On the way out to the car (we’re headed out without the kids to run a few last-minute holiday errands), Mark looks up from his iPhone’s screen and says, “So you ready for the train? Says here they’re going to be running a train.”
I stop short and turn to look at him, “What?”
“At the party tonight . . . the invitation says they’re going to be running a train.”
Eyebrows lifted, I ask, “The e-vite says they’re going to be running a train?”
“So that is awesome and hilarious and insanely inappropriate. How do you not see that?”
He thinks for a minute, “Seriously, Kris? Most people, upon hearing the phrase running a train within the context of a family-oriented Christmas party . . . their brains don’t go where your brain just went. You are not like most people, Kris.”
“Poor most people, because I get a giant kick out of myself.”
“Weirdo – it’s an actual toy choo-choo train, on tracks, around the tree or something.”
“Also cool, but I have to say . . . not as cool as my version.”
“There is a small chance you are quite disturbed, Kris.”
“I know, right? I am disturbedly awesome!”
We drive to Best Buy, where Mark needs to pick up gift-cards he ordered online at some apparently huge discount. For some reason he is telling me a long complicated self-congratulatory story about how he scored these gift-cards, but I stop listening because so fucking boring, and then he suddenly stops talking and he is staring at me expectantly. Uh oh. Hoping the conversation didn’t take an unexpected turn during the time in which I was not paying attention, I venture, “Good job, babe,” which happily turns out to be the right thing to say.
Turns out he saved about $10.00 on the gift cards, and so why doesn’t he just check out the CD’s, because what if they have that Led Zeppelin album he wants and yeah, he could buy it on Amazon, but he’s basically been handed $10.00 in free money for god’s sake, so he’ll just take a look.
Do other people husbands do shit like this? It’s annoying.
So with “free money” in his pocket, he heads over to the CD’s and stares at the display hopelessly, “How are they arranged, you think? Alphabetically?”
I turn to him in exaggerated incredulous amazement and grab at his jacket, “Oh my god, babe! If they are not arranged alphabetically, we need to find a store employee and make that suggestion, because can you imagine how much simpler it would be to find things if they were only arranged in some sensible coherent fashion?”
He pulls himself free of my grasp, “Why are you so sassy?”
I ignore his question, waving my arms in the air and speaking loudly, “A . . . B . . . C . . . it’s so simple and yet so elegant! This is a game-changer, people! Alphabetizing! I am married to the man who will save the world from disarray!”
Mark bends to kneel on the floor (because in the rows of already alphabetized CD’s, L stands for low as well as Led Zeppelin), “You are possibly the most irritating woman on the planet.”
“You love me.”
He finds the album, which costs exactly $10.00, and so it is totally free!
Man-logic is confusing.
He goes to stand in line to pay for the CD, and I wander the store aimlessly, pausing to examine a “vibrating alarm clock” that I think for a moment might be quite amazing, but which turns out not to perform the function I imagine it performing. Which is odd, because exactly what benefit does adding vibration to an alarm clock add if not the benefit I was imagining? I stare at the happy sleeping woman pictured on the box . . . she has placed the bulky clock-shaped alarm clock on the bed beside her pillow.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my email. Nobody loves me.
I check again. Nobody loves me.
I check again.
Mark recently updated the software on my iPhone, and while I am normally quite averse to change, I find I am a tiny bit addicted to checking my email now.
I check my email again. Nobody loves me.
I walk to where Mark is standing, and I check my email several more times. He glances at me, “Seriously?”
I ignore him. I check my email slow and then I check my email fast and then I check it several times in rapid succession. Nobody loves me.
Mark sighs, “Nobody else sees what you see.”
“Doesn’t matter. I like it.” I check my email again. Nobody loves me.
To check for new emails on my iPhone, you slide a finger down the mailboxes page, which then reveals a small dark circle at the top of the page, within which is an arcing clockwise arrow. As your finger slides down the screen, the newly revealed arrowed-circle shrinks and elongates until the point of no return is reached, at which point the elongation springs back up to the circle. The circle and the arrow then explode into a small clockwise-moving tiny firework shape.
All with the simple slide of a finger.
If that does not scream clitoris and orgasm to you?
Well, then . . . according to Mark, you are like everyone else on the planet.
I don’t even remember what the mail-updating symbol used to look like. I only know that I noticed the change immediately. I like it.
Let me just check my email again.
Nobody loves me.
Best update ever.
Mark walks out of the store with me, holding his Led Zeppelin CD happily, “Can’t get better than paying with free money to get a free CD!”
Seriously, people . . . he makes no sense.
Let me just check my email again.
Nobody loves me.