Bryan is helping organize a Bill Clinton event tomorrow, and he went for a walk-through with Secret Service this morning. When he returned to the car, Bryan gestured at the crowd outside. Everyone was wearing bright T-shirts and jeans, but one guy was in a severe dark suit and shiny dress shoes.
Bryan: Can you guess which of those guys is Secret Service?
Me: (Singing) Which of these kids is doing his own thing?
B: Which of these kids is heav-i-ly armed?
The first installment of my Thoughtful User Guide is up at The Morning News. It’s on iPod etiquette:
“Yes, we know you like music. We can see that it moves you. This is because youâ€™re always movingâ€”bopping your head, dancing, drumming, even singing along. Please, stop it. Otherwise, weâ€™re forced to feign interest in your childlike enthusiasm for a song we canâ€™t even hear. Itâ€™s exhausting.”
It’s our first day of birthing class, and all the women show up in sweatpants and T-shirts. I’m looking around thinking, really? We’ve all given up already?
Then the teacher says, “I know the handout mentioned that everyone should come in stretchy clothing, but we won’t be doing floor exercises until next week.”
Oh. The handout. Right.
She has quite a list of participants going, and I’m falling in line. I can’t resist tidy little packets of accomplishment. Won’t you join me? Yes! Do!
And please don’t tell me you can’t think of anything to write about. By now, you know what to do about that.
Me: You know the weirdest thing about these boobs?
M: Every night when I change into pajamas, I realize crumbs of food have been collecting in my cleavage all day long. It’s not hot.
B: I love how you say “these boobs” instead of “my boobs.” Like they’re an inconvenient college roommate who’s been assigned to you.
M: I can’t relate to them.
Does anyone else have this running through their heads?
“SHOT THROUGH THE HEART!
And you’re to blame,
Darlin’ you give looooove a bad name (bad name).”
What about now, suckers?