My writing dry spell continues. So I must impose upon my dear readers this
preservation of what my husband calls The
Family Anals, that is, various conversations recorded for Common Household
Posterity.
* * * * * *
I was impressed when Younger Daughter
effortlessly used the word “epistolary” in reference to an English paper she
wrote about an epistolary novel. But my
husband hadn’t heard it yet, and I wanted her to impress him, so I prompted
her.
Me, to Younger Daughter: Use the word “epistolary” in a sentence.
YD, taken off guard: Um, “The novel
was written in epistolary format.”
Husband, solemnly: “He carried an
epistolary on each hip as he strode into battle. He was ready….
YD:
Ready to write letters!
Husband: He fired off six words before anyone
could blink an eye! “It was the best of
times.”
YD:
“It was the worst of times,” they fired back!
Husband:
The bullets were filled with wit.
* * * * * *
Me:
I think YD is dissecting a pig today.
A fetal pig.
Husband:
It’s going to be a cutting edge day.
Me: I think you can save the Dad
jokes for when the kids are here.
* * * * * *
Husband, trying to impress the kids with
how hard it was for us in our college days:
We had to write before writing was even invented. I had to use a typewriter that didn’t even
plug in.
* * * * * *
Husband, reading the newspaper: Here’s one thing I find difficult to believe.
Me, bursting out laughing: Just one
thing?
* * * * * *
YD: What if there was a service to
help super-villains get vengeance?
Husband: What if Superman could hire a
hit man?
Me:
You are NOT helping to restore my faith in the universe.
* * * * * *
September 8th, in the morning, we
are getting ready for work. In the past
ten days the United States has endured several massive hurricanes in the south
and horrendous wildfires in the west.
Me:
In addition to all the other crap going on, there has been a large
earthquake in Mexico this morning. It’s
time to start wondering if Armageddon is coming.
Husband:
Well, at least Son finished his college education before it gets here.
Me, looking in my underwear
drawer: At least I got all my bras
washed in time.
Husband:
Yes. So you can stand before the
Angel Gabriel in a clean bra.
* * * * * *
Me, reading The Jewish Chronicle
weekly newspaper: The ceremony of
redemption of the firstborn donkey will be performed at the Hillel Academy.
Husband:
They better leave my ass
alone.
* * * * * *
Husband is hunting through the newspaper
for news about the state going broke.
He says, “I don’t see anything in here about the state budget… unless
you count the obituaries.”
* * * * * *
That last one just about says it all. The state budget is dead, once again. Our
main empty-nest activity is reading the newspaper aloud to each other. The
civilized world itself seems to be hurtling downhill.
We’d better be praying hard to redeem our asses.