Well. I promised myself I would post every other day and now I think it’s been a week. I wish I had some fantastic excuse for not writing here but I don’t. Life happened, like it usually does, but I was especially scattered. Like that dog in “Up” that SQUIRREL! couldn’t seem to stay SQUIRREL! focused.
But if you fall off the horse you get back on, right? Even if there are SQUIRRELS. But I’m still a bit distracted so this will not be a stunning work of insight and intellectual gravity (because, you know, most of my posts totally are).
Sometimes I wonder how much variation there is among people’s inner monologues. Yesterday M and I went to Ikea. Oddly she’s very into looking at all the different kinds of cheap Swedish furniture and loudly and publicly expressing her interior design principles to strangers.
Also they have a ball pit.
So M’s in the ball pit and I’m rattling around in the store vaguely contemplating the merits of Ektorps and Odvars. Funneled in behind me in the hamster maze that is the Ikea floor plan are two Dudes. They hang with their boys. They have swagger. They totally don’t need their moms to give them rides any more.
And, as Dudes do, they are discussing manly issues. Namely how their girls just don’t get their Dudeness. So all through the hamster maze I’m bearing witness to stuff like this:
“So, you know, my girl just don’t get it. She checks my phone. She’s texting me all the time. She wants to know everything. And then she thinks it, like, means shit. Like she’ll ask where I’m going and I’ll tell her and she’ll ask who’s driving and I’ll say, “He is.” And she’ll be like, “Ohhhhhhhh.” Like that means something when really it don’t mean shit.”
“I feel you, bro.”
“She don’t get that I need time with mah boyz. A man needs time with his boys, you know? Only she don’t get it. So I told my girl that I needed time with my boys so I’m all, “Bitch, I’m going to IKEA!”
Because, yes. Of course Ikea is where you go to spend time with your boys. You get to look at the new rose print decorative pillow covers, contemplate secondary storage options, *and* you get snack. I’m sure that when Chuck Norris spends time with his boys, he gets the $3 lingenberry Ikea meatballs only *he* brings them out of the restaurant and eats them in the small space living room section with his feet on the couch because he’s Chuck Norris.
So now “Bitch, I’m going to [insert mundane and irrirtatingly family friendly activity here]!” has gotten stuck in my inner monologue.
I’m all, “Bitch, I’m driving my kid to PRESCHOOL.”
“Bitch, I’m going to the KINDER GYM.”
“Bitch, I’m going to SWANSON’S NURSERY TO SELECT ENVIRONMENTALLY RESPONSIBLE TRAILING ANNUALS BEFORE PREPARING A HEALTHY CHILD FRIENDLY DINNER INVOLVING KALE.”
This leads me to wonder if this is just how inner monologues go sometimes and a good chunk of the population is periodically walking around with their equivalent of this kind of hilarious sentence structure on repeat in their heads.
Because I’m all, “Bitch, I have DEEP THOUGHTS.”