Once I Mess With the Ol’ Mind, Your Little Heart Won’t Be the Same

This post should come with a warning label, letting you know that it rambles covers a lot of different topics.  And that (regardless of how much listening to him all the time irritates me) I feel compelled to sing Waylon Jennings’ song, “I’m a Rambling Man.”  One of the blessings of being married to Hubs is that Waylon’s time at the top of the charts is not over.  (“Don’t mess around with a ramblin’ man!”)

Sadly, I feel compelled to reveal that one member of the Jedi Manor took his Nerdom to a Color Red, Houston-We-Have-Us-a-Big-Problem, Level Nineteen this morning, as he announced, “Honey, I forgot to tell you yesterday, what with all the soccer games you pulled me through, and the meeting that you almost made me late for, and that friend of yours who is having computer problems that you made me call, and the toe I almost broke off of my foot when I stubbed it on the leg of the bed, but guess what?  I totally stripped my phone down a second time, and it’s so fast now, it’s like lightning striking.  I have made some worthwhile changes to it.”

When I asked Hubs what the entire point of having a phone that can now boot up in JUST EIGHT SECONDS, when yesterday it booted up in an impressive twelve seconds was, he stared at me like he was a stranger in our house, before he said, “It’s because I like to WIN.  And because everything that is faster is better.”

And there you have his entire line of reasoning when he made me trade in my beloved 1982 Honda Accord several years ago.  When a girl has to shut the air conditioning and the radio off and attempt to gain a little extra speed before she tackles a hill on the interstate, and then the John Deere tractor driven by Farmer Pete passes her, the Faster is Better theory consumes Hubs like a fire out of control, until he is ready to push the Accord off a cliff, just to be done with all the Slowness in his life.

For the record, MY phone still takes 94 seconds to boot itself up.

I know.  I know.

This is costing me all the good stock in my life, because Hubs has already bought it straight off of Wall Street in the extra 86 seconds he has on me in the arena of Phone Boot-Up.  But really?  It’s not costing me at all, actually, because I am Hubs’ bookkeeper, and because I manage ALL of his finances, I can skim a bit of the earnings off the top of the good stock, if I feel led to do so.  Hubs’ idea of balancing the checkbook involves him looking online to determine what the bank tells us we have in our account.  And then he thinks it’s a golden number, and presto!  He’s done with the whole concept of balancing the checkbook, and he scratches that little chore off of his To-Do List, because THAT took him nine seconds to accomplish, whereas I spend an hour diligently crossing off all the checks that have cleared by hand and adding those that haven’t cleared back into our overall balance (exactly as my dad taught me to do when I was a senior in high school and first opened a checking account), and then growling horribly and rolling up my sleeves to seriously dig into the act when I realize that I am three cents off.

And being three cents off in the world of balancing the checkbook is an irritating green pea under my stack of mattresses.

The sad thing is that my financial responsibility throughout the years has given me a STELLAR credit report.  Absolutely pristine and golden.  And then Hubs’ credit score is exactly four points HIGHER than mine is.

I don’t understand it.  I have handed those four bonus points to Hubs with a red bow wrapped around them, with my diligence in keeping his checking account up-to-date and writing all the checks for his utility bills each month.  Naturally, Hubs just grins at this and shouts, “I win!”

In other news, Hubs and I need a new TV show to watch in the evenings.

The sad thing is simply this:  If it isn’t Bronco football or Avalanche hockey or Pawn Stars or Glee, we don’t watch it on the TV.  Hubs and I have no idea what programs are even currently played each evening in the TV schedule, because we are what is commonly called BEHIND THE TIMES.

(And since we don’t watch the TV shows ON the TV, we don’t see the commercials.  And when we don’t see the commercials, we don’t see the new movie trailers advertised.  And when we don’t see the trailers, we have no idea what show to pick for ourselves on the weekend, when we’re sitting around like bread loaves on the sofa, and one of us says, “We should totally get up and date one another at the theater.”  Then we have to drag out the laptop and visit You Tube, so that we can see the previews of what’s playing in Small Town, USA, so that we can make an educated decision on what movie we’d like to spend our money on, and which movie we’d like to eat a tub of buttery popcorn in front of.  And sometimes, like this past weekend, the act of catching up on all the trailers is so overwhelming that we simply look at one another and say, “I don’t have the energy to get myself all involved in a trip to the theater.  Let’s just stay here, looking like loaves of Wonder Bread.  Let’s just be unproductive and non-contributors to society today.”)

Thanks to Netflix, though, Hubs and I are catching up on all the old television shows.  We started with The Office, and watched that one through six seasons of back-logged DVDs.  We laughed like hyenas on nitrous oxide, and then we were sadly disappointed to learn that the current season of The Office is no longer funny.  And THAT translates into this one phrase:  The Office is now dead to us.  After that, we moved to Arrested Development, which made us hoot with pleasure, until we’d seen them all.  And then we pressed on in our quest for great sitcoms, and we discovered The Big Bang Theory, because our friend, Bryan, pointed it out to us.  TBBT made me laugh until I wept, and Hubs would laugh until he could no longer breathe.  For some reason, the physicist nerds tickled our funny bones, and we’ve decided that there will never be a 30-minute sitcom to top this one.  And sadly, we finished all the DVDs there, and we were left hanging as Dr. Sheldon Cooper FOUND A GIRL TO BUY A COFFEE FOR in the season finale, and I nearly cried in frustration, because I couldn’t immediately move on to the next season and see what became of that single coffee date!  So, through Regan’s urgings, we had some Modern Family DVDs sent our way from Netflix, and we’ve decided that we loved it every bit as much as Regs promised we would.  And now, as of this last weekend, even THAT show is done, and now Hubs and I have no idea where to go for TV laughter, as we wait for the next seasons of The Big Bang Theory and Modern Family to be released to DVD.

(And can I just admit that the old episode of Modern Family, where Claire and Phil have a Valentine’s Day date in the bar, where Phil pretends his name is Clive and he pretends to pick Claire up for the first time, made me throw back my head and howl with laughter.  When she got the belt to her coat stuck in the escalator, I told Hubs, “Stop it!  Hit PAUSE!  I have to stop laughing and breathe, and I can’t while this is going on!”  Well done, Modern Family.  You’re no Dr. Sheldon Cooper, but you’ve snagged my attention.)

So yes.  We’re taking suggestions for new TV shows.  Or rather, for OLD TV shows, which we can watch on DVD, or even stream through Netflix.  It has to be a 30-minute show, because I already have Glee in my life, and the hour-longness of it kills my adult-onset ADD to the very brink of No Return.  Hour-long TV shows make me fidgety.

And, y’all!  Did you know that Avalanche hockey is PLUM DONE for the season?!  And can you say the words, “NO PLAYOFF GAMES FOR THE BOYS?”  Hubs is already suffering withdrawals, and it’s only been 48 hours since the final game was played.  He’s also showing signs of depression because Adam Foote is retiring, and he said, “It’s like my heart is breaking again, exactly like it did when Patrick Roy and Joe Sakic retired.”  Hubs needs to call his good buddy, Brian, who is equally enamored with the Avs, and they can have a little cry-party together.  Maybe they can even make a mixed cassette tape with all the good break-up songs on it.  (You know, Against All Odds and Hard to Say I’m Sorry and Total Eclipse of the Heart.)

There is to be no joking at the Jedi Manor about how the Colorado Avalanche finished with such an impressive losing streak, they didn’t even get into the playoffs.  If a girl makes any comment in regards to that issue, Hubs delivers the Stink Eye of Death to her, right before he says, “They’re going to get some excellent draft picks during the off-season, and their coach is going to make them practice defensive drills until their noses bleed and they hyperventilate with exhaustion.  And next year, my Avalanche are going to be a force to be dealt with, as they skate over the top of Detroit and Edmonton and leave blade marks on their helmets.”

Apparently, you can take those words to the bank, people.

And when Hubs does, I’m sure he’ll get four more bonus points on me.

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