Things I don’t understand, in no particular order.
The Little Sad Pillow.
When Fritz first moved in with me, almost 12 years ago, he ended up staking claim to the right side of the bed, and to two pillows. At the time, they were both relatively new pillows, but over the years, one has become… a pancake. It’s about two inches thick, and when I put it in a pillow case, it looks like Kate Moss wearing a dress made for Queen Latifa. But he won’t let me replace it. I tried once. I swapped it out with a nice thick fluffy down pillow, and put Little Sad Pillow on the spare bed. It didn’t go well. That was about 8 years ago, and Little Sad Pillow is still going strong. Lumpy and flat, but strong.
And I know he’s not the only one. My father had a his own Little Sad Pillow. It may well have been from when he and my Mom first married in 1954. He took his pillow on vacation with him. Couldn’t sleep without it. A casual poll among friends shows that other spouses have the same attachment. I suppose it’s a good thing. If they’re so devoted to a pillow that’s long since lost its shape, perhaps they’ll have the same feelings for their wives once we’re a bit… uh… deflated.
Giving Things that Make Noise to Children.
Children, in and of themselves, are noisemakers. It’s what they do best. They squawk. They scream. They shout. They squeal like a dolphin in a net for no reason. They sing with abandon. They don’t have an “inside voice.” Therefore, they have no need for kazoos, whistles, vuvuzelas, horns, clackers, bells or whatever other method of amplification my neighbors’ granddaughter always seems to have when she’s visiting. Why does anyone think this child needs to be louder than she already is?!
I say I don’t like children, but really, it’s the parents and guardians that are the problem. If my dog was outside making a racket for hours on end like that, people would call the zoning board or the animal shelter and file a noise ordinance complaint. And before that would ever happen, I’d bring him in the house, because his barking drives ME nuts. But you can’t complain about kids being noisy or you’re Satan.
Motorcycles.
They’re smaller than cars. They’re way smaller than tractor trailers. Yet louder than both put together. Why do they have to be so frickin’ loud? I miss huge chunks of dialogue watching television if a motorcycle rides by. I can’t hear a damn thing until they’re about a half mile away. And that’s with the doors closed and windows shut. Damn this intersection!
The Kardashians.
Why do I even know who these people are?
Dogs’ Bladder Control.
No matter how long I walk our little Beavis, no matter how far I walk him, no matter how many times he pees during that walk, he always, always, always manages to save up one tiny little tinkle for the telephone pole in front of the house. Just a few drops, but a tinkle none the less. I once counted nineteen piddle stops in a three-quarter of a mile walk. That’s about once every 200 feet. And I’m not sure which confuddles me more, his ability to make so much wee, or the fact that I counted and calculated his wee frequency.
And We’re Back to the Bedding.
I have a bedding fetish. No, not like I want pleather sheets or anything, because that would just be gross and weird, and the thought of my sweaty ass sticking to… nevermind. I just like accumulating bedding. Sheet sets. Comforters. Duvets. Shams. Dust ruffles. And I want them to be pretty and match. But… no one ever sees them but Fritz and I, and most of the time we spend in there, it’s dark and our eyes are closed. The only time anyone who isn’t one of us sees the bedroom is when I’m giving someone who’s never been here a tour of the house, and everyone I know has already seen it.
