I finally found the title bar!
Tom came home this morning. After a short nap, he decided to make an omelet. I'm trying to get him to eat healthier so I'm glad he's having an omelet instead of Doritos or Cocoa Puffs. I'll work on the canned mushrooms he put in later. Doesn't he hear when I point out that they're cooked down to nothing and then packed in salt-water? With his blood pressure, he does not need the sodium. I feel like Claire Huxtable when I talk to him about food. He can't live off truck stop trash forever and I'm not tired enough of him to want him to stroke out just yet, but give me time. Just wait till he sees that during his last trip I switched all the pasta in the house to whole-wheat. And got rid of the blue-box mac and cheese. Brown macaroni may not appeal so much to a meat and potatoes Nebraska farmboy like him.
Not that I'm blaming the Nebraska public school system, or ex-jock farmboys like my husband, but why doesn't he know any cultural references? Am I the only one who gets the jokes on TV? Am I the only one who understands Dennis Miller? When some town on the news bans sex offenders from living within city limits and I say "Welcome to Verona", I get a blank stare. When we see a shooting star and I tell him that somewhere there's a bald headed group of neutered fanatics waiting for it, he says, "Huh?" One Jonestown Kool-Aid joke, one Call me Ishmael, one red m&m or arsenic-tylenol joke! That's all I ask. I tell him; I am a funny person, it's just not funny when you have to explain it. How can the same man who probably knows by heart the cup size of every female cast member of Buffy The Vampire Slayer have gone through 38 years of life without picking up any cultural references at all? Maybe it IS the Nebraska Public School System. Maybe I should fear for my daughter when we finally move to Omaha.