There is something about the phrase ‘I shit you not’ that automatically makes me like the person using it. I don’t know why. I think it’s the idea of shitting someone, the conspiratorial tone that there are shitters of the world, but we (WE!) are not shitters. And also the placement of the ‘not’ at the end. Sure, they could use a contraction, which, in the grammar world is the slacker tool living in its parent’s basement. It would be just so much easier to say ‘I’m not shitting you.’ But it wouldn’t seem as earnest somehow. I think it’s the juxtaposition of the formal sentence structure and the word ‘shit’. Because when in doubt, poo is king.
Beware, however of the sentiment ‘Am I shitting you? No, sir, I am not.’ Because if they say that’ they’re shitting you. Don’t be fooled. You’re assuredly getting the shit.
Immediately after the Hand Holding That Made The World Say ‘Awwww!’ from the last entry:
I have just come to bed after sitting at the computer for far too long responding to email. The house has gotten cold. Esteban is half asleep. I jump into bed, shivering, and apply my nightly habit of Aveda’s Hand Relief on my hands and Aveda Lip Saver on my lips. Fully moisturized, I shiver and shiver.
‘I’m c-c-c-c-cold!’
‘Mmm, baby, come here by me and warm up.’ Esteban murmurs.
I put my frozen hand against his stomach.
‘JEEZ!’ he says, then wraps both of his hands around it. ‘It’s greasy!’ He puts my hand back on his stomach. ‘I’ll warm it up, but I’m not holding it. It’s like holding a cold pork chop!’
It made me laugh and laugh and then kiss his nose. True love is comparing your wife’s hand to a cold pig product.
I broke the last remaining long fingernail on my left hand today. Technically, I ripped it off. I was in a meeting and felt something catch on my fingernail and being a recovering nail biter, I knew that a tear would drive me crazy, so I ripped it off. Apparently, it went right down to the bone. It feels stubby now, amputated. I feel like Darryl Hannah, as though I need a prosthetic.
True story: my friend Erika (who sometimes shows up on the comments section) used to work at a prosthetic’s lab under an overpass as a summer job in high school. I was terribly jealous of how surreal that would be: sitting in a highly refrigerated lab filled with bodiless limbs as semis made the bridge hum fifty feet above. You leave for lunch and an empty room waves goodbye. Things like that make me happy.
Also, my Norwegian coworker just mentioned over the cubicles that ‘A future queen was born in Norway this morning’ in his lilting singsong accent. How can this be a bad day when queens are being born? It simply cannot.
Esteban and I are embarking on a grand Minneapolis adventure today. This afternoon, we’ll be driving across the state and then hanging out in the Twin Cities until Saturday. Also, I get to do fun girl stuff with K.Lo and Akkelly on Friday. I’m fighting a hankering to do some karaoke there, but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards. Even still, I’m packing some hotness. You just never know. One should always be prepared.
Also, I think it’s a little sad that I’m most excited to visit the damned Hello Kitty store again. I dropped $50 there last time and it made me a bit giddy. I suspect I have a problem. And also the cutest coffee mug EVER. Last weekend, I mentioned to my niece Abigail that I would be going to the place with the Hello Kitty store, and she said ‘Oooooo! Goodie!’. Because even at five years old, she knows that I will have to buy her something in order to justify buying myself something. She’s an evil genius. Although very cute too. Much like her auntie Weetabix.
