I have been listening to the Sotomayor hearings for two days. You know, the one where the white men who bear no prejudices ask condescending questions of the Latina woman who may possibly have had experiences in life that cause her to look at situations from a somewhat different perspective.
Thank goodness the white man I am married to is not one of “them.” My sympathies to their wives. That doesn’t mean that my sensitive white man isn’t from Mars.
A couple of days ago I dumped out a large basket of Dearly Beloved’s running clothes and asked him to go through them. He agreed quite willingly. The man doesn’t jog any more, so it seemed like a no-brainer.
Later, however, as we were driving back to Charlotte, he mentioned that he hadn’t had time to go through the clothes, but would do it next time we went back to the beach, so he had left them at my dumping site–the closet floor. Fine. This is the statement that floored me:
“I saw a pair that I ought to be able to get rid of. The elastic may be shot. I bought them in New York in 1985.”
Recently my friend Linda sent me a clip of Jeanne Robertson, who sounds like my idea of the fun, perfect neighbor, assuming one has the self-confidence to live next door to a former Miss North Carolina. Her story of sending her husband, Left Brain, to the supermarket gave me pause to think that yes indeed, we may all be married to the same man. Unless, of course, he is in politics. Those guys are a whole different species. Don’t even get me started.
Last week when we got to the beach I told DB I was going to the grocery store.
“No, no!” he said. “Why don’t you wait?”
So I waited. The next morning I went out to breakfast with a neighbor and DB called me on my cellphone. “Will you get some V-8 juice if you go to the grocery store?”
I explained that we were at a restaurant, not a grocery store. I wasn’t even driving, but since we had driven down together and HE had the car, I figured he knew that.
Nevertheless, when I walked in the house, his first words were, “Did you get any V-8 juice?”
I should interject that having a morning 16-oz. glass of V-8 juice is a near-religious experience for my husband. Don’t ask him about it because he will explain in merciless detail the merits of Tabasco over Texas Pete. It is more information than you will ever need unless you are planning a career as a Tabasco route salesman. Our two-year-old grandson sees it in the supermarket and calls it Granddad juice.
Later that day, DB was going somewhere and I said, “Will you stop by Food Lion on the way home and get some yard waste bags?”
Bless his heart, he remembered them. Fine job. When he walked in, I asked, “Did you get anything besides the bags and your V-8?
There was a stricken look. “Did you tell me to get V-8?”
Oh, well. . . at least he MAY get rid of a pair of running shorts he bought 24 years ago. Maybe we should save them for another year and celebrate their 25th anniversary.
We can toast them with Bloody Marys made with V-8 and Tabasco…in silver cups, of course.