Five Hundred

So I just have a few things for y’all tonight, because I am sitting on the brink of an old-fashioned headache, which could go either way.

Meaning, either I’ll recover from it, or I won’t.  Thankfully, I’m not at Death’s door, wiping my feet on the welcome mat just yet.  It’s more of an ANNOYING headache at the moment, which makes me want to say, “Listen, cherubs!  Mama’s gonna slam back a thick wedge of cheesecake with an Excedrin tablet, which I like to call Sugary Headache Antidote, and then Mama’s gonna lay on the sofa for a bit, so ya’ll need to just keep the noise level down, and if anyone wants to make fifty cents, he can rub my feet while I’m recovering.”

1.  First of all, can I just say this one thing?  The old blog statistics keeper, which I pay very little attention to because I simply DON’T UNDERSTAND IT and all the percentages it keeps throwing at me, like I’m a hungry duck on a pond who delights in little crusts of bread, tells me that tonight (TONIGHT, PEOPLE!) is my 500th blog post, and that’s a number that I DO understand.  The other numbers — the percentages of Bounce Rates and Advanced Segments and Direct Traffic (Versus what?  INDIRECT traffic?) — confuse me enough that only the smelling salts keep me from face planting into the floor with utter boredom.  Being the numbers person that he is, Hubs is always asking about these blog stats, and I tell him the truth:  “Honey, I have no idea.  Have a slice of cheesecake.”  And then he tells me the truth:  “I have no idea why I set up these online analytical data compression centers for you, when you don’t USE them.”  And then I tell him the truth again:  “You lost me at the word analytical.”

But there are many differences between me and Hubs.  I pretty much iron EVERYTHING I wear, because I can’t stand wrinkles, and Hubs will pretty much pull any shirt out of a laundry hamper — doesn’t matter if it’s the JUST WASHED hamper or the HASN’T BEEN DIPPED IN THE WATER AND THE TIDE YET hamper — and wear it, complete with an entire fleet of wrinkles.  And, Hubs speaks in numbers.  427 big block engine.  12 gauge shotgun.  Joe Sakic played 1,378 regular season games.  130 degrees is a good steak.  My vocabulary is simply not peppered with numbers like Hubs’ is, which is why I’ve never been completely fluent in the languages of insurance premiums, the stock market or Yahtzee.

But…

…I can understand the line in the analytical thing that says 500th BLOG POST, which just goes to show that I’ve finally gotten over some of my commitment issues.  Not long ago, Hubs asked, “Why do we have EIGHT little pots and jars of lotion in the cabinet?”  I simply said, “Because I can’t commit to them.  I’m lured in by their attractive little bottles and their promises to leave my hands smoother than polished glass, but then I struggle with their untruthfulness, and I give up on them.”

2.  I need to take the boy shopping for school jeans, and I’m putting it off, much like someone would put off being shoved out of a plane at high-altitude without a parachute.  First of all, shopping for school clothes pretty much signifies the END OF SUMMER VACATION, and listen, y’all:  I don’t want it to end! This has been the very best summer vacation ever, and I’m not ready to send the little man back to school, because I’ve enjoyed having him and his nutty friends around all the time, with lots of unscheduled time on our hands.  And also, sitting in my oven would be a slightly cooler alternative than venturing outside this week, and who wants to think about THICK DENIM BOTTOMS on a day like that?

And then the real reason that I keep putting it off is simply this:  Shopping for clothes with the boy brings me to the edge of insanity and PUSHES! ME! PLUM OVER!  If you just have girls, then you have no idea what I’m talking about, because your issue there is getting them to STOP AND QUIT shopping, as they beg you to try just one more maxi dress on!  And wait!  Just let me try this last ruffled jacket on!  When you own a boy, you have to establish rules and expectations before shopping for clothes.  One:  You will not make a scene in the dressing room of Gap Kids.  Two:  You will try on every pair of jeans that I hand you, until we have reached the seven-pairs-that-fit quota, which is today’s goal.  Three:  You will not frown at me, roll your eyes at me, sigh at me, or slump on the bench in the dressing room.  Failure to comply with these three rules will result in ORPHANAGE STATUS for yourself.  I have spoken.

So yeah.  I’m just trying to bring myself to go to that place — to the dressing room in Gap Kids, which is synonymous with TORTURE CHAMBER for both the boy AND myself.

3.  I don’t really have a three.

Happy Tuesday night.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *