Here's a conversational snippet that just occurred at our house.
Me: I can't believe I'm sitting here watching "The Devil Wears Prada" on Bravo while the effin' World Series is on.
Her: It's not like it's the last game.
At least the commercials are better: Victoria's Secret, not lite beer.
I see that my new FB friend, a college classmate, has a category of posts she calls Friday Fails. I believe the idea is that social media tend to make you feel bad about yourself, because all your "friends" are "checking in" at restaurants you never heard of, or posting pics of their trips to Ivy League colleges with their eleventh grader, while you clean up cat barf that has been tracked up the steps by a barefoot kid with a full bladder. To combat this possibly false narrative, Linda on Fridays posts on FB pics of her dying house plants and scratched-out, half-blank New York Times crossword puzzles.
In this spirit, I'll relate something that recently happened to me at the grocery store. The couple in front of me in the checkout line wore cheap, ill-fitting clothing and looked as if they'd never been to the dentist. Their cart held two loaves of white sandwich bread, a large jar of off-brand peanut butter, eighteen eggs, two gallons of whole milk, a bag of pistachios, a canister of oatmeal, and around twenty packages of ramen noodles. One of these is not like the others, right? So when the cashier announced the total, and the lady winced, guess which item she asked to have removed from her order? When I got home, I related the story to Amanda, whose immediate reaction was: You told the cashier to put the pistachios on your bill, right?
It's bad enough that I'm slow. Even worse, my wife isn't.
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