Thursday, July 18, 2019
Today I am grateful for shopping lists. I have been in nasty, vituperative battles with a few people on Facebook as they try to defend racism and racist comments. If you made these comments in a work place you would be fired. They are indefensible, so I don’t know where they are getting their information from. . .oh wait, yes I do. But today I just can’t fight that battle because it’s killing my sunny disposition.
Whenever Himself shouts at me from another part of the house, “We need. . .” whatever, I tell him to write it down. Rosanne Barr used to say the uterus was a tracking device that was supposed to find everything that every family member lost. Himself thinks I can remember everything. But guess, what? Here is my response. “Write it down! I no longer have a uterus!” So he does.
I’ve been working on him making a COSTCO list and a grocery list on two different pieces of paper. (Isn’t this nonsense so much more calming than the news?) He used to write one at the top and one at the bottom, but since we don’t go to COSTCO every week and he’s in Shop Rite every other day looking for liverwurst or the person who will shave the ham the way he likes it, half the list would be done and the other not. I always had to tear off the piece with the not purchased or copy it over.
Isn’t marriage fun? How wonderful to have the huge problem of dancing around the correct method to make a shopping list. Sometimes he writes things phonetically like, brid, chis or the more generic FUD. If I want some deli. . . Soo-Chi or Chinee for Maree! He’ll write things that we don’t need or have no intention of buying, because when he throws chocolate cake, Oreos and pudding in the cart I call them “unauthorized purchases.” Yeah, it’s a laugh riot around here. Oh, c’mon. I buy them, but I have to give him a hard time about it or he’ll think I have Alzheimer’s.
I’m sure if you haven’t run screaming into the night and are still catching these missives, you will remember the “rocket” debacle of a few weeks ago. That poor, pathetic, phallic thing is deflating in the basement, looking more obscene every day as it droops, bent in half, to the floor. Sad. COSTCO saw him coming on that one. $30 bucks worth of coming. (Yes, I did it on purpose.)
Eventually we needed to go back to the scene of the crime. “Have you got the COSTCO list?” he asked me, getting in the car. “Yes,” I said, “I have it,” wondering why he cares because he assumes I remember it anyway with or without the uterus and I didn’t bother to read it because it was written down. Then I started to shop, scratching things off as I walked the mile-long aisles. There at the bottom of the list he had written, “NO ROCKETS!”
No one asked why I was laughing, hard. (Yes, again.) But they didn’t have a bad porn star deflating in their basement and weren’t working from my shopping list.