Once upon a time, there was this guy.

Which, by the way, is how the most awful of stories usually begin.

Anyway, there was this guy, this guy who I was just sure I was going to spend the rest of my days with. Because when you’re 18, you know everything. In fact, when you’re 12 you know everything. For real. Just ask my daughter.

So there was this guy, and there was also this girl. Not me. Another girl. A girl who, one afternoon during a particularly boring Earth Science class, dared me to get a tattoo of The Guy Who I Knew I’d Never Be Without.

Unable to say No to a dare (I can today, people, so don’t even try it), I did it. Yep. It was awesome. And by awesome I mean that my father STILL doesn’t know about it.

I remember when I showed it to my mother in our den just after it had been done (God forbid I tell her before, and I still don’t know what possessed me to tell her ever). It was still, shall we say, oozing. And she just said, “Oh! Oh my! Um, do not tell your father.” And that was that.

And that boy and I? We totally were together for the rest of…that month.

Seriously, my advice to today’s youth? If you ever want to permanently break up with someone, just get their name permanently inked on your body. That ought to firm up that “there is no way I can’t be with you forever” mentality for, oh, a few weeks at best.

Obviously, I could not keep this moniker on my hip forever. So back I went to the glorious tattoo studio (and by glorious I mean that I’m real lucky I didn’t walk out of there with anything in addition to a tattoo), and said, “You have to do something with this.”

To which the tattoo guy responded, “Uh, that will be difficult. All I can really do is make it a rose. And it will have to be blue.”

Because that makes sense. A blue rose. You see those everywhere. Clearly, this guy was creatively challenged.

So, a blue rose it became. It’s awful with a capital A.

However, I recently gleaned a glimpse of Bret Michaels’ Every Rose Has Its Thorn motorcycle, and as it turns out, the rose on that bike looks almost identical to the one on my hip. IT’S EVEN BLUE! So now I simply tell people that this whole thing worked out exactly as it was supposed to.

I’m sure Bret would not be at all freaked out.

But now I’m thinking of getting a tattoo that actually means something to me (beyond representing my very public love for Bret Michaels). So I’ve started a Pinterest tattoo board to keep track of what I like. And I don’t know that I’ll ever do it. But let me tell you, trying to narrow down the field to what one thing you’d ink permanently onto your person is a great way to learn a bit about yourself on a Monday afternoon.

Just Saying.

bulk food section

David’s full of insight lately, let me tell you.

If you haven’t been won over yet by his theories, be sure to check out his thoughts on what makes a news story go viral.

Next up: the most dangerous section of your grocery store.

First, I’d like to note that Dr. Oz has a most informative article on his site about the Supermarket Secrets that Can Make You Sick, and while he does address the bagel bin (don’t even get me started on what is often found at the bottom of the bagel bin), he did not address the bulk section. So David feels it’s incumbent upon him (meaning me) to let you in on this.

“Old people in the bulk section at Sprouts are more dangerous than unattended children,” he declared as he hoisted 4 bulging recycled grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

I kind of tuned him out. Because I thought that was just kind of a mean thing to say. Right?

But, apparently, I misunderstood.

“You don’t understand,” he clarified. “They eat right out of the bins, and they push carts through the store simply so that they can have the handle bar to rest their teeny tiny cup of complimentary coffee on, so the carts take up the entire aisle while they test stuff and then put what they don’t like back in the bin.”

I suppose the silence had him concerned that I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Just unable to respond. Because I was trying to process the fact that my days enjoying the bulk section were over.

“Do you realize,” he continued, clearly taking advantage of the fact that I was indeed listening, “that I had to forgo purchasing my almond clusters because I looked in that bin and thought, ‘What if that one was touched?’ or ‘What if THAT one made it to someone’s MOUTH and then they decided they didn’t like it and put it BACK?’

“And then, I thought, ‘Well, I could do what Liz does, and grab the item from the back or, in this case, the bottom. But what if the person before me did that and so now what was on the bottom is now on the top and vice versa and I’m just unknowingly contaminating myself?’”

“It matters not,” I flatly stated. “We are done with the bulk section. At least, we are done with clusters, nuts and trail mix. And if you ever see anyone eating almond flour or sea salt out of their hand, we’re done with that too.”

This whole situation has kind of ruined us. But I’ll look on the bright side: after 13 years of marriage (I think it’s been 13), it’s comforting to know that we still have that one germaphobic thing very much in common.

Brace yourself.

George (who is 7) takes tumbling. Which is the perfect extracurricular activity for him since he’s been cartwheeling his way through this house for the better part of 8 months.

He’s one of only 2 boys in a sea of girls in there, but he holds his own pretty well. I mean, as long as Ross shows up.

Tonight as they were stretching, they went into the splits. The gymnastics coach commented that the girls should all be embarrassed since George (who has rubber bands for limbs) can get all the way into a split, and most of the girls cannot.

So on the way home, David informed George that when they got here, George should tell Grace that he had mastered his splits.

(Grace shares George’s enthusiasm for all things gymnastics but she’s 5′ 3″ and counting, and having her doing cartwheels throughout this house is flat-out dangerous, so she just lives vicariously through him.)

To this suggestion, George responded, “I can’t do it again tonight. I’ll break my nuts.”

“George, you can’t say that,” informed David.

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Well, you can’t say ‘nuts’ in that context. It’s not really appropriate. Just so you know.”

“Well, I just mean my penis!” clarified George.

“Um, okay, but…” stated David.

“And plus, this is confusing,” continued George. “I mean, if I can’t say ‘nuts,’ what if I’m at a baseball game and I want to buy some nuts because I’m hungry and I like nuts. Can I not order nuts?”

“George,” said David, feeling a bit manipulated, “Of course you can order nuts at a baseball game. Those are two different uses of the word ‘nuts.’ Like, take the word ‘dam.’ If I say, ‘I want to drive over and look at the dam,’ that’s fine, but I can’t say, ‘Damn, this traffic is terrible!”

“OH, I GET IT!” exclaimed George. “I’ll go home, show Grace how I do the splits, and then say, ‘I just broke my damn nuts!”

We have a long way to go here folks.

 

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