Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Today I am grateful for laughter.  I need some laughter these days and I’m happy to say I’m finding it.  The women I meet up with after water aerobics never fail.  Neither do the weekly lunch ladies.  But tonight it was Himself who just cracked me up.  Young people!  Now hear this!  Marry someone who makes you laugh!  When the hormones fail, the kids are gone, and the budget is grim, it will be your most precious connection.


If you’ve been hanging around with me for a while you know we usually watch Jeopardy together every night.  We record it so that we can avoid commercials and also so we can pause, discuss amongst ourselves and shamelessly cheat while we collectively come up with the correct (or not so much) answer.  Himself rarely misses a science/math question.  I’m all over the alcohol/food categories.  Tells you a lot about us.


Tonight, and don’t quote me on sequence, there was a question about two performers who had hits with a song by the same one-word title.  They gave the years and the performers names.  One was Petula Clark, but I don’t remember the other and it was only a few minutes ago.  Sigh.  We discussed.


Himself: It was an Australian.

Me:  What was an Australian?  The song?

Himself:  No, Petula Clark.  Wasn’t she Australian?

Me:  Yes, but she’s a she, not an it.

Himself:  “Tie the Kangaroo Down!”

Me:  That’s not one word.

Himself:  Down-under. . . . koala. . .wallaby. . .wombat

Me:  Those are animals!

Himself:  “Downtown!”


And he was right.  You see how it goes.  Another question had to do with the initials of a woman author and, of course, I don’t remember that full question, either.  Isn’t this fun?  Her initials were C.B.


Himself:  C.B.?  Who’s C.B.?

Me:  I have no idea.

Himself:  I can’t imagine C.B.!  Do you know?

Me:  I can’t even think, what with you yammering.

Himself: Clara Barton!

Me:  She was a nurse in the Civil War!

Himself:  Maybe she wrote about it.

Me:  They already gave the answer, weren’t you listening?

Himself:  Missed it.  What was it?

Me:  Charlotte Bronte

Himself:  Charlie?  Good old Charlie Bronte?  Wasn’t he in the “Dirty Dozen”?


His hearing is selective, I swear!  I was laughing so hard I forgot to forward through the next commercial and some young babe comes on and points to her hand.  “I have a dark spot!” she shouts, in horror, as the dark-spot-removing-cream is presented on screen.  Himself does a five minute skit pointing at various parts of his skin and with increasing enthusiasm says, “Poor baby found a dark spot!  Lemme see. . .No, not here. . .maybe there. . .no, not there, either. . .maybe my arm. . .nope. . .wait. . .wait. . .wait!  I found it!  The only inch WITHOUT a dark spot! Yea!”


When I asked him if I could get a picture of him for the blog, he said, “Why?  You’re just going to make fun of me and the ladies at the Y will be all over me about it.”  He loves it.  Don’t be fooled.  I told him I wanted him laughing. . .and pointing to the spot.  He is so not an actor.  Had to do it three times until he finally just got faux-pissed and left!  Geeze.  I seriously peed my pants.  Nothing feels as good as laughter.

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