made especially so when your mother-in-law or co-worker is singing to you. Where else might this happen? I mean, seriously, when else might Jenny in the next cubicle be singing to you? (Well, get a few drinks in her first, maybe...)
I think what also bothers me is that it's a stupid tradition that has turned into something of a superstition to people at this point. You have to sing "Happy Birthday"! You just have to! This was basically the explanation my lovely wife gave me when I was bitching about it one time and asking why it's necessary. She really didn't have an answer... just that it's what we do. Even when it's just a group of adults in the room? Come on.
If it's a little kid's birthday, then by all means. Let's sing. I'll even participate. But if it's my birthday? Ah, no. I'll be 34 effing years old this year. I'm not a toddler. I don't need a song sung to me on my birthday.
In fact, what I want for my birthday more than anything is a moratorium on singing that infernal song.
Labels: dumb traditions, Happy Birthday, superstitions
