My wife hopes I die before her

A little tip of the hat to The Bloggess on the format for this one. She does a lot of me/Victor (her husband) posts that never fail to crack me up.

As we got ready for bed tonight, K and I were in our bedrom and we turned down the bed. There was. . . how shall we say. . . evidence of our last intimate encounter on the sheets.

K: “That’s nice.”

me: “What?”

K: “All I’m going to say is that it sucks that all the cleanup is on my end now.”

me: “So, what? You want me to go back to wearing condoms?”

K: “No, we can’t do that. We’re Catholic. And we confessed it already. We’d have to go to confession again.”

me: “Yes, but I already confessed the vasectomy. Both of them. So we wouldn’t we using them for birth control. Just for cleanliness.”

K: “And cleanliness is next to godliness.”

me: “Exactly!!”

K: “I hope we die together.”

me: “Why?”

K: “Because you’re the only one who’s going to be able to talk your way out of all the bad shit we’ve done when we have to go answer for it.”

me: “Well, that sucks. If you die first, I give it three days, tops, and then I’m dead. Thanks. Thanks for that.”

K: “Wouldn’t you just die of a broken heart?”

me: “Yeah. That’s it. Uh huh.”

I love these conversations. A close second is the conversation with my four year old describing what his plans were with the package my daughter received tonight, a few days shy of her birthday.

4: “I’m just going to look at her box. I’m not going to touch it. It’s her box. I won’t open her box. She can open her box on her birthday, but I’m not going to. I’m just going to look at it.”

K: “Ok. Let’s just stop talking about your sister’s box.”

My mind, as warped by 80s and 90s movies

I was reminded in quick succession this week, that my mind works in ways that likely no one else’s does.  And the more I thought about it, the more and more disturbing and deeply rooted the evidence of my oddness became.  It all started when I heard a co-worker say start a sentence with “I believe. . . ”  Unfortunately, as is often the case, they weren’t talking about anything that interested me, so my attention drifted off.  To make my lack of attention even more pronounced, my mind went to a completely unrelated, yet completely vivid place.  Jackson Heights.   With completely different person – Randy Watson.  If neither of those two  proper nouns means anything to you, the movie they come from might: Coming to America.

Randy Watson was one of Eddie Murphy’s (many) alter-egos in the movie, and in this case Randy was the frontman for the band “Sexual Chocolate” that played at the Black Awareness Rally.  And, right or wrong, Randy’s version of “The Greatest Love of All” is what starts to play as soon as I hear anyone use the words “I believe. . .” For your viewing pleasure (and selfishly in the hopes of jamming this song in your head for at least a day), I give you. . . Jackson Heights OWN. . . RANDY! WATSON!

I have several more of these that have occurred to me over the past few days, which have given me some sick and disturbing insight as to the influence 80s and 90s movies have had on my psyche.  I’ll pass some more of these on soon!