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At the risk of bringing down the Sandwich Party with a sobering tale, I want to tell you the story of my father’s last BLT. It’s a story I promised long ago, and though it’s a tearjerker, it’s also full of love and joy. I promise.
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Over the past year or so, D and I accidentally developed a favorite sport that could readily go by the name Stump The Sweetheart. The game can start anytime, any place, when one partner lobs the first pitch: “I love you” followed by a nonsense nickname. The second player answers with “I love you” followed by an unrelated nonsense nickname.
The volleys continue until a player bursts out laughing, falters, or delivers an inaudible. “I love you, [mumblety-peg]” would be a losing stroke. Oddly enough, “I love you, Mumblety-Peg!” would not.
The faltering, when one of us is simply unable to concoct a nonsense endearment, occurs with surprising regularity. It’s harder than you’d think to keep tossing out absurd cooing endearments without pause. You try it sometime. “I love you, Rosencrantz,” suits the game down to the ground, but a return of “I love you, Guildenstern,” gets the buzzer.
A sufficiently hilarious salvo from the instigator gets the (significant) other cracking up, resulting in an ace: the schmoopie equivalent of a hole in one. “I love you, Fry and Laurie” was a recent inexplicable example.
Some contenders for the No-You’re-The-Schmoopie doorprize around these parts:
I love you, Bruce Lee
I love you, perfessor
I love you, cuttlefish
I love you, Dr. Beardface
I love you, guv’ner
I love you, rambling rose
I love you, Tipsy McDrunkerton
I love you, sans serif
I love you, Iron Chef
I love you, Harper Lee
I love you, Señor Biggles
I love you, moon pie
I love you, wifi
I love you, bagel face
I love you, Mister Bingley
I love you, Spiderpig
I love you, Chief Shoot ‘em Up
Honorable mention goes to “I love you, monkey,” a phrase disallowed in the game, as it’s the standard endearment chez nous.
Yesterday, my almost-sixteen year old niece A. and I went on our annual Christmas do-nothing day. I meet her after school, we head down to the Old Port and drink cocoa in the hipster coffeehouse, we wander around looking idly at all the goodies in the shops, we perhaps buy a present but I’m not saying. In short, we goof.
Within two or three minutes of meeting yesterday, we had giggled twice over the unbidden emergence of our catchphrase for the day.
We have no goals or tasks planned, so it’s a brief respite from all the planned festivity and gift-gathering hysteria of December. Also, since she’s awesomeness itself, just being with her makes me happy.
My favorite moment, though, happened as we strolled down Exchange St., just after leaving the toy store. A. turned to me and said, “You know what song I’ve got in my head.”
“Uh… no.”
And she quietly sang, “Reno Dakota, there’s not an iota…”
And we harmonized down the street:
“… of kindness in you
You know you enthrall me
And yet you don’t call me
It’s making me blue
Pantone 292
Reno Dakoto I’m reaching my quota
of tears for the year
Alas and alack you just don’t call me back
You have just disappeared
It makes me drink beer
I know you’re a recluse
You know that’s no excuse
Reno
That’s just a ruse
Do not play fast and loose with my heeeeeeeeeeeeeeart”
I return from a family reunion, resplendent in a shiny carapace of baby spittle, yogurt, and biter biscuits lavishly applied by my two youngest nephews, N, 22 months, and A, 8 months. This impressive exoskeleton, resistant to sharp objects, thudding blows, and all forms of washing, is punctuated by smeary blossoms of Fluffernutter (and, yes, spittle) courtesy of S and J, 7 and 5. M and L, 7 and 9 10, displayed a mature tendency to retain both spittle and snacks within their interiors, or at worst to emit them in the vicinity of some other adult. Kudos to them.
Airdna fastidiously abstained from all application of spittle and foodstuffs, instead graciously providing me with a henna tattoo.
Thanks to David Wygant and the Seattle Times for the quote of the day:
Just because somebody’s pretty doesn’t mean they’re not a geek like you inside.
[Link via Bookslut.]
For more excellent Dating Advice In Brief, try this.
Good advice from Monkey.
I don’t know much about flirting, but The Social Issues Research Centre commissioned a report on the subject. Woo-hoo, SIRC! That is my kinda research! (Oh, wait, I drool over research of many kinds… but I digress.)
The tone of the article is odd, half sociological and half DIY. Here’s one piece of welcome advice:
If you are female, the odds are that you are more attractive than you think…
followed by some even more welcome advice:
…so try flirting with some better-looking men.
Even a devotedly single, cranky old broad like me is touched by such a clear, unmuddied sentiment. Although I frankly revel in my spinstered state, you and JM remind me that couplehood is more than a yoke and a wagon to pull. You remind me that love can be as potent as gin, as comforting as a goosedown duvet, and that it could be around any corner any minute of any day.
So, give Ralph my number, Elli.
Elli
Elsa
