Thursday, Sept. 18, 2003
Dear Diary:

I sweartogawd, it has to be genetic.

Late yesterday afternoon I sat on the front porch, sipping a nice cup of tea, basking in this unseasonably balmy fall weather we've been having here for the last few weeks. The spousal unit pulled up in his truck.

One look at his face and I knew he was in rattus packus mode and he was bringing home some sort of "treasure". His insatiable need to collect things because one day they might prove useful, despite the fact we live in a tiny little log cabin with almost no storage space, has been a major stress on our marriage.

I mentally steeled myself. Apparently I'm not the only one who can read faces. I guess my reaction was written all over mine and I could see him raising shields. When we were younger, the two of us used to have long, drawn out fights about stuff like this. But now he has learned a cunning way to disarm me.

He makes me laugh.

He opened the back of his truck. Out of it he lifted what looked to be a 1950's style end table. Then a turquoise thingie on a cord fell out of it, a sewing machine pedal, and I realized he had brought home a 1950's era sewing machine.

A bright turquoise sewing machine.

You can well imagine my horror.

"I hope you have room for that in your workshop," I told him crisply.

He gave me a sort of wounded look, mixed with incredulity. Packrats just can't see why everyone doesn't glory in their "treasure". Truly, he was shocked that I could not see the inherent wonder in this sewing machine, how very, very good to have it was. He went into a long spiel about how many things we would mend with it.

I pointed out that our daughter had taken our sewing machine into Montreal three years ago and neither of us had missed it.

Round one: Marn

Next he went into a spiel about how well made this machine was, how "they don't make them like that" anymore. He let drop that his mother had bought it last week. His mother the packrat. His mother the packrat who already has three sewing machines. His mother the packrat who lives in a huge five bedroom house which is filled floor to ceiling with, uh, "stuff".

The man never had a chance. He was crippled with the packrat gene at birth.

I pointed out to him that it didn't matter how well made it was, if we hadn't found use for a sewing machine in three years, the odds of us needing one in the immediate future were slim to non-existent. I pointed out that we're both perfectly capable of hand mending clothing and we've both done it.

Round two: Marn

There was a pause. Remember that bright turquoise foot pedal that had fallen out of the wooden table thingie and was dangling by its cord? Well, he lifted the sewing machine table, hooked the cord around his leg and kind of dragged the pedal along the ground as if it was a small creature.

"Look, it followed me home," he said. "Can I keep it? Can I? Huh?"

The man is more than 50 years old. He looked insanely stupid doing this. It made me laugh. Before I knew it, the weasel had carried the &%$#@ sewing machine inside the house.

Round three and the winner: Spousal Unit.

You know, I really have to learn how to hold a poker face

--Marn

There's no new inductee into the Bazonga Boosters Hall o' Fame, today no one decided to spend some of their hard-earned buckazoids supporting me as I run the Jog for the Jugs Oct. 5 in Montreal. Some folks have been donating but I don't recognize their names and they haven't e-mailed me to let me know who they are. To you mystery people, I want to say thank you.

No one new can proudly sport the shoddily Photoshopped yet justly coveted red rectangle below. *Siiiiiggggghhhh*

Boob oop de doop eh

P.P.S.- That iron woman, Karen is doing an unbelievable 60 MILE WALK FOR BREAST CANCER! If you don't want to sponsor me, perhaps you'd want to sponsor her. Yowza, that makes that 5K Jog for the Jugs seem embarrassingly short.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 430.68 miles (693 kilometers)
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

.:Comments (16 so far):.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (16 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.