We were browsing a furniture store, looking for a new chair for our new den in our new house. The saleswoman had spoken to us, but was letting us roam on our own by our request. As we were completing our circuit through the store, and about to make our way out, the saleswoman broke away from talking with her coworker (another woman) and thanked us for coming by.

Then she added, to me, “Has anyone ever told you, you look that guy on General Hospital?” She looked back at her coworker, “What’s his name? Oh, yeah, Josh.”

I looked at my wife, then back at the saleswomen. “No, I haven’t heard that.”

“Well, you look just like him,” she reaffirmed.

I just smiled. “Well, I hope he’s handsome?”

“Oh,” said the saleswoman, “he’s doable.”

“Yes,” confirmed the other saleswoman.

My eyebrows shot up. I looked at my wife again. I gave a friendly chuckle to the saleswomen, and we continued our exit from the store.

When we got in our van, and closed the doors, I said, “For the record, I’m doable.”

Bullgrit

Woman: “Honey?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Can I ask you a question?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Would you do something for me?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Do you see that bowl on the table?”

Man: “Yes.”

Woman: “Can you reach it?”

Man: “Yes.”

Woman: “Would you bring it to me?”

Man: “OK.”

* * *

Man: “Bring that bowl to me from the table.”

Woman: “Is that an order?”

Man: “Will you bring me that bowl on the table?”

Woman: “How about a please?”

Man: “Will you please bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “What bowl?”

Man: “The one on the table.”

Woman: “This one?”

Man: “Yes. Please bring me that bowl.”

Woman: “I can get you a clean one from the cabinet.”

Man: “I just need that bowl. Will you please bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “You don’t want this one, it had milk in it.”

Man: “I need that bowl now. Can you just bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “OK, but let me wash it out first.”

Man: “It’s fine as it is. Just bring it to me!”

Woman: “Don’t raise your voice to me!”

Man: <sigh> “Please bring me that bowl.”

Woman: “OK. See, you could have just asked politely from the beginning.”

Bullgrit

I’m sure it breaks my momma’s heart to think that her sweet, eldest son cusses. But I do. Not in front of my children, where I mumble incoherently under my breath, or I use non-sense syllables like Joe Pesci in Home Alone. And usually not on this blog, where I type slower than I talk and so can pre-emptively edit what I say.

But with my friends, when relaxed, I cuss fluently. Now, I don’t just let vulgarities fly for the h— of it, or just for s—- and giggles. I don’t throw the f-bomb around intentionally. The words just kind of roll off my tongue.

I think I cuss more than my gaming buddies. Maybe I cuss more on game nights with my friends because I have to hold it in all the other days and nights of the week. None of the other guys have children, so they can probably get their Fs and Ps and MFGDSOBPs out of their systems.

But me, I’m cramping from holding in all my MGFULDPSs all week. They have to come out when they can or I might get clogged up. And I definitely don’t want to get my A all clogged up with S because the GD words F up my A and E with I, O, U and sometimes Y.

Bullgrit

Continued from last post.

Side note: A couple of years ago, my mom told me she was going to cancel her home phone. She’d use just her cell phone from then on. So I deleted her land line number from my cell phone directory. I’ve since only called her cell phone. But she never actually canceled her land line.

On this Thanksgiving morning, when I called her cell phone, she didn’t answer. Her phone was back in her bedroom, out of hearing range.

Now, I don’t tell any of the above as a complaint, but merely to complete the scene of me trying to effect a change of tires in a gravel parking lot on a cold November morning.

After failing to get her on her cell phone, I thought for a moment and remembered her home phone number. I thought myself rather intelligent to remember the number after having not so much as looked at it in at least two years, and not having dialed it directly in years more than that. (Who dials directly when we have speed dial?)

I dialed her home phone number, but got a sleepy man on the line. “Sorry, wrong number,” I explained. Dammit.

I waited a few minutes sitting in the van, out of the cold breeze. After a couple minutes, my mom called me back on her cell phone. I explained that I needed her to come out to me so I could use her car jack. “OK,” she said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I waited a couple more minutes, and then on a lark, I went back to the trunk of the van to fiddle with the stuck jack again.

I tried several times to turn the screw on the jack, and finally it moved. I managed to turn it far enough that I could get the jack out of its sleeve. I immediately called my mom back and told her not to come to me.

I took the jack and commenced to lifting up the van. The short jack handle combined with cold hands made raising the van frustratingly difficult — I scraped my knuckles on the gravel a few times. Ow, crap. Ow, shit. Ow, mutha’ fuckin’ shit.

Anyway, to make an already long story not longer, I got the flat tire off and the spare tire on. The interior of the van was a wreck with family junk strewn everywhere, but I just closed all the doors and drove off. My cussing died down within the hour.

The next day, I got the tire replaced (two, actually, as it was about time anyway).

Moral of this story? I don’t know.

Revelation from this story? I can cuss. (My mom will probably send me an email chastising me for my language in these recent posts.)

Facepalm moment from this story? I remembered my mom’s home phone number correctly, but I used the wrong area code. <sigh>

Bullgrit