"Boys Are Smelly."
My husband proves to me on a daily basis that I have made no mistake in pegging him as THE ONE!!!, but on Saturday he confirmed that he has mastered that most tricky of marital trials:
Picking out the perfect gift without even the slightest of hints.
Mind you, he's an awesome gift giver, but I make it pretty darned easy when every time we pass, um, anything, I comment on it in the positive or negative. "Cute skirt!" "Nice shoes!" "I couldn't pull off that top." "I don't think the looks she's after is the look she's acheiving. I should tell her." Kind of a GlamorDosandDonts in action, but I don't really have that much fashion sense. If it's orange, it's awesome! If it's not, I evaluate it on a case-by-case basis.
Last weekend while I was out introducing my sister and her two teenagers to the Riordan Death March* Apparently feet are simply not used in Arizona (no air conditioning), so I heard a LOT of "ARE WE THERE YET??"'s and "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!"'s and "You do this almost EVERY DAY?? Are we really related to you????"'s. I returned home to find that the better half of Shalene had made an excursion to the superhip Clark and Belmont area with The Rev, and had returned with a gift of sleepwear, not from Taboo Tabou or The Alley, but from The Sports Authority. It's a pair of pajama pants featuring an boy reminiscent of a Tim Burton character but much more lively. He's surrounded by fumes and wears an innocuous expression on his face, and sports the caption: "BOYS ARE SMELLY".
My husband has a gift for making me laugh, but I find these bottoms so amusing, not to mention comfy, I want to wear them everywhere. So I do.
Monday, having the day off while he worked, I did just that, albeit unintentionally. I mean, I didn't intend to go to Starbucks after dropping him at the El, it was just there (as Starbucks tends to be). I was pretty groggy when I ordered my skim mocha (yeah, I'm pretty convinced the skim milk counteracts the 15 pumps of chocolate they put in those things), so when the barrrrrEEEEEEEEEEstahhh (sp?) sniffed and said "WhatEVER. Girls have cooties." I was like "....What the...????" I caught on eventually and we had ourselves a good old fashioned (as in from back in the days when I was 7) drag down argument of whether it was more true that boys were smelly or that girls had cooties. I think I won when I started using my neice's "Are we there yet???" whine artfully mixed with her 15-year-old-talking-to-a-superold-aunt-in-her-30's "whatEVER."
My sister and her kids have counted up their collective blisters - 8. Jeez. When The Entity Known As Shalene first started dating I had that many on each foot. Wimps.
*A journey lasting a minimum of 6-miles round-trip, preferably in >85 degree weather, where the only source of transport is your own two feet.