I have absolutely nothing to write about this week. And I blame my husband.
“Come on, do something!” I hollered at him just days before deadline.
“What do you want me to do?” he hollered back.
The love in our home just blows you away, doesn’t it?
“Something stupid and embarrassing!” I replied.
“So I can write about it.”
“Oh. Sure,” he announced in dry tones. “I’ll get right on that.”
You see, my creative juices are directly proportional to whatever hi-jinx my family creates. With a husband, a 4-year-old and a golden retriever who thinks she’s royalty, there are usually enough incidents to warrant our own Homeland Security folder. But not this week.
It was - gasp - so boring that nothing jumped immediately to mind. So I pulled out my little black book.
No, not that little black book. The other one.
You know, the one I use to write down column ideas. You’ve seen it. Most of you run screaming in terror from me when you see me whip it out.
Imagine your reaction if I were wearing a trench coat and black socks at the same time.
I turned to page one....
“I want to be invincible when I grow up.”
Muttered by my son out of the blue after picking him up from preschool one day. Impressed by a rather extensive vocabulary for his young four years, I asked why.
“So people couldn’t see me.”
Oh. OK. Check that previous comment about his vocabulary being soooo stupendous.
“I think you meant to say, ‘invisible’ not ‘invincible,’” I corrected.
“Oh,” he said, “What does ‘invincible’ mean?”
“It means you’re the best, the strongest, that no one can beat you,” I answered.
“Cool!” he yelled from the back seat. “Then I want to be INVINCIBLE!”
“OK,” I replied, “but you’re gonna have to start eating your vegetables.”
Quiet. Then followed by a quick, “Never mind.”
Felled by the mere idea of broccoli. So much for his future of becoming a superhero.
Onward to page two....
“You won’t believe the size of the booger I just blew outta my nose!”
Nope, not said by the 4-year-old. Rather, the 40-something aforementioned husband.
I’m not sure what was more disturbing: the idea he wanted to brag about his nasal snot or the fact a 40-something man used the word “booger.”
Stand back, ladies. Here’s all mine.
And page three....
“Maybe it hurts ‘cuz your dress is too tight.”
Again, not who you might think. Going back to the preschooler with this one. But a little background first.
I spent the past 6 months shedding 30 pounds through diet, exercise and the sheer will to get back into three-quarters of the clothes hanging in my closet.
And I did it. Then I did what every other red-blooded American female worth her Visa card does.
I went shopping.
And found a cute little black dress. I tried it on. It seemed a bit snug but still fit. Even without the added help of a body-shaping bra, girdle, panty hose and starving myself for three days before actually wearing it in public. Nope, an honest-to-goodness real fit.
Imagine my surprise when I looked at the tag and realized I’d accidentally pulled one from the rack that was two sizes smaller than I wear.
My mouth formed a silent O. Then I excitedly jumped up and down in the tiny fitting room, lost my balance and smashed into the wall with a loud BANG.
Oh, so graceful.
The sales lady tapped on the door and asked politely, “Are you OK in there?”
I squeaked out, “Just fine,” quickly took the dress off, tossed it over the door to her and said, “Ring it up!”
Later that evening, I modeled it for my boys.
They ooh-ed and aah-ed appropriately. I felt a small cramp under my rib cage. My son noticed and asked, “You have an owie, Mom?”
I nodded yes then he wisely announced, “Maybe it hurts ‘cuz your dress is too tight.”
Insert seizure here.
Needless to say, the only one not in the doghouse this week is...well...the dog. Welcome to my world.