Sunday, August 12, 2012


It’s been a busy, hectic week. Tuesday I broke my finger (don’t ask) and Thursday we started painting the house (again, don’t ask.) Kidlet & Manlet took off for Montana for a bros road trip, and Daughterlet is also out of town so we went from having two dogs to four. Since the Hubster is on vacay for the duration of the painting project, I’ve not had a chance to blog this week. I am surprised to realize how therapeutic it is and how much I’ve missed it.
And how many times I have to type the letters ‘s’, ‘w’, ‘x’, and the number ‘2’ or the ‘@’ sign. They all take my broken ring finger to be typed on the keyboard. I shall earnestly try to go without typing them in excess until such time as I get the splint off.
Also ‘whoops’ is the Hubster’s inability to not snicker at inappropriate times. He giggles like a madman at toilet humor, other people’s calamities or misfortunes, or at extremely sad human situations. He usually watches TV alone.
Flatulate at the dinner table and Steve breaks out in an outrageous cackle, especially if he did was the offender.
He will ‘whoop whoop whoop’ it up to the nth degree while watching Sponge Bob or Deadliest Catch. If I am upset about anything, he will be grinning like the Cheshire Cat as I try to explain my feelings.

The other day my Sweetie and I were at the grocery store. We ran into some neighbors who seemed sad and quiet.  A
s we chatted they told us of the recent passing of their parent. Steve began grinning and chuckling.
Holy cannoli.
And he wouldn’t take ‘a hint’.
I scowled. He doesn’t recognize facial expressions.
I shook my head at him. He thinks I’m trying to communicate a dog, even if there isn't one in our vicinity, as that is what he does with dogs (as well as wave, wink or make faces at them).
I try to shush him. He only gets louder.
“What’s wrong?” erupts He forcefully. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
Say what? Our neighbors are starting to look very alarmed.
“The rule is you have to ask to go to the bathroom!” he thunders.
By now I am trying to hide from everyone within ear shot as I ponder Steve’s verbiage. The people we were talking to just lost their mother. What in the world would that have to do with needing the facilities?
Grabbing the Hubster by the hand, I make my condolences to the perplexed neighbors and we escape the store without my needed grocery items, and with Steve continuing to ask why I’m not heading to the restroom.
“Because you are an Assss…” I check myself as we climb into the car  and my voice trails off.
“Aspie, I meant to say.”

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