Sorry I haven't updated this in a while. I've been busy and heck and keep forgetting the details of the conversations to share them. I have a bunch of stuff I've put in the group on Facebook (I wish I had made that a fan page instead of a "group"... I suppose I
could do that when I think about it... but not now!).
Where was I?
Oh, this conversation. I said on Facebook that this conversation would include anatomy and it would be using a euphemism. Well, it will. And it does. The Euphemism in question comes from an episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer runs outside naked and Flanders calls out:
"Hey, Homie! I can see your doodle!"
(go on, click the link. I have it all cued up to that point and you can hear it happen).
We have one bathroom in this house- because the person who designed it was insane, that's what I think- anyway, because of this, we try not to monopolize the bathroom with things that can be done elsewhere. In my case, I blow dry my hair in my bedroom. And having spent all those years in pain, I got in the habit of sitting on the bed and not using a mirror.
DG has been sick (a lovely case of "waaah, I have a cold! Oh now, now it's become a chest cold!") lately and while the mix of Disabled Guyisms and Nyquil has been entertaining, the conversations were short and usually when I was otherwise occupied and couldn't take notes (Yes, I take notes sometimes).
Today, I was blow-drying my hair and he came into the room. He proceeded to whine about being sick briefly and then took off his sweatshirt and PJ pants to go take a shower. As he started to leave, he stopped and took off his boxers too.
He stood in front of the TV (which is where I was looking) and took a Superman stance. "Stop staring at me."
Me: "I can see your doodle."
He turned slightly, still in front of me and said, "No! Stop looking at it!"
Me: "If I keep looking at it, will it do tricks?"
DG put his hand up, thinking he was blocking my view, but he wasn't. "Don't look at it! He's shy."
Me: "Shy? Really?"
DG: "Yeah, he's shy and he doesn't like it when you stare. He feels self-conscious." He turned around more and then blocked his, uh, doodle, with his hand. "There, now he's safe."
Me: "Safe from what?"
DG: "Your eyes with their looking."
Me: "Maybe your doodle should tell you to move the hell outta my way."
DG: "Don't talk about him like he's not here!"
Me: "Maybe he should leave the room if he's so shy and self-conscious."
DG: "He wants to leave, but he can't. He's got rollers and can't even use them." As he walked out of the room, slowly, sideways, he said: "He's got two flats! Two flat rollers and he can't go nowhere!"
He shuffled to the bathroom and I finished blow-drying my hair. When he came back in, he put on new boxers, took the Superman stance again, and informed me: "He's safe now. He feels safe. He's at home."
Oh, and totally random... we have a new pet rat. First we had Mittens- who was pardoned after living here for a month and a half and not being eaten by the snake. Then a while later, we got Boots.
Now we have Tuxedo. Yes. Tuxedo. She's black and white, hence the name. We've got Boots, Mittens, and Tuxedo.
