Soppho

Look at me! Look at me! It’s raining outside but I’m not getting wet! Because I’m indoors! Because my internet is working again! Hooray! Exclamation point!

Let’s celebrate by watching this totally awesome commercial for Brontë sister action figures (with barrier-breaking feminist vision powers, naturally). Alas, if only it were real. They’d look great next to my Jane Austen action figure.

I am writing this from the parking lot across the street from my apartment, because my internet has been out for 10 days, with no sign of it reappearing any time soon (You may be asking yourself where my rental company is in all of this, but haha, haha, no). If ever I needed confirmation that I’m a total internet addict, this would be it. I reach for my laptop on average of 50 bajillion times a day, trying to check email, look up a fact, or a movie time, or restaurant hours, and am greeted with the great abyss that is no internet signal. And then I begin tweaking out.

Y Chrome had a paper due last week, and I’d been editing it for him, so we’ve been passing it back and forth via email (flash drive’s not working). This is, of course, complicated slightly by the fact that I don’t have internet access, so we’ve been taking trips in the middle of the night in our pjs to the parking lot in order to make the exchange.

People, learn from my mistake. Don’t forget to tell your internet that you love it everyday. Henceforth, I’ll be singing mine this little ditty:

Ignore the fact that the amazon commercial on which you’ve heard it is entirely overplayed, and just bask in its unadulterated awesomeness.

Updated: Forget I said anything about you and your commercial, Amazon! The mp3 is free right now; go get it!

I really enjoy useless trivia and puzzle games. That’s not to say I’m great at the puzzles or an endless supply of facts, but I love them just the same. Want to know how ants find their way home or why everyone uses “Now is the winter of our discontent”‘ wrong? I’m your girl. Want someone to do a half-assed job completing 1/16th of a crossword puzzle, with an undetermined, but rather large, fraction of those answers entirely incorrect? Look no further.

Wheel of Fortune is too easy, too undignified, and when I was a kid I read in the National Enquirer that Vanna White would want her last meal to be some sort of low fat cottage cheese salad with Jell-O. Look, you can’t expect a girl like me to associate herself with someone like that, okay? I read the National Enquirer, for God’s sake. I’m sure they’ll be coming out with a Penguin Classic anthology of them soon enough. Also, in this crazy upside down world sometimes referred to as ‘The South,’ Wheel of Fortune comes on at 7 instead of 7:30, and I’m not often home then.

Jeopardy! on other hand, I can totally get behind. It’s so nerdy it’s almost cool, the title sounds a little bit menacing, and it even comes with its own punctuation. And a couple of weeks ago when Alex Trebek uttered the word “thong” with his usual gravitas, it very well may have been the greatest moment of my life. It was like someone had shot a sack of kittens at me with a t-shirt cannon.

Unsurprisingly, Y Chrome and I are just dorky enough to really enjoy the Oldies station’s morning trivia contest, called the Stevie Stumper. We never call in, never try to win the prize, we just hope to get the answer first, and then mercilessly mock the other person for their totally lame answer until they threaten divorce. In spite of the fact we’re not married.

When I’m not in the car long enough to hear the answer, Y Chromosome makes a point of telling me later. It’s also an excellent tool to get Y Chrome to be ready to leave on time. “We’re gonna miss the stumpeeeer!” I say, in a voice not unlike a parent trying to get their kid to leave a store with them when said kiddo refuses to go. You know the tone I’m talking about: “Okay, I’m going to leeeave without you theeeeen!!” before they sprint out to their cars, peal out of the parking lot, and head for the coast, icy margaritas, and FREEDOM.

One day I woke up a little bit grumpy and fussy. We got into the car, drove off toward downtown.

“Women do this [a high number I can't remember now] times more than men per day. What is it?”

And I instantly forgot about my bad mood, trying to guess what it might be.

Use the restroom?! Quantum physics?! STARE AT THEIR OWN BOOBS?!

Later that afternoon, I checked my text messages. There was one from Y Chrome. It simply read, “Apologize.”

Apologize? Like hell! Sure I was a little cranky this morning, but I was perfectly well-behaved, and who are you to tell me what I should and should not do, especially in such a curt, demanding, one-word sentence, and over text message of all things. What are you, fifteen? How dare he? I mean, REALLY. And so I spent the next hour plotting Y Chrome’s downfall while sitting in a high-backed velvet-lined chair, tenting my fingers menacingly and stroking a cat perched in my lap like I’m a Bond villain. Mmmm. Yeees.

And then I realized “Apologize” was the answer to the Stumper. Damn. File those plans; I’ll use them later. But I’m not apologizing for my overreaction, because, apparently, my sex does that too much already.

The question one day last week was, “What are the three hardest things to say?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I love you,” Y Chrome offers.

“Okay,” I nod, “I think we’re right about those two, but what’s the last one?”

“Could it be telling someone their loved one died?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a phrase rather than something generic. Maybe something like ‘I need help.’”

Y Chrome nods and drives in silence. He looks thoughtful.

Finally he says, “Stop wearing plaid.”

“Stop wearing plaid? That’s your answer?”

“Plaid shorts. No…no, no. All plaid. Stop wearing plaid.”

It turns out my answer was right, but he still wins.

Confession: I used to think that gardening was the dorky little hobby of people who had a lot of extra time on the weekends did. Or the dorky little hobby of people with obsessive personalities. I’m looking at you across-the-street-neighbor, Mr. H, who, when I was working my shit summer job in college, would be out watering his lawn when I left for work at 5:30, and trimming each blade with scissors when I arrived back home at 3.

Granted, it was the nicest, lushest, greenest lawn on the block, but the view was totally ruined by the constant presence of a (somehow still) pasty middle-aged dude in tall socks and too short shorts.

Still, I might be willing to join the legions of the obsessively, compulsively uncool for some of these babies:

Off to buy stark white tube socks and some Nair for my short shorts.