NEW RELEASES
In Our Humble Opinion . . . February 29th doesn’t really exist and we aren’t showing up to participate.
Or maybe spiders…..(quiver) that’s just too awful
The name of the club is Venom. Venom? What is that supposed to mean? It used to be a strip club called The Candy Store. That club had the worst reputation – there were always shootings and drug busts and all manner of nefarious goings on.
Now it’s Venom.
“What is Venom?” I asked My Honey as we drove by.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Is it a vampire strip club? Are there naked girls ‘dancing’ with snakes? Scorpions maybe?” I asked trying to be helpful.
“I have no idea,” he reiterated.
“What did it say in the newsletter?” I looked at him expectantly.
“What newsletter?” He looked across the car at me as if he never knows what the hell I am talking about.
“The Guy Newsletter.”
He started laughing. “Newsletter,” he snorted.
“Are you telling me there’s no newsletter?” I am flabbergasted. How can there be no newsletter? Maybe that’s how come our husbands never know what the hell is going on.
“No there’s no newsletter.”
Wow this is a market that’s just desperate to be filled, crying out for attention. If one of you guys to do your species the greatest service, you’ll get yourself some newsletter software and get jumping on that. The wifes of America will thank you heartily. There are few things more annoying than when a husband comes home with the barest bit of gossip, leaving huge gaping questions. Questions that keep a wife up at night.
Women don’t need newsletters. We have no problem finding out what’s going on, who’s breaking up, where the best sales are. I promise you if there was a curious shoe/cupcake/book store opening up, we’d know all about it.
For goodness sake, one of you men get on this ASAP. Consider it a charity time donation if you must. Someone needs to fill in all these blanks.
Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to let them know stuff like what goes on in Venom.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . the kitchen is a nice place to visit but we don’t want to live there.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . nothing upsets us more than finding out that China is giving Canada two pandas – just how did we get passed over and whom do we call to have this oversight corrected?
In Our Humble Opinion . . . pancakes are a lunch food.
Oh, really?
Irony personified in a look
Sassy has been trying really hard to master the one eyebrow look of skepticism. So far she is very frustrated. Her father and I give her the look all the time. Primarily because she is often completely full of crap and that look says, “Really?” with all the implied sarcasm.
We’ll be sitting at dinner and she’ll get all excited and say, “Look! I’m doing it.” I’ll glance over at her and her facial muscles will be completely impassive, her eyebrows exactly even on her forehead. You could use a level on them, they’re so even.
the Super-High Rise
“Nope,” I’ll say. “Keep practicing.”
“No, I’m doing it,” she’ll insist. Her forehead will be so smooth it’ll look like she’s had Botox.
“Uh-huh.” I’ll shake my head and purse my lips.
At that point, she’ll usually lift her fingers to her face and examine her forehead region.
“Darn it.” She’ll deflate. “I was sure I was doing it that time.”
perfectly executed half-naked eyebrow lift
“Practice in front of a mirror,” I suggest. “Then you’ll be able to see that nothing is moving up there.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m doing it, though.”
I’ll flash her a look with my eyebrow darn near in my hair line. That just makes her mad. So I do it again. Just to prove I can.
“How come you can do it so good?” she’ll ask.
Really? Cause I’ve been doing it for forty-odd years. I have sarcasm, in all its finer points, down to a science. If they’d had sonograms when I was in utero you can bet you’d have seen my little eyebrow up there saying, “Really? Mexican food again, Mom?”
In Our Humble Opinion . . . if nothing interesting is about to come out of your mouth perhaps you should reconsider wasting our time.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . there’s no reason to spend even a minute wondering if you hurt someone’s feelings, of course you did.
In Our Humble Opinion . . . the Oscar’s don’t always get it right.
I should have made her wait in the car
So it was My Honey’s birthday and I dragged Ava into a music store to get pick him up a present. She proceeded to touch everything in the store and make wholly unnecessary comments all the while.
She tried the guitar straps on as belts and made fun of the guitar string’s packaging.
She announced that camo shorts were for hunters and wanted to know when fat musicians decided that was the look for them.
There were remarks about the other patrons and their hair.
And then she made a cardinal sin. Something one simply does not do while in a music shop populated by tattooed and long-haired guitarists.
She insulted Van Halen.
She did it while I was finishing up my transaction. We were standing at the counter and there was a display of VH CDs. She picked up one of the cases using her fingernails on the smallest corner of the plastic as if there was a disease she could catch simply by being in its proximity.
“Who needs to hear these songs ever again?” she asked. Obviously it was a rhetorical question. The dude holding my Hello Kitty credit card raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t like Van Halen?” he asked. I think he had a stake behind the counter to kill her with if her answer struck him the wrong way.
“David Lee Roth is yicky.” This is undisputed fact. DLR is very “yicky.” For the love of Perseus, the man is still trying to rock a pair of shirtless overalls and greasy, bleached hair. The man is 58 years old. Get some self respect, dude. Still, it’s not good form to mention this in the holy sanctuary of a guitar store. His people will not appreciate it.
Tattooed clerk narrowed his gaze. “What about old Van Halen.”
Ava perked up. “Oh yeah. Old Van Halen rocked.”
I audibly exhaled. I thought for sure we would be alright, escape unscathed, live to insult again another day.
But, no. She did it again while walking by the front of a giant display advertising the opportunity to win tickets to a Van Halen concert. She waved a dismissive hand at the sign.
“You like Van Halen?” the goofy guy stamping receipts at the front door asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before he told us excitedly, “You can win, you know!”
“If we win does that mean we don’t have to go?”
I’m not proud to tell you I made a break for the door. You know the Marines say, “No man left behind”. Well that’s not the case with the Sisters. If you do something that stupid the other two are going to run. I got the car started and hoped she’d make it.
It could have been a lot worse. At least she didn’t tell the entire store how much she hates Stairway to Heaven.