(Okay, Chantal, this quickie is for you.)
All day long, I pick up Popsicle sticks. Ordinarily, something most would find annoying, but I look past that to read the jokes printed on them. It's so damn hot, pot-holder-on-steering-wheel hot, that I've ingested a few, too, and chuckled along at the lame jokes. So I guess that doesn't make it exactly Popsicle 'wisdom' but at least you get a reward at the end of eating it, something to take the sting out of the stain you have on your shirt and up your arm.
Today's jokes were:
Where did the snowman keep his savings? In a snow bank.
What happened to the cow who went for a drive? He got a moo-ving violation.
What does a car wear when it's cold? A CAR-digan.
I know, I know, it boggles the mind, the level of humor...
My personal favorite, from a few weeks ago, is: What did the macaroni say to the tomato? Don't get saucy with me.
At least these jokes are harmless, unlike the "healthful hints" someone thought would be good to print on the paper strip that covers the adhesive on feminine hygiene products. (I don't think they do that anymore, but you know how it is, girls, any port in a surprise! storm and you reach into the desk at work and hope the thing you pull out has no dust on it.) Anyway, the person who decided it was charming to print things like "drink 8 glasses of water a day" and "regular exercise might help reduce cramps" is a jackass. If they really wanted to be helpful, what you would find on the strip would be a coupon for a free bar of chocolate and a massage. Or the strip would conveniently convert to an opiate patch; slap that thing on your hip, and who gives a shit about cramps?
Anyway, I should get on to the next part of my tale, the tale of the nosy old man in Target. Audrey and I were at the register, where I was preparing to hand over the GNP of a small island nation to cover the damages, when an older gentleman, next in line, decides to be funny. He's joking with the checkout girl, he's joking with me, and things are okay until he looks at Audrey. He smiles (she's so cute, it said) and he comments on her lizard. He gestures to it and says, "What, are you trying to grow her up to be a boy?"
Oh, for crying out loud, is it 1955? Did I miss something? Does he not see the dress? I'm about to go into a diatribe on the value of non-gender specific toys, imagination, and bite back what I'm sure would've been a witty comment on how she has a closet full of GI Joes, when I just take a deep breath and back off. He's from an older generation. It's fine.
"She has three older brothers," I say instead, with a smile.
"Well, that explains it." (I honestly take another deep breath. I'm tempted to ask him, "Where's June?")
I drag myself away, mentally kicking and screaming, but with as much outward dignity as I could muster. Which isn't much.
At least I didn't trip.