me am literate
You’ll be excited to hear that I’ve read another book. In keeping with my new habit of finding books that take roughly the same amount of effort to read as the back of a cereal box, I went to the library and was lucky enough to find a copy of Sh*t My Dad Says. That’s right! I checked out a copy of someone’s Twitter feed! It’s like the Universe heard my plea and gave me the literary equivalent of a “Sanford and Son” episode.
By which you should understand that it was surprisingly good. Justin Halpern smartly takes the shit his dad says and weaves it through what turns out to be a fairly brisk and unsentimental look at growing up as his father’s son. His father is one of the bluntest men I’ve run across in quite some time, apart from the one I married and am currently spending the rest of my life with.
For example. The other morning I dug out two pairs of jeans I’d bought at the Lucky Jeans outlet because my two favorite and, actually, only pairs of jeans have grown thin and full of holes. I put on the first new pair and marched around the house in them for a little while to break them in. They are somewhat high-waisted and kind of full in the leg but snug around the crotchal area. (I know, I just made them sound like something Garry Shandling would wear.) Jack came home and was making an espresso–he goes to the job site early and then comes home mid-morning for breakfast–and so I started strutting around the kitchen like some sort of shameless, middle-aged hen.
“How do you like these jeans?” I asked wiggling awkwardly. As I do.
“Are those the jeans you just bought?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t like them,” he said.
“What?” I said. “You don’t like them?”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“No, but look at the butt!” I turned so he could see my backside. “The butt!”
“They’re comfortable, right?” He said “comfortable” like you say Hitler or diarrhea.
“Well, actually, they ride up a little and I have concerns about a camel toe situation.”
But because he’d said all he had to say about my new jeans, he turned away to make some toast and focus on keeping a fucking roof over our heads.
“I’ll put on the other pair!” I shouted, running down the hall. I put them on. “These are the ones I thought were too young for me!” I shouted from the bedroom. They were straight but not skinny — I didn’t want to look like Joey Ramone, for God’s sake.
He liked those, and they’re actually even more comfortable than the “comfortable” jeans, and sometimes I hate my husband because he’s always fucking right about all this shit.