I used up my requisite “complain about the heat”
post last week, even though this weekend is the most miserable one yet,
with the temps in the 90’s and more forest fire smoke. So I will have to come up
with something else to complain about. Or, radical idea, I could not complain--but that wouldn’t be any
fun for anyone.
My motivation to do anything at all this long weekend
has gone completely out the smog-colored window. I’m a living embodiment of
that “My get-up-and-go got up and went!” poster that was all the rage in the 70’s.
(Still poignant and hilarious.) Yesterday I did what I am certain is the
laziest workout on record at my gym, then proceeded to waste copious amounts of
time on Steam, trolling for cheap games. They helpfully give me a “queue” to
browse, which they fill up with games they think I am going to be interested in
based on what I’ve bought before. The problem is that I have wildly differing
tastes and interests when it comes to games, so they are completely at a loss
as to what to show me. They will offer me anime, first-person shooters, violent
horror games, cute adventure games, a wide array of MMORPG’s, interactive
novels, arcade games and racing games in an ever more frantic bid to get me to
pick something, anything, what do
they need to do to make me happy, for
God’s Sake? I enjoy the petty power of clicking through their multiple selections
and withholding information from them about what interests me. They’re not
going to put me in a gaming box! But they
get me back by showing me a tally of the sickening number of games I’ve
browsed, thereby indecision-shaming me and simultaneously making it clear that
I don’t have a life. Anyway, I finally took the chance on a ten-dollar cyberpunk-themed
game called “Dex,” which has proved a serviceable distraction so far. Actually,
if you don’t think too deeply about its nonsensical Matrix-ish garble, it’s a quality
game with some interesting innovations. If I don’t rage quit, I’ll put a review
up next week.
I did manage to wander lackadaisically into my
bedroom and do a hopeless “test” pack for an upcoming trip I’m taking with one
of my sisters. I have harbored this fantasy that if I am just clever enough, I
can force nine day’s worth of clothes and sundries into a nimble little
carry-on. That plan was quickly obliterated when I realized my carry-on would
barely even hold my socks. Physics is physics, as Neil Degrasse-Tyson is fond
of saying. I’m going to have to bite the bullet and check a bag, something I
haven’t done in over fifteen years.
Over the last several weeks, I have gone into the
bathroom to find Mr. Typist’s toothpaste tube folded over the closed cabinet
door. I was slightly puzzled by this, but I figured it was some toothpaste life
hack he had picked up on the internet. Today, he asked me in rather wounded
tone of voice, “Don’t you check the bathroom cupboard before you go grocery
shopping?” Apparently, this was not some clever technique for getting more
toothpaste out of the tube, but his clear and obvious “signal” that he needed
more toothpaste. These are the times when keeping your mouth shut in a marriage
comes in handy. See, what I did not
do is explode in exasperation and shout, “For god’s sake, if you need more
toothpaste, just say, ‘Bitch, I need more toothpaste!’ instead of skulking
around and leaving indecipherable runes in the form of weirdly folded tubes!” What
I did do is smile tolerantly and
tell him I would pick some up this week. See, boys and girls, that is the secret to a long marriage. And
as it turns out, he did get more
toothpaste out the tube, since he didn’t have any choice. Ha!
--Kristen
McHenry
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