Girlfriend Blog #2
It’s that time again. It’s been a few years since you were introduced to my lovely person, Deborah. And, well—a lot has happened inside that head of hers. Enjoy a sampling.
If you haven’t read the first post about Deborah, here it is.
Too Many ‘TOMs’ In the World
Deborah isn’t great at naming bands or the person singing the song. I like to exploit this fact because, most of the time, her answers are hilarious. This time was no exception.
This was a couple of years ago when I still had my convertible 350Z. A song came on the radio, and I exclaimed, “Who’s this singing, Babe?” Deb responded, unsurprisingly, “I don’t know. Give me a hint.”
To which I respond, “Tom.”
Before the ‘m’ sound fully exits my lips, Deb flinches in excitement and yells confidently, “Tom Hanks!”
?
If only there were a camera closeup into which I could directly look and sigh, just like they do on Modern Family. Instead, I keep driving and listen to Deborah name all the famous Tom’s she can think of.
Parks and Rec
“Wow! Waco Memorial Park,” Deb exclaims out of nowhere as she drives. I look up from my phone in the passenger seat and turn in the direction she is looking.
”That looks like a really nice park. It’s so well taken care of,” she says with childlike wonder.
I pause to witness her revel in this park’s beauty until I utter, ”Babe, that’s a cemetery.”
Share the Road
After visiting Deborah’s Aunt Harriet in the Shoal Creek neighborhood of Austin (this is relevant information), we begin driving home while discussing some of the conversations from dinner.
Suddenly, the car bobs left and right as we rhythmically hit undistinguishable bumps in the road.
Deborah seems unphased by the fact that the car is gyrating, so I speak up, “Love, what in the hell?”
Deborah grips the steering wheel white-knuckled and states loudly so she can be heard over the thuds beneath her tires, “This happens every single time I get in this right turn lane! They need to space these lane borders better!”
I look out the windshield, confused by a ‘right turn lane,’ and see that Deborah is driving in the bicycle lane.
“Honey, please, please tell me this is not actually a lane you use often.”
“It is, but I’m going a different way from now on. This is getting ridiculous! It’s going to ruin my car!”
She arrives at the stop sign and slows the vehicle before turning right.
As she leans into her right-hand turn, she catches me looking at her in disbelief and smiles, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Babe, did you seriously not know that was a bike lane?” I say, praying she will try to convince me that she did, in fact, know she was jumping 6-inch round, 3-inch high bumps purposely positioned to prohibit cars from entering the very lane she was driving in, which happened to be a very obvious lime-green-painted bike lane.
Instead, she focuses back on the road and states unemotionally, “Gosh, I wondered why those road bumps were so harsh!”
This time, I act as if there’s a camera closeup on me as I perform my best Claire Dunphy impression out the window and into the night.
Smile!
While discussing a mystery delivery Deb got from Amazon, she asked me to help her figure out where it came from. She said the last thing she ordered was kitten food, and she ordered it from the account that gives 10% of the money to the Smile organization.
”Babe, there isn’t a charity called ‘Smile.’ That’s the part of Amazon’s…”
Deb interrupts me and confidently inserts, ”Yes, Jenée. The charity I am giving to is called Smile.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, I signed up for it years ago, and when I use that account, a percentage goes to them,” she says, obviously put out by the fact that she has to explain herself to me.
“Okay. What sort of charity is Smile, then?” I hold my breath for her answer.
“I can’t remember. It sounded good at the time,” she snaps back as she examines the mystery package.
”Babe, Amazon Smile is the account that donates 10% of your purchases to a charity of your choice, but Amazon Smile is not a charity.”
”What?” Deb says, still slightly annoyed with me.
”Google it.” I smugly retort.
Deb begins to smile because she knows this tone of my voice well, because it usually indicates that I am right.
”Seriously? Then where is the 10% of my purchases going?”
”Hmm. It sounds like you have more mysteries to solve today than where this package came from.”
Hey, Look What I Found!
Deborah and I seek very different things when out in public. I generally keep my eyes peeled for a groovy record store while Deb remains in the perpetual hunt for a public restroom, mostly because her bladder is the size of a pencil tip.
Stuck On You
In my first blog post about Deborah, I made it clear that she rarely parts with things until they are 100% complete. These could be empty lotion containers she cuts open with scissors to access any remaining lotion stuck to the sides. This is also the case with any container's contents.
She will also glue the soles of her shoes an ungodly number of times after they have detached from the rest of the shoe before purchasing new ones. This is part of the fun of going anywhere with her. You never quite know when her shoe will blow.
The last time she repaired her hiking shoes, she used wood glue. That was fun.
H-E-B Delivers
When I go grocery shopping with Deborah, I feel a bit like the stereotypical husbands of women who love clothes shopping and drag their uninterested dudes along. We have very different ideas about perusing grocery aisles. I have a list and know exactly what I need to purchase—grocery shopping takes me about 5 minutes. Deborah also has a list, but she enjoys scrutinizing the vast discounts and deals H-E-B promotes, which means she is still reading the promo magazine by the time I’ve made my 5-minute rounds. This means I get to tag along as she fulfills her list; a list that is exponentially longer than mine because she is a chef and makes food for seemingly everyone in Austin. It’s her love language and one of the many things I love about her. It does, however, make for extended grocery store visits.
A few weeks ago, we exited the store laughing about something on the way to our car. Suddenly, a large bottle of Deb’s soda slipped from my hands. It exploded upon impact from the blistering hot asphalt. It shot forward like a rocket for about 30 yards, skidding along the blacktop and finally landing wedged beneath the tire of a giant-ass Texas truck—the kind that is so massive I exclaim cuss words anytime I drive in eyesight of them and say hideous things under my breath about hoping he’s hauling livestock in that stupid thing.
Sorry. Back to the soda (which where I come from is called “pop.” One can’t use this reference for soda in Texas without suffering the penetrating sting of a side-eye.
Deborah begins outwardly lamenting that her ‘Buy 3 get one free’ discount has just gone all to hell as I crawl under the parked mammoth-sized truck to retrieve a mostly empty 2-liter plastic bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper.
A hospitable H-E-B employee who witnessed the accident, which looked like a dangerously failed science project, rushes to us as I emerge from beneath the truck, crawling backward on all fours. Truth be told, she was more concerned about Deborah and her coupon disappointment than about the layers of skin I’d sacrificed diving to save soda.
As she reassures Deborah that she will replace the product, she extends her hand to take the cracked and dripping bottle, then trots cheerfully back into the store, returning with an intact bottle of soda. All is right in Deborah’s world again. On the other hand, I loathe massive trucks even more now as I pick parking lot pebbles out of my knees and the pads of my hands.
Mammal Cloth
We are primarily quiet as we drive today. Until this happens.
”They should use a Mammal cloth to attract children,” Deb states out of the blue.
I look around to see what I am missing, attempting to make sense of this term I’ve never heard before and hoping something I see will give it context. Folks here in the South say things that confound me, but I have a feeling this isn’t one of them.
”What do you mean by that, Babe? What in the name of God is a mammal cloth?”
“You know. Puppet costumes.”
Whoa. Now, I’m slightly concerned she might be having a stroke. As I slow my eyes from shifting uncontrollably from side to side beneath my furrowed brow, a new silence falls upon the car. I have no idea how to respond.
“Seriously. Are you okay? Where did puppet costumes come from?”
A smile forms on her face as I stare at her profile, concerned and confused.
To this day, I have no idea what mammal cloth is, nor do I believe she does. I’m beginning to think they modeled the wide-eyed emoji from the dumbfounded face I make way too often with this woman.
Eyes On the Road
Deborah is the poster child for making a case for self-driving cars.
A Harley Davidson grinds his engine in deafening volume as he passes us on the highway because Deborah is driving like a 90-year-old who needs to hang up their keys permanently. She hates driving at night, so this is slightly understandable. Trying to be compassionate about a driving technique that drives me slightly crazy, I ask, “Honey, would you like for me to drive?”
She doesn’t answer, so I look over to see if she’s okay as she responds, “Are my eyes open?”
“Are your eyes…? What?! God, I hope so. You’re driving!”
“I know, but you know how I get when I’m spooked—I close my eyes.”
Yes, I know this all too well, but it usually only happens as she makes a left-hand turn out of my condo complex. The cars come up and down the hill so fast, it terrifies her, so she guns the accelerator pedal, cuts sharp, and jerks left on the steering wheel, tossing me sideways into the middle console, then over to the passenger door, and back upright again like a whiplashed wobbling Weeble. She carries out these car acrobats with her eyes closed because she is convinced she will be rear-ended by the oncoming cars, so she braces for impact.
Every day of my life is a miracle.
Hot Air
Deb brings home two leaf blowers a friend of hers has parted with and joyfully exclaims, “I get one, and you get one!”
We’ve both wanted a leaf blower for awhile now: her for the lawn at her house (which I mow, so I’m super happy about these finds) and one for me to blow the Live Oak leaves that carpet my condo’s front walkway. As I reach to grab one, she stops me, saying, “Hang on. I get the one that works.”
I can end the story here.
Beware the Mosquito
”Babe, we must be careful of mosquitos when we go out in nature or eat at a food truck.”
The mosquitos and food truck combo has me a bit mystified, but I hang in there.
Deborah thankfully comes through with more context, ”I got bit by a bunch of mosquitos last night while we were at Kindi, and I have bumps all over my legs,” she says as she pulls her pant leg up.
“Yikes, that looks awful,” I sympathize.
“Yeah, we need to be careful ‘cause you know they carry Lyme’s disease.”
I scratch my head. “Hmm. Are we talking about mosquitos or ticks?”
“Mosquitos,” Deborah states confidently.
“Mosquitos don’t carry Lyme disease, Babe, although we did live through the year 2020, so God only knows what mosquitos carry nowadays.”
No Way, José
It’s Saturday morning, and we have offered to clean Deborah’s dad’s refrigerator while he is away on a day trip with Deb’s sister, Lisa.
“Honey, how long do you think we’ll be here?” I inquire as she pulls cleaning products from the back of her SUV.
Deb responds, “Probably just about 2 hours.”
“What?!!! Two hours to clean out your dad’s fridge? That’s more like a 30-minute job. There is no way we are devoting 2 hours to cleaning out a refrigerator. Slam another cup of coffee when we get into the house because we are cranking this thing out in 30 minutes.”
Laughing, Deb responds, “I was just telling Susan yesterday at lunch what a bossy first-born you are. She’s the oldest of five, so she didn’t have much sympathy for me.”
“Yep. Like I said—30 minutes, woman.”
You’ll Be Okay
Deb keeps a stash of over-the-counter prescription pills in a Ziplock bag in her kitchen cabinet. It’s a hodgepodge of blue, off-white, white, and pink pills in various capsule and tablet sizes. She keeps this cocktail of meds alongside other vitamins and supplements that are, strangely, all marked and still in the bottles in which they were purchased.
Today, I am having an allergic reaction to the three adult cats and the four kittens she is fostering.
Deborah, recognizing the fast oncoming of my symptoms, pulls a pill from this unmarked stash and says, “I think this is an Allegra.”
”Babe, Allegra is a purple and white capsule, not a blue tablet.”
“Well. I think this is a generic Allegra.”
I look at her with a deadpan look and return to petting our cat, Zanzibar.
”Babe, I really think it’s a generic tablet. Take it. The worst it could be is a Benadryl, which will help with your allergies, too,” she assures me.
”I don’t take Benadryl, and I’m not swallowing some unmarked pill you “think” is safe.”
”So what? You’re just going to suffer from allergy symptoms all day?!” she says in a tone indicating that I’m crazy to choose sneezing and itching eyes over the possibility of accidental poisoning.
Something In a Cabinet
We are at Deb’s dad’s house, preparing to have dinner together.
When I drop a bunch of stuff from a bag I’m hauling in from the car, Deborah exclaims, “Ugh, you’re a rhinoceros in a bowl cabinet.”
😳
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she says these things on purpose so we can have extended moments of laughter. But considering that we have a very healthy dose of laughter in our relationship already, without all of these jumbled-up idioms and sayings—and because there’s so much evidence otherwise—I look at her, recognize how beautiful she is, and shake my head at what goes on in that brain of hers.
Truth be told, I’m grateful for it. It’s a light in the sometimes insanity of the world.