BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Commercials… You just never know what kind of havoc they will cause. For instance, you have that whole Filet-O-Fish thing going on. There’s even a ring tone for your cell, just like in the commercial itself.

As a matter of fact, E K was at a bank just the other day, stomping a printer into submission – what with her being Queen of the Printer Technicians and all – when a cell phone nearby began ringing. It was, of course, the Filet-O-Fish ring tone.

That’s when the havoc ensued.

As I understand it, E K went over and stabbed the guy in the head with a screwdriver, then stomped his cell phone until it was quiet. Oddly enough, she wasn’t charged with assault or even destruction of property. Apparently she received a standing ovation from everyone else in the bank. You may have read about it in the papers.

Now, me, I actually like the Filet-O-Fish jingle. But, don’t tell E K. She carries a screwdriver in her purse and I’m not big on being stabbed.

Of course, as usual, I am chasing a chicken of different plumage – by that I mean, I’m actually here to talk about a different commercial. Not the Filet-O-Fish song.

So… Anyway… Yeah… Guess I’d better get on with it then…

You see, the other day the O-spring and I were heading out to run some errands. While I generally listen to the local NPR station whenever I’m in the Merp Mobile, on this particular occasion I was in the mood for some tunes, so we were dialed in to the local classic rock station. Fortunately, the O-spring has very diverse musical tastes. She does get into some J-Pop and other stuff that really drives me insane, but she can also be equally entertained by ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, or Billy Joel (ad infinitum). Way cool, eh?

Yeah, I know, I’m getting off track again…

Back to the story… Since we were listening to a commercial station, obviously there were commercial breaks. Since this was shortly before Valentine’s Day, one of them happened to be for a Boudoir / Lingerie Chain that was advertising “Designer Underwear.”

Again, havoc ensues. The following is a best recollection accounting of the conversation that came in the wake of said commercial…

After a thoughtful pause, the O-spring, with an overabundance of confusion in her voice said, “Designer Underwear?! Who would want that?!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “Some people are all about the labels and things like that.”

“Oh, okay,” she replied.

I could tell by the way she said it that we weren’t finished. The traffic signal ahead of us winked so I made my left hand turn and proceeded down the road. The kid stewed silently for another minute or two. You could almost hear the cogs and gears clattering against one another as she concentrated.

Finally she announced, “I guess you just have to be old enough to want designer underwear.”

I was intrigued, so I asked,  “How old is that?”

“Old enough to have a boyfriend,” she replied with a matter-of-fact air about her.

I “schnerked” and tried to avoid spitting a mouthful of coffee all over the inside of my windshield. Gathering my composure I followed up with, “Well, how old do you think that is?”

Once again, gears and ratchets began grinding, clanking, and whirring. A moment later she replied, “I don’t know.”

Like any father with a daughter, I saw a perfect opportunity before me. “Well,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that you aren’t old enough to have a boyfriend until you’re 40.”

“Okay,” the O-spring said, not even flinching. “Sounds good.”

“So, we’re agreed then. You aren’t going to have a boyfriend until you turn 40, right?”

“Right.”

As good a memory as the kid has, I’m fairly certain that in a few years she won’t remember this conversation at all. I’ll definitely remind her, but I don’t think it will do any good.

All I can say is when “teenhood” rolls around and she decides to break the pact, I know there’s nothing I can do. However, if she asks for money to go buy designer underwear, we’re going to have a problem…

More to come…

Murv

Those of you who have read the “Mahwage” mini-series of blogs here at Brainpan Leakage already know that I was dopamine wonky, tongue-tied, tripping over myself in love with E K the moment I laid eyes on her. What followed, of course, was a study in silliness across a dozen blog entries which chronicled our courtship and wedding. (Click the link if you need to be filled in… Rumor has it they are a good read, in an amusing and sappy sort of way.)

Of course, in order to contain the aforementioned series within a dozen relatively long articles, I had to hit only the really high points. This meant that many other high points that weren’t actually the absolute peaks were left out. Unfortunate, yes, but hey, just think of what would have happened if I let E K do the editing. It would have been: We met. We got married. End of story. She’s very concise, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Frugal too. And that’s what the picture of the dead roses above is all about.

You see, one of the things I left out of the Mahwage blogs was a dozen roses I bought for her Supreme Evilness. As it happens, she likes roses. But, this particular dozen came at a time when we were first flirting with one another and not yet fully involved in the “ripped clothing, lip-locked, knocking everything off the desk to make room” passion that accompanies the initial throes of dating. But, I digress as usual…

The thing is, I purchased for The Evil Redhead a dozen red roses. I know, not exactly subtle, but hey, just one of those things. Problem is,  over half the damn things wilted themselves into corpsification within 36 hours. I’d never seen anything like it. While E K had no problem with this happening – other than the fact that she felt bad because she knew how much roses cost – I did. So, I went to the florist. Unfortunately, this particular florist was not of the stellar quality as the one I now use (true story), so what ended up happening was that I purchased 6 replacement roses and hand delivered them to her evilness.

She was happy, but at the same time not so much. You see, being frugal and such she wasn’t happy that I had apparently spent money on more roses. So, I lied. I told her they were warranty replacement roses.

All was good… Until our relationship truly got underway and she took over my finances. It was then she found out I had actually paid for them. As you would expect, knowing her evilness, scoldings and severe beatings then ensued. I was summarily banned from buying her roses for a number of years, lest I waste money on something that was simply going to die in a few days anyway.

Seriously.

That ban has been since been lifted, of course, but she still prefers that I keep the rose giving to a minimum. So, in keeping with her wishes, Valentine’s Day will take the form of Whisky Glazed Filet Mignon, Alaskan King Crab, and Chocolate Covered Strawberries – straight from Murv’s kitchen.

It’s much safer for me that way…

Happy Martyred Saints Day everyone…

More to come…

Murv