In lieu of my usual Wrist to Forehead Sunday, I offer a personal Christmas Story (I was going to say a story about a Christmas present from my past, but I thought that might be getting too cute) (but that I could get away with it in a parenthetical comment).
I thought of the story after reading another blog post (once again procrastinating writing my own blog by reading others’). The blog was Return of the Modern Philosopher. The post was about buying the perfect present for a girlfriend. This is the story of the first Christmas present my husband Steven gave me.
We had just barely kind of sort of started dating in late November. In fact Steven went home for Christmas and said to his mother (as he told me later), “I think I have a girlfriend.” In the meantime I was saying to my friends, “He’s NOT my boyfriend,” largely because I did not want to jinx it (I never had many boyfriends, despite being quite the looker in those days) (no, really, I was cute, and I wore really short mini-skirts).
Steven was going to school at the time and had a couple of papers due. I remind you that these were the days before computers were common equipment for these things, so I offered to type them for him. I love to type. We arranged that he would drop them off at my apartment while I was at work. This was a new apartment I had just moved into, living alone for the first time. In fact, I was not even fully furnished.
I had told Steven the story of how I had a craving for tuna noodle casserole (my dietary needs were simple in those days). After working till nine, I walked to the grocery store and purchased the ingredients, then eagerly walked home only to find… I did not have a can-opener. I ate noodles and butter instead. It was a funnier story when I told it. I used gestures.
You probably all know where this is going. Steven dropped his papers off to me at work with a cute, self-deprecating smile, telling me he had “put a little something” in with them. Yes, it was a can-opener.
I have told that can-opener story for years. I now have a sneaking suspicion it is a funnier story when I told it. I must have used gestures.
However, it is Wrist to Forehead Sunday. Now I can go back finishing out my weekend with my wrist properly on my forehead saying, “My blog post wasn’t very funny today!”
Mohawk Valley Girl 