you know what...?

I've discovered that that is the sound of my manhood dying. "You know what...?"
Let me expound.
My daughter and I have discovered the fun of Sculpey clay. It's pretty cool stuff. It stays moist for like, ever, until you bake it, then it turns into a ceramic kind of deal. It's neat. You can make beads or little dudes that you could glue magnets onto to stick on the refrigerator.
(I need a quick aside. Indulge me, will you? Have I ever told you about the weird dude I lived with for a period of time in the very early 90's? He used to frost his hair and his mustache. He was a gay fellow who had not come to the realization yet. But that's not what made him weird.
He used to wear color coordinated shorts and t-shirt combinations. Pastels. And he used to pull his socks up really high. But that's not what made him weird.
What made him weird, mostly, was that he insisted on referring to refrigerators as, not "the 'fridge", but "the refridge".
Next time you're talking to someone about an ice box, call it "the refridge" and take note of how they look at you.
Thank you.)
My daughter and I were having a lovely time making ornaments for the tree. Jenn looked at my handiwork and stated, "You know what...?"
And my manhood died.
She quite liked the little Christmas-y things I had made and at first I was quite complimented. Then she gave me the follow up to the "You know what...?"
She was going to a party with all the nurses she works with and thought it would be just grand if I would grind out a bunch of the little things for her to make pins out of. Like fifty or ninety, surely no more than four hundred and eleven.
"Sure.", I said. I love her like crazy and want to help her have a fine Christmas in any way I can.
Then she came home last night to find me watching Mythbusters and not doing much of anything else and said, "Hey. What's going on? I don't see you making many pins for me."
Suddenly I'm like a Guatemalan in a shoe factory. Crank out those pins or your mother might not get the penicillin she needs.
Tonight I made a bunch. I hope when she delivers my productivity report, my numbers are good.

I'm actually mostly kidding. I know she will read this and I am giving her a hard time.

HOWEVER... She is going to this party. At this party will be a woman she works with. The woman she works with has a husband. The husband is a cop, either in Providence or Pawtucket, doesn't matter, he's still a cop.
Jenn is talking about us going to some nurse conference in the future and how we might be going with this woman and her cophusband.
I really, REALLY, don't want to be in a conversation with a cop where he says, "I saw that pin you made last Christmas. That was nice. Hope you didn't get clay on your skirt when you made it." Or something like that.

D'oh. I was going to say that my manhood isn't really dead, it's just on hiatus. Like there's a manhood writers strike or something, but that last thought really shot my manhood in the guts.
Ouch. My manhood hurts.


In other news...
There was a dude at the gym with a fancy new iPod Touch strapped into a clear strap thing on his arm. Some things occur to me.
First. One of the features that make the Touch so appealing is it's large glossy glass screen.
Glass. Glass screen. You're wearing a large glass screen face out while lifting metal weights around a bunch of other dorks swinging other metal weights around. The 1/16 of an inch of plastic shield you have on your screen might protect it from scratches, but it won't protect it from Gothor haphazardly thrashing his quads.
Second. You have no album art. Why in the hell would you wear your Touch exposed on your arm in a very showy fashion, when the big glossy screen, which you apparently have not figured out doesn't really need to be ON all the time, is only showing the music note of stupidness?
Hide your shame, dude. Hide your shame.