Everybody's been asking me about the card that was left in my house for me by the former occupant. You know, the guy who stalked me in high school. I bought his house, remember? Well, since you've all been so patient, here's what happened.
When we first arrived at the house, the card was waiting for me on the window seat. Anxious as to what I might find in the letter, I tore it open. All it said was: "Happy Birthday, Your Friend, Stalker*"
Anti-climactic, to be sure. My stalker lived up to his reputation of being the nice guy I always thought he was. If only he'd showered more. Anyway, the grapevine says he's happily doing whatever it is he went to Thailand to do. Hopefully, he'll find a nice Thai girl and settle down. In Thailand. Because I haven't changed my locks yet.
And, now ... this**:
I have always been a very
competitive person. When I was eight and
everyone got a trophy at the end of the t-ball season (even the kid that hit
the ball and ran to third base) I was pretty cheesed. How were we supposed to know who was the
best?
.. ..
My competitiveness has served me
rather well, however, especially when I learned that you could compete for
grades in high school. That is until I
realized that meant I would need an A in Calculus. Thwarted by my inability to understand sets
and limits, I turned to my next favorite subject: Goofing off.
This, of course, led me to the oh-so-lucrative field of radio. Which is how I met my husband. Which brings me to the crux of my story.
.. ..
My hubby is very good at
trivia. I may be hypercompetitive, but I
know when I’ve met my match and he’s it.
Except when it comes to movies and music, where I totally kick his ass. If there is a song or a movie that he wants
to know, he asks me and I can usually give him the answer complete with
artist/director and year. Often I can
tell him how long a song is. (Note: I
can only do this with pop/rock songs).
.. ..
He’s had this song that’s been bugging
him for about three months now. He heard
it on the local classic rock station and he’s certain I should know it when he
sings it. Unfortunately for both of us,
when he sings he sounds like Neil Young after he used steel wool to clean his
tonsils.
.. ..
Finally, today when he came home
from work and said hello to me and the boys he says “You know that song I’ve
been pestering you about? It’s playing
in the boy’s room right now. Go tell me
what it is.”
.. ..
I went. I stood.
I listened. I had no idea. So I stealthily crept to the computer and
went to the station website for the answer.
Then I went back into the kitchen where my husband was waiting.
.. ..
Me: It’s Dear Mr. Fantasy by
Traffic.
.. ..
Him: Traffic? Should I know that band?
.. ..
Me: Steve Winwood before he started
sucking.
.. ..
Him: And you knew that?
.. ..
Me: Of course I knew that! What are
you implying? That I’m lying?***
.. ..
Him: You looked it up on the
Internet, didn’t you?
.. ..
Me: No, I didn’t. I have mojo. I don’t need to look it up.****
.. ..
Him: Liar! You look like Al Gore when you say that!
.. ..
Me: Really? I was going for Bill Clinton. (I wag my finger at him) I NEVER use the Internet to look up song
titles!
.. ..
Him: Well, you probably could have
gotten him.
.. ..
Me: What do you mean probably? What are you implying?
.. ..
Did you see how deftly I turned that conversation
about me looking up a song on the Internet into one about Bill Clinton? Maybe I should go into politics …
Check it out! Me morphing into Bill Clinton. Jeez, we kinda look alike, don't we? WE should probably never have kids. He'll be so disappointed!
*Not his real name.
But wouldn’t it be weird if it was?....
.. ..
**A
re-post. I’m sorry. I hardly ever do this, but I thought this one
was worth a second read. It’s
reprehensible. I know.
***I am
TOTALLY lying.
.. ..
****Still
totally lying