We were remodeling our master bath a few years ago. We like projects (well, I like projects…), and we did much of the work ourselves. We were finishing it up. Jan was on a trip to Russia with her Mom, so I took the opportunity to work on some final trim. I pulled the 3 pieces of trim out to stain them, and damn, the pattern on 1 of the 3 didn’t match the other 2.
I was pissed. I’d changed into nasty looking “staining clothes”, put on gloves, stirred the stain, I was ready to work. And I was kinda pissed at Jan too. See, she was in charge of buying all of the items for this project. And here I was stuck, now needing to go back to Home Depot to get 1 more piece of the RIGHT trim. So, steaming, I get changed, hop in the car and drive to Home Depot. And since this wasn’t my fault, I’d make her return the wrong one too, right? Take THAT! I find the trim piece I need, and go up to the checkout. To ring it up, I needed the barcode which was on a sticker. The sticker was on the back. Oh, holy crap. The pattern on the back matched the odd piece I had. If I’d bothered to turn the odd one over, I’d have seen they all matched, and I’d have been fine.
Yes, I am a dumbass!
My first Blog post. I’ve given this some thought. And I think it should be a story about my originators – my parents. My Mom takes the brunt of the abuse in this story. Just so you know, at almost 96, she still LOVES this story. It’s important to laugh at ourselves. My sisters – well, they might not take this as well.
Mom and Dad were married Thanksgiving Weekend, right before Pearl Harbor. They met at University of Maryland, and both had graduated the prior spring. Dad had just turned 21 a few weeks before, and was then eligible to be commissioned as a 2nd Lt, US Army. He went to college on a ROTC scholarship. Mom was still 20. Mom was raised on a farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Even today, it’s like going back in time. She was quite naive.
They came back from their honeymoon, in time for the War to start. They were sent to, as I recall, Ft Benning, GA, for war preparations. As was common, the officer’s wives got together quite regularly. Women. Gossip. The conversation got around to food. Mom, who was the youngest, was asked what her husband likes to eat. Now, imagine the scene: Officer’s wives, in the early 40s, having afternoon tea and crumpets. All dressed up. Or whatever. From lowly 2nd Lt., to field grade officers. Mom: “Oh, my Sam LOVES his donkey dick”. Tea shot out of noses. “Oh, yes, he just LOVES donkey dick”. Poor Mom. She had no idea.
It seems that she would go into the Commissary, to the meat market, and order sandwich fixings. Ham. Cheese. And donkey dick. “John, this week I’d like a whole pound of donkey dick”. Meat cutter didn’t bat an eye. Dad called bologna (baloney) “donkey dick”. Mom had no idea that this wasn’t a real cold cut, much less what it really meant.
Now you know where I get it from.