It’s been raining here all week. Perhaps that might help to explain why we decided to have a Household Seminar for Self-Awareness and Corrective Behaviors. The way it works, Dearly Beloved and I tell each other what one does that drives the other crazy.
We’re not talking sex here.
According to him, my backseat driving has accelerated to the point that I “enlightened” him four times on our last ride to the Farmer’s Market. This is not a first offense on my part. I admit I’m guilty, but my motives were pure. Extenuating circumstances, etc. After all, Oldfartitis often flares up in retiree driving and I want to head off any symptoms. But hey. . . he feels he’s up for driving solo, so I have pledged to no longer give advice on lane selection, directional signal, traffic light colors, or where the hell we’re supposed to be going.
In other words, if we are heading to the movies and DB allows his brain to go on automatic pilot and we end up at the beach instead, my lips are sealed. Except, naturally, for “I could have told you so.” The Atlantic Ocean will stop us eventually. Meanwhile, I’ll keep a change of underwear in my purse.
He’s a good driver; I’ll admit that, but there are obstacles that are hard to overcome, like:
He’s a man and thus genetically programmed not to ask for directions or consult maps. Men are simply not equipped with the vaginal homing device that women possess.
Once when we were driving from Wisconsin to North Carolina, we overshot the whole state and even after we saw the Welcome to South Carolina signs he wouldn’t stop and ask for directions.
(In the interest of truth, his route turned out to be one that AAA sometimes recommended if one desired interstate highways all the way. It wasn’t as bad as I would like to infer even though I maintain he simply lucked out in finding it.)
Nevertheless, I have resolved to have lips zipped when he’s driving. End of discussion.
Oddly, “end of discussion” is exactly where my complaints begin. Too often when he tells me something, he ends it with some silly phrase which sends me up the wall. For a long time it was, “Know what I mean, Jelly Bean?“
We used to have neighbors known throughout the ‘hood because the husband was so funny and outgoing. The wife was a behind-the-scenes person; a very hard worker on any project, but not outgoing, so she was usually off in a corner while he held court. As her husband cracked one joke after another, she stood by, rolling her eyes occasionally.
Once I heard someone say to her, “Your husband is so cute, I’ll bet it’s a scream living with him.”
Again with the eye roll, the wife snorted, “I thought he was cute, too, the first 200 times I heard those jokes.”
That’s sort of where I am with the jelly bean comment. I don’t know how many verbal jelly beans DB has tossed in the jar at this point, but let’s just say, TOO MANY.
Note: I was going to write that it was almost enough to turn me off one of my favorite little candies, but after 20 minutes, I gave up. First, I couldn’t figure out how to write Piña Colada–my favorite flavor–and put the little mark over the ‘n’. (I still don’t know; I copied and pasted here.) Apparently, one can like only a single bean: one Jelly Belly. I looked up how to spell the plural and the company trademark rules don’t allow for pluralizing Jelly Bell-you-know-whats. Not that I think the Jelly Belly police would be trolling blogs, but still…. )
But back to the household Summit…. DB swore off the phrase and sure enough, the next time he was explaining something to me, he finished his point and closed his mouth. YEEESSS!!!
I’d already gone back to my knitting when he added as an afterthought, “Savvy?”
What th’. . . ?
Since then, there has been, “Capiche?”
“Get the picture?”
I have informed him that unless I say, “HUH?” the conversation should end as soon as he finishes his statement.
It’s becoming a sore point around here.
It makes me want to ask him, “What don’t you understand about the plan, Stan?”