This is a dumb post.
YOU don’t assume I’m an idiot. I like that about you.
The other night, my husband told me “Alexander Haig died.”
“Aw. That’s too bad.” I said. “He was the dad from the Hannah Montana show, right?”
He looked at me like I was the biggest moron on planet Pluto. (It is TOO a planet! I refuse to diminish its planetude just because of some fussy scientists who probably don’t even know who Hannah Montana is!! There are bigger things than just science, right? There is pop-culture to consider! There is a principal at steak here!!!)
(See? You totally knew I was joking because I know it’s a principle at stake, right? Geez. Not YOU, too?? I’m doomed.)
Of COURSE I know that Alexander Haig was not the dad from the Hannah Montana show. Because that’s Billy Ray Cyrus.
I told my husband “God, you think I’m such an idiot. Of course I know he’s not the dad on Hannah Montana.”
“Who was he then?” he asked.
“Oh, look – downhill skiing. Shush. I’m watching the OLYMPICS.” Some people are so uncultured.”
I carved out time the next day to quickly look up Alexander Haig. He was an adviser to three presidents. (In case you didn’t know.) (But you totally probably did because you’re so smart.) (Unlike some people.)
That night in bed, he was all up in my grill. My husband, that is. Not Alexander Haig because, dude, he’s dead. That would be pretty creepy. My husband is all snuggly and cuddly and he was just stealing all my oxygen. I said “You’re stealing my oxygen and leaving me with nothing but yucky breathed-out carbon monoxide.”
Once again, he looked at me like he was considering pulling the plug. “Did you mean carbon dioxide?” he asked.
“HE WAS AN ADVISER TO THREE PRESIDENTS!” I screamed. Fuck him, you know? Two can play at this game.
That took him back for a minute. “Oh.” he said. “You’re answering the question from yesterday?”
DUH. (Some people just aren’t that bright. You have to be patient with them.)
“Which three?” he asked.
“I will not dignify that question with a response. Good NIGHT, sir!” I said, and then for good measure, I added “I said GOOD NIGHT, sir.”
In a huff, I turned over and went to sleep. Radically.
Today, I carved out a few minutes to learn – Nixon, Carter, and Reagan. So I’m ready. All day, I’ve been reciting in my head: nixon, carter, reagan, nixon, carter, reagan, nixoncarterreagan. I’m ready.
I can imagine how this is going to play out. I’ll be ready, waiting for him to misunderstand my advanced sense of humor (a burden, truly) so I can put him in his place. Nixoncarterreagan!
I’m just hoping that door doesn’t open during an inopportune moment.
“Oooh, ooooh, oooh – who does it for you, baby??” he’ll ask during sexy-time.
“NIXON, CARTER, REAGAN!” I’ll scream, which is a lie because, duh, it’s Billy Ray.
If I think back across the years of being parented by my mother, all the things I learned from her, all the wisdom she imparted, there is definitely one thing that stands out. Something that she drilled into my head over and over across the years. Something of import, a thing that every child growing into adulthood needs to learn along the way.