Taking down the system
I have a whole slew of angry letters to write this week.
This is because the tri-county area decided to stop selling the New York Times. I kid you not- I looked everywhere (I'm between assignments and have a considerable amount of time on my hands). While it sounds very middle class to complain about such an occurance, I should note that I'm mostly mad that I can't get the Sunday edition. My consumption of the Sunday edition is a long-valued tradition in the brieanne household, as it consists mainly of passing off the "Serious" sections to the Mister and taking the Style section, trying to pick the snobbiest couple in the engagements section.
Men with roman numerals in their name, and women who submit pictures of only themselves, get extra points in the race to find the snobbiest pairing of individuals.
It was my only reason for getting up on Sundays, and now that's gone. There was a very palpable void this Sunday, as I had to find a way to amuse myself while at the mister's. His family has been seeing me a lot lately, and I think they have run out of things to talk to me about. Luckily for them, there is a crazy bride-to-be in their household.
Brian's future sister in law is in full bridal mode, despite the wedding being 8 months off. Between avoiding eye contact with me (and only me) and being her charming self, she's been talking of down payments and bridal trains and guest lists. On Sunday, she went on for forty minutes without pausing for breath, or any sort of response for anyone.
That is, until I came along. I think I made her snap.
We were sitting at the dinner table, when her future husband brought up Master P. She said, "Master P, the rapper?"
"No. Master P the defense attorney," I said.
It was lame, but the question was pretty fucking stupid. Master P, the rapper? As if there is any body else in the UNIVERSE who would go by that name. As if anybody who, by some weird twist of fate, actually had that name would go in to any profession other than rap.
Everybody laughed, except her. There was an audible "snap" as she glared at me, seething.
During the rest of the evening, she not only avoided me, but ignored anything I or Brian said. We enjoyed the silence. But we felt the need to keep the situation going. It's the same impulse that makes you scratch your mosquito bites until they turn red. You'd stop, you know its wrong, but it just feels so damn good.
Instead of being well-adjusted individuals, we decided to indulge ourselves and keep the shenanigan going. Everytime we passed by her, we'd say "Master P, the ________"
For example:
"Master P, the mexican revolutionary?"
"No, Master P, the taxidermist!"
Etc.
Until the area decides to bring back the New York Times Sunday Edition, this is what my reason for waking up on Sunday will be.
This is because the tri-county area decided to stop selling the New York Times. I kid you not- I looked everywhere (I'm between assignments and have a considerable amount of time on my hands). While it sounds very middle class to complain about such an occurance, I should note that I'm mostly mad that I can't get the Sunday edition. My consumption of the Sunday edition is a long-valued tradition in the brieanne household, as it consists mainly of passing off the "Serious" sections to the Mister and taking the Style section, trying to pick the snobbiest couple in the engagements section.
Men with roman numerals in their name, and women who submit pictures of only themselves, get extra points in the race to find the snobbiest pairing of individuals.
It was my only reason for getting up on Sundays, and now that's gone. There was a very palpable void this Sunday, as I had to find a way to amuse myself while at the mister's. His family has been seeing me a lot lately, and I think they have run out of things to talk to me about. Luckily for them, there is a crazy bride-to-be in their household.
Brian's future sister in law is in full bridal mode, despite the wedding being 8 months off. Between avoiding eye contact with me (and only me) and being her charming self, she's been talking of down payments and bridal trains and guest lists. On Sunday, she went on for forty minutes without pausing for breath, or any sort of response for anyone.
That is, until I came along. I think I made her snap.
We were sitting at the dinner table, when her future husband brought up Master P. She said, "Master P, the rapper?"
"No. Master P the defense attorney," I said.
It was lame, but the question was pretty fucking stupid. Master P, the rapper? As if there is any body else in the UNIVERSE who would go by that name. As if anybody who, by some weird twist of fate, actually had that name would go in to any profession other than rap.
Everybody laughed, except her. There was an audible "snap" as she glared at me, seething.
During the rest of the evening, she not only avoided me, but ignored anything I or Brian said. We enjoyed the silence. But we felt the need to keep the situation going. It's the same impulse that makes you scratch your mosquito bites until they turn red. You'd stop, you know its wrong, but it just feels so damn good.
Instead of being well-adjusted individuals, we decided to indulge ourselves and keep the shenanigan going. Everytime we passed by her, we'd say "Master P, the ________"
For example:
"Master P, the mexican revolutionary?"
"No, Master P, the taxidermist!"
Etc.
Until the area decides to bring back the New York Times Sunday Edition, this is what my reason for waking up on Sunday will be.