A couple of mornings ago, I woke up and realized that I couldn’t remember how to spell onomatopoeia. I laid there in bed… in the dark… going over and over it in my head. I couldn’t remember… was it O-N-O-M-O? Or O-N-A-M-O? OR EVEN O-N-A-M-A? I was stumped. I couldn’t remember how to spell the first half of the word, but I was dead-dog nailing the second half of the spelling, right in the bull’s eyeball. It was 3:30 in the morning, and I wanted to get out of bed and grab a dictionary, because what’s the use of being able to spell just half of a word?
That’s right. It ain’t no use being able to spell half of a word. Every spelling bee in the free world will disqualify you. The buzzer will buzz, and you can hang your head in shame and exit stage left.
And then I simply whispered to myself, “Whoa, Betty. Let’s just pull back the reigns a bit. The dictionary can wait until 7 AM.”
It’s exhausting being me.
In case you were wondering.
And the answer is yes. When I checked my email at 8:00 that morning, I also used the Google and found out exactly where to put an O and an A, and dang it if I can’t spell onomatopoeia perfectly now.
I told Hubs about this. I’m not sure why I even bothered, because Hubs raised one eyebrow and stared at me for a lengthy bit of time. And then he said, “I don’t even know what that word means.”
I think this was a polite way of telling me, “I think you’re cute and all, but apparently I married a nerd.”
Well, then we went to Major Thriving Metropolis, and I had to navigate all the interstates and the lane changes and the TRAFFIC! TRAFFIC! TRAFFIC! And really? Why do Jaguars insist on going 105? Plus… we saw a Ferrari. I had never seen a Ferrari in real life before, because apparently I am a hermit who doesn’t travel much. I had to ask Hubs, “What the heck? Is that a Corvette? It doesn’t look like a Corvette?”
Hubs simply bowed his head and asked Jesus to forgive me for confusing anything with a Corvette. And then he said, “That’s a Ferrari, dear.” And then I said, “Oh. Actually, I knew that. I have one in the garage back home. I was just testing you.”
And now I appear to be on a bit of a rabbit trail, because BIG RED FERRARI!
Anyway, on the return trip from Major Thriving Metropolis… AFTER we had survived the Jaguar zipping in and out and trying to take off my front bumper… and AFTER we were back in the safety of our home state WHERE WE HAVE TWO LANES OF VERY SAFE TRAFFIC, Hubs went quiet. He went quiet for several miles, in fact.
This is alarming, because Hubs is never really quiet in the car. He always has something to say, like, “You’re going to want to merge here. MERGE! MERGE!” and, “Your driving has aged me twenty years,” and, “Did you know Sonics have the very best ice on the planet? I’d drive a thousand miles for a Coke with ice at a Sonic. Plus, I like their hamburgers.”
After several miles had gone by, I asked Hubs, “Why are you so quiet?”
Do you know what he said to me?
He said, “Did you know that there are — on average! — twenty-six delineator posts per mile?”
Excuse me? I don’t even know what a delineator post is.
Hubs went on to say, “I’ve been watching the mile marker signs, and I’ve been counting the posts in between them, and then I did the math in my head… got an average and all… and there are, on average, twenty-six posts to every mile on this section of interstate.”
Obviously the saying holds some truth.
Nerds attract other nerds.
Which is why we had a date tonight. Hubs and I put in our pocket protectors and hitched our jeans up high above our belly buttons, and we went out to see the new Trouble With the Curve flick at the cinema. I want you to know that Clint Eastwood is looking a little elderly these days, but I liked the show. I can actually speak fairly fluent baseball, and I bawled like a baby when Clint sang You Are My Sunshine at his wife’s grave.
Bawled, I say.
So, yes. I liked the movie a whole big gob, but I liked my nerdy date even more. That Hubs — he’s a keeper.
And, on an entirely different note, look at these two!
Y’all have a good Wednesday night.