Loosen up my buttons, baby

As I've told Certain People, I had absolutely no idea who posted about the whoopie pies on my blog. MY blog. How dare they! Does Blogger allow this?! I actually had to read the entire first paragraph before beginning to piece it all together. "Hmmm. And they're even pumpkin ones. And the person who made them is named Paul...? Ohhhh, wait a minute. Did I write this?" Perhaps one of the reasons I had a little trouble figuring out what was going on was because this Person confessed to eating only three whoopie pies and I knew that I ate FOUR of those bad boys. So you can understand my confusion. Apparently when I'm half in the bag I still have the presence of mind to lie about what I eat. Anyway. Needless to say, I'm wearing stretchy pants today, and I probably will continue to do so for the rest of the week.

Enough about my alcohol-induced dementia.

Let's talk about how Paul needs to move to Toronto. That's where he is now, at some training thing through work for some computer-related thing that he needs to know for his job as a...computer guy. Honestly, and I am not kidding: I do not know what his job title is. All I know is he gets paid every two weeks and the money is directly deposited into the checking account. I've asked him several times over the past ten years what his job title is and every time I hear this: "sjdjodio of diouifldj CMX123897." Sometimes the poor guy comes home and is all hyped about something that happened at work and wants to talk about it. This makes my brain ouchy. When he begins to talk about the trials and tribulations of working in the dkjfoeksfxmc department as a sjrkojejri, it feels sort of like someone is trying to pick my eyeballs out with chopsticks. Usually the gist of the conversation is something like he did some computer thing that some other computer guy helped him with and someone in the dkjroeris department complained about something computer-related and that resulted in some sort of computer malfunction and he's therefore concerned about...something about computers. So I try to be supportive and ask appropriate questions at appropriate intervals, like "Wha...?" Eventually, he thankfully runs out of steam gets it all off his chest, and the conversation comes to a close. After a brief silence, I usually ask, "Is it this Thursday you get paid or next?"

So, tell me, do other men have an easier time understanding social cues than Paul does, or is it one of those Guy Things? I mean, how can one not know that when one's audience is rolling their eyes, picking at their cuticles, and foaming at the mouth, there is a strong possibility that they might not be interested in the topic of choice? I will admit that when there's wine involved in our little chat, I have a very difficult time trying to hide my impatience and I've been known to say things like, "You know what? I have no freaking idea what you're talking about. How is this helping you?"

Ah, well. Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Paul needs to move to Toronto.

Because my house is cleaner. And my kids are calmer. And I don't have to cook dinner. Well, I suppose I should say I don't have to THINK ABOUT cooking dinner. Because often that's what I do. I think about it. And then I suggest we order takeout. But you know what I had for dinner tonight? Watermelon and cheese. And twelve green beans. From a can. And I feel so much calmer today! And when I'm calmer, my kids are calmer. And when my kids are calmer, my house is cleaner. So clearly Paul has to move to another country. So I can stop the dinner thinking and we can all be calm. And clean.

I'm sure my relaxed state has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my mother came by to give the kids a bath and clean the kitchen and fold the laundry. It's definitely dinner-thinking related.

Besides, if Paul moves to Canada, I'm pretty sure we can still do the direct deposit thing.