Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

And Lo, The Truth, It Doth Hurt

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Yesterday I taught a Spanish class in which one of the students happens to be my husband. We were doing a sentence completion exercise, and one of the other students asked me how to say “space travel”.

“Well ‘space’ is ‘espacio’,” I began.

“That sounds like a word you just made up,” interjected my husband (who, I feel compelled to point out, has attended all of six Spanish classes in his life as opposed to my (::cough::Master’s Degree in Spanish::cough), as he reached for his Spanish-English dictionary.

“So, what does the dictionary say,” I asked, with just a wee bit of testiness in my voice.

“Espacio,” he replied.

“Oh really? It says exactly what I just told you two seconds ago?” I taunted, feeling the sweet wave of vindication rush through me.

“Wow,” interjected one of the other students. “I’d love to see what arguments are like in the Ryan household.”

“Well, we have had to pull out the Almanac occasionally,” I said, in the tone of one who has just admitted to Bringing Out The Big Guns.

“I bet they Google everything and then one of them is like, ‘Hah, I can type faster than you so I win’,” continued the student, officially destroying for me any remaining vestiges of pride and vindication.

Ooh, man-the truth? Really does hurt.

When Good Ideas Go Bad

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It seems like such a good idea to buy a new, slightly low-cut blouse that offers just a hint of cleavage to wear to your cousin’s wedding this weekend. But then you get there, and realize that they are going to be Praying A Lot, and that if you choose to keep your eyes open the whole time so as not to blink yourself into an epileptic seizure, then the only place you will really have to rest your gaze is down your own shirt.

Oh The Nerdiness-It’s Just Not Getting Any Better

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Yesterday my Lightly Nerdy side and my Grammar Snob met and collided in the reference aisle of Borders, and then, much like the Wonder Twins, combined and activated their powers to make me into even more of a dork than I already was.

I was looking for some new Spanish reference books (nerd alert #1, because it was just for fun), and I found a new book written by the Real Academia Española, “the institution responsible for regulating the Spanish language” (nerd alert #2-a whole institution dedicated to grammar-HOW COOL!) all about the correct use of spelling and punctuation in the Spanish language (nerd alert #3-HOW COOL! Can I please buy this RIGHT NOW?!)

Sometimes I am just stunned that other people agree to associate with me at all.

Recent Events That Have Made Me Feel Like A Big Giant Goober

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1. The fact that my husband had to FORBID ME TO CLEAN while recovering from pneumonia. (What? I thought housework was part of the treatment for lung disorders.)

2. The fact that when I told this to one of my friends she replied, “You are a wanker and you need to be beaten!” (Because there’s nothing like the loving support of your friends.)

3. The fact that I don’t actually know what a “wanker” is. (I had a very sheltered childhood and adolescence. Just ask my husband.)

4. The fact that I recently found myself in the grocery store having hot, sweaty, lustful thoughts about all of the Swiffer products that it’s now possible to buy. (I really have no explanation for this at all. Although now #1 might not seem quite so weird.)

5. The fact that it’s taken me an entire year to understand what my friend means when she uses the phrase “it’s like throwing a hot dog down a hallway” when describing intimate physical relationships and the size of a man’s, uh, “cash and prizes”. (I told you I was sheltered.)

Sometimes, The Universe Smiles

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Today my husband called me into the living room to watch the video “White and Nerdy” by Weird Al. And before we go any further, you must stop whatever you are doing right now and watch this video, if only to see Donny Osmond perform the most hysterically awesome Nerdy White Man Dance in the entire history of time.

Then when the video finished, we proceeded to act out our own version of “Nerdy” right in our very own kitchen.

Me: “We need to do some laundry.”

My husband: “Do we have enough detergent?”

Me: “You told me that there was enough for one more load.”

My husband: (eyes me suspiciously)

My husband: “Oh that’s right, what was I thinking? You’ve been knocked out this whole week.”

And it was then that I understood. I have spent the past week recovering from pneumonia, and I have a really hard time being sick because I hate to be bored. So my husband was worried that, despite his prohibition on such activities, I’d snuck behind his back this week and performed housework. Because, sadly enough, that is what I do when I can no longer contain my inner rebel: I look for something to clean.

Me: “Don’t worry, dude. I promise I haven’t done any illicit loads of laundry this week.”

Coffee Is The New Black

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Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Back when I was in high school peer pressure was easy to spot, and there were always very clear-cut reasons available to me for saying “No”. Smoking? Um, no thanks, on account of all the cancer and all the death. Drinking? Hm, think I’ll pass, as I have no desire for my parents to kill me for engaging in such behavior. Sex? I couldn’t stand anyone else’s children; I certainly didn’t want any of my own.

But by the time I finally finished school, got married, and entered my thirties, I began to relax. Surely, I thought, the time of being scorned for being “different” had passed.

Oh silly, naive woman.

All that getting older meant was that I was now eligible to experience Peer Pressure For The 21st Century. What might that be, you ask? Only every time someone turns to me and says, “Hey, you wanna go and get some coffee?” Because no, I don’t. And apparently, the fact that I am thirty-four years old and do not drink coffee makes me just as much of a nerd now as I was back when I wore maroon knee socks to the first day of eighth grade. [Read more…] about Coffee Is The New Black

Par-TAY!, “Jenny Style”

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My husband just got off the phone with his sister. I told him that I heard my name while they were talking, and asked what they were saying about me.

My husband: “I told her you were going on a trip next week to visit some friends for your birthday. She said, ‘Ooh, Jenny’s going to party’.”

Me (snorting): “Yeah, with a pastor’s family. In a parsonage.”

My husband: “I know. That’s why I told her that you were partying ‘Jenny-style’.”

And lo, the truth, it doth hurt.

Grammar Snob Strikes Again!

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So today I had to go back to the dentist again, for the third time in nine days. And while that did indeed mean more drilling (or as I like to think of it, being poked with sharp, hot sticks), the good news is that it also meant more novocaine and more nitrous oxide.

As I was lying in the chair, floating along in my own little dream world, I heard the dentist explaining to his assistant why he was employing a particular technique at that time, and how that was going to save us all a lot of time and effort in the long run.

“I’m killing birds here,” he said, “Multiple stones.”

“Multiple stones,” agreed the assistant.

And somehow, despite the drilling, and the drugs, and the four hands and seventeen million dental instruments currently occupying my mouth at that moment, The Grammar Snob in me was still able to register that something was wrong with what they’d just said. And so, struggling up from my murky internal depths I found the strength to mutter,

“No. Muldible birds.”

“What?”

“It’s muldible birds, dot stodes.”

Apparently, you just can’t keep good grammar down.