My four and half-year old thinks it’s funny to call people a “poop deck.” He’ll run up to me giggling and blurt out— “Daddy, you’re a poop deck.” This combination of words amuses him. To an adult, “poop deck” is pure nonsense, to a toddler; it’s the ultimate cut down.
Recently my wife came to me with a serious tone and said— “I hate to tell you this babe, but you have hair growing out of your ears.” I was devastated. The devastation came from the fact that I’ve been with this woman for over ten years and she still thought that I would give a shit about ear hair.
I found several rainbow-colored turds in my backyard and it made me nervous. I had images of the B-budget horror movie leprechaun— flipping over lawn furniture, stealing my son’s outside toys and shitting all over my backyard. He was running amok on my property. It was when I sat down to ponder how I was going to kill the sprite when I noticed the empty crayon box. It turns out that my german shepherd ate my son’s crayons. I’ll get you next time evil leprechaun.
I am now convinced that my wife is conducting some sort memory or recognition experiment on me. As I sit here writing this, I’m looking at the decorations on the walls; they all look foreign to me. There’s a strange piece on the wall by the thermostat and I swear that it wasn’t there yesterday. Or was it? Has it been there a day, a month? I can’t be sure.
She will test me on the decorations. She will ask “Did you notice the [Fill in the blank].” This is where I try to figure out if the decorations are new or if she just rearranged shit. She’s not against trying to trick me. I don’t have a clue. Am I failing the test? I usually say— “Sure babe, I noticed it.” I’m going to have to start taking notes on this stuff.
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