Cross Examined At Breakfast

I walked into the kitchen the other morning wearing five pocket straight leg jeans and a t-shirt.  I was carrying my sweater to put on after I ate breakfast, but before I went out the door.  The following conversation ensued.

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Him:  You have sparkles on your butt.

Me:  [shaking my tail feathers]  You like?

Him:  There’s shiny stuff on your back pockets.

Me:  [reaching for the carafe and pouring myself a cup of coffee]  Pretty, huh?

Him:  What are those sparkles doing on your butt?

Me:  [pushing him aside to get into the pantry]  They’re fashionable.  They’re just there.

Him:  Does your sweater cover your butt?

Me:  [ripping open a breakfast bar and biting into it]  I dunno.

Him:  Well, if it’s long enough your sweater will cover the sparkles on your butt.

Me:  [taking another bite of breakfast bar]  Yes, and if it’s short enough you’ll see all the shiny on the pockets.

Him:  Is that what you want?

Me:  [eating my last bite of breakfast bar]  I don’t care.

Him:  Here, put on your sweater.

Me:  [putting on my sweater]  Okay.  How’s it look?  Sparkles or not?

Him:  Your sweater covers part of your pockets.  You’re only half shiny.

Me:  [slurping my last slug of coffee]  Okie dokie then.  I’m a sparkly half-ass.  It’s confirmed.

Him:  Why’d you buy those jeans?

Me:  [grabbing my purse from the floor where I’d put it beside my canvas tote]  I bought them because they were on sale.  I don’t care what happens on the backside.  I don’t see it.  And they fit really well.

Him:  Hmmm.  Yes, they do.

~ • ~ 

And this my friends is what it’s like being married to a lawyer.  He can’t just say “pretty.”  Oh no.  He has to get all the details first.  Establish a fact pattern.  And then he’ll comment.  If he’s in the mood.

The Story Of How We Got A Color TV

Yesterday after I posted two b&w commercials, I got thinking about the events that lead up to my mother finally allowing us to have a color TV.  I don’t usually talk about my childhood, but just this once I’ll tell you more than you’ll probably ever want to know about me– and how it came to be that my mother allowed the two of us to have an extravagance such as a color TV.

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In May of my freshman year of high school we had unusually intense spring thunderstorms.  Very windy, very rainy, with lots of lightning.

Our house didn’t have cable so to get reception our TV had an antennae attached to it.  One night after Mom and I had gone to bed a bolt of lightning hit the antennae, came into the house, and went straight to the TV (which was off at the time).  In an instant, the old b&w TV caught on fire.

The burning TV sounded like someone making popcorn.  In fact, when I heard the popping sound I figured that Mom couldn’t sleep and had got up to make herself a snack.  Naturally, I wanted some of it so I hurried into the kitchen to get something to eat.

But what I found in the kitchen was my mother on the phone with our small town fire department.  They responded quickly and almost the entire fire department arrived to watch our TV burn up.  This was because most of the firemen had heard about how old TVs could catch on fire, but had never actually seen one in real life on fire, so this was a learning experience for them.

They dragged the TV outside into the rain and then axed it to pieces.  There was almost no damage to the inside of the house, but the old b&w TV was toast.

Weird as it is to say, the dramatic end of our TV got Mom and me laughing every time we talked about it.  The whole absurd thing was funny to us.

Already that year: 1) my dad had died after a lengthy illness;  2) I’d had major surgery on my knee;  and 3) while driving into the garage Mom had accidentally run over the family cat [who went on to live a very long and grouchy life].  So having your TV burst into flames seemed rather minor to us.  Just something to laugh about.  Endlessly.

Which was just as well considering that Mom had lots of bills to pay– and getting a new TV was not a priority.  So for the next twelve months we lived in a very quiet home with only the radio, playing cards, boxed games and books for entertainment.

Eventually Mom decided that it was time for us to get a new television.  She and I went to some local furniture/appliance store where we bought a brand-new top-of-the-line [Magnavox, maybe?] color TV.

Our first one.  Finally.

Which One?

When I was a little girl Saturday morning was for watching cartoons and commercials.  On a black and white television, of course.

[My mother refused to buy one of the “new” color TVs until our old one quit working.  Let me assure you that those old b&w TVs were very well-made.  But I digress… ]

I found the two commercials below on YouTube.  While I don’t remember either one, I’m putting them here as examples of what was on TV way back then.

[Or maybe a little bit before my way back then.  But you get the gist of what I’m showing you here, right?  Something in black and white.]

After watching both commercials I’ve decided that I prefer one of the characters over the other one.

So, how about you?  Are you on Team Sugar Bear [“Bet your booties, Granny”]?

Or are you on Team Trix Rabbit  [“Oh, rubba, rubba, dub”]?

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Well, Who’d Of Thought?

For a pleasantly scented work area do this:

  • Go for an early morning walk.
  • Upon returning home but before entering the house– pluck stray dried leaves out of the pot of rosemary that sits on the front stoop.
  • Enter home and immediately go to desktop computer to catch up on email.
  • When finished with email– shower and dress for the day.
  • Return to home office and sit down in front of computer to start day in earnest.

Result?  The most delightfully aromatic keyboard I ever did smell.  🙂

Serenaded By Flugelhornists

We went to a college football game yesterday afternoon.  The weather was clear and crisp with lots of sunshine.  Our club seats were wonderful and the home team won.

After watching the marching bands in the halftime show, I’d had enough of sitting in the sun.  I suggested to Zen-Den that we go inside to the private eating area and get something to eat.  Then I suggested in the most adamant terms possible that we should stay inside in the shade to watch the third quarter on one of the many TVs provided therein.  He went along with my idea because: 1) he’s older now and has learned that when he goes to a game he doesn’t have to watch every second of it live to enjoy the game;  and 2) I mentioned food.

So, in we went.

###

We got our food, found a nice place to sit and were in the process of munching when we heard the marching band.  At first we thought that it was on TV but realized that the noise was getting louder and louder.  [Hello doppler effect.]  The noise was coming from the other side of eating area, so we turned around to see what was happening.

What we saw were 9 members of the flugelhorn section of the home team’s marching band– in full dress band uniform– not quite marching, but kind of kick stepping through the room.  [Think John Cleese in the Minister of Funny Walks.]  They were playing the home team’s fight song–very loudly and not all that tunefully.

It was Monty Pythonesque absurdity at it’s best.  Both of us started to laugh so hard that we were crying.

###

We couldn’t figure out why a roaming band of flugelhornists had chosen to visit the club section of the stadium.  Was this a reward for them or a punishment for them within the band hierarchy?  Was this a reward for those of us who had paid more for club seats– or was it a punishment for those of us who didn’t get invited to the classy box seats on the quiet level above?  Who knew?

Nor could we figure out if these were first team flugelhornists– or, as Z-D suggested, the freshman reserve flugelhornists allowed to strut their stuff later in the game when a victory was certain.  Considering that they weren’t exactly on key, I’m going with freshman reserve.

I suspect that we’ll never know the answers to these probing questions about the inner workings of Team Flugelhorn.  And that’s okay.  I like a bit of mystery in my life.  But what I do know is that we’ll always remember attending this football game– and our chance encounter with a roaming band of very loud flugelhornists.