Am I Right?

At the grocery store last week, I was rifling through the cucumbers, when a man approached me — with his kids, mind you — and announced, as he, too, picked through the pile, that they need to be “long and hard – LONG AND HARD – otherwise, it’s not a good cucumber, if you know what I mean!”

And then he winked.

And the thing is, I did know what he meant, actually, because English cukes are my favorite, and they’re long, and cucumbers MUST be firm, yes, yes, I agree. And then I think I smiled at him. I was on the phone with my mother at the time, and it only just now — an entire week later — dawned on me that he may have been of the pervy sort, and quite a brazen one at that.

Incidentally, my mother is fairly certain that high heels are going to be the death of me, so much so that she won’t let me drive her car in them. When I mentioned I’d be wearing heels to the rehearsal dinner at the wedding next weekend, she announced that I had to wear “driving shoes” if I were to borrow her car, because high heels are dangerous and will somehow cause a rollover accident. You see, my heels will get stuck in the floor, which will mysteriously made out of, I don’t know, BUTTER, and I will lose control of the vehicle and wind up in a ditch somewhere, maybe with my heel sticking out of my neck. Also, what are driving shoes?

This is the same woman who insists that I not travel with my engagement ring, because she’s convinced — utterly, completely convinced — that someone is going to take a machete and chop my finger off to sell my ring on the black market. A machete. I don’t know why she thinks that traveling with it is so much more dangerous than wearing it at home, but she actively fears for the safety of my fingers when I travel, because machetes are so prevalent in airports. I must add that my engagement ring is normal and not a six-carat canary diamond. While I love it, it’s not like it’s machete-worthy.

I love her.

Apropos of nothing, I really and truly dislike Daniele Donato, and would like it if she would just, I don’t know, QUIT WHINING. Oh my gawd, the whining! The neverending whining! And the knee socks. I have tired of the knee socks.

Our weekend, by the way, was spent doing a whole lot of cleaning and eating and relaxing and napping with the dog. I don’t know if you’ve noticed (ha HA!), but I never have glamorous photo reports of my weekend, mostly because my life is so extraordinarily un-glamorous. And I often wonder, are those who purport to living such glamorous lives actually living them, or are they showing us the prettiest of it all? Or are they doing things just so that they have something to post/take pictures of? I’m guessing not, and it’s that their lives are more … golden than mine is, because mine usually involves lots of laundry and if we’re lucky, some sleeping-in. And if there are martinis involved, they’re usually homemade and sucked down in bed in front of the television in wholly un-glamorous fashion, usually while I’m wearing a night splint for my plantar fasciitis (which is back, by the way, and oh-so-painful).

And finally, in the How Annoyed Would You Be? category: After a particularly ornery outburst from me, Adam turned to me and rather smugly asked, “So we’ve got four, five days until your period starts? Am I right?”

Me: “…”

The only thing worse than being accused of having PMS is being accurately accused of having PMS. Life is so uproariously unfair.

Happy Monday!

*Erasure

30 comments September 9th, 2007