Smile Politely

Counter-Coulter: The Female Voice

As much as I enjoy Mr. Coulter’s column, I have long had the desire to provide readers with a more feminine version of “A Week in the Life of…” And so, today, I offer to you, Counter-Coulter: The Female Voice. There will be no ball talk, no discussion of the latest X-Box trends, and no detailed accounts of a crap-filled garage. I live with three boys who are sports fans, gamers, and garage-tinkerers. I live it. I don’t need to read about it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no prude. In fact, Dirty Decker is a nickname I’m proud to own. But what does a week look like from a different angle?
Here goes…

Recliner? I hardly know her!

I have never understood the attraction men have for their recliners, but after finally convincing my husband to get rid of our big ole Lazy Boy (and by get rid of, I mean move it to the basement), we invested in a new chair that lacks a bit of that, “sit your big ass in me all damn day,” appeal. But I got to thinking: with two small children, I never got to pull the glorious lever on the side of that beast anyway. And even if I tried, I would have just had to pull it again seconds later to cater to my kids. So I realized, people need substantially different types of chairs at different stages of their lives.

In college, I remember doing a lot of reading in one of those saucer-shaped papasans … there’s no way I would even attempt to get in one of those today. My fear of a broken hip outweighs the thrill. If you don’t have children, a fat recliner is a pretty sweet ride. I can recall many a hangover where my side table was stocked with everything I could possibly need for the next six to eight hours. But now, just a chair is just the thing. I don’t need it to rock. I don’t need it to swivel. I need it to provide support for me a few minutes at time. Just a chair, and mommy’s happy. But in my more delicate years, I do hope to own one of those incliners. You know, the remote-operated chairs that make dismounting easy on the old bones?

For some reason, I picture myself with a ringing landline, halfway across the house, and me, in uber-slow motion, trying to get out of the chair to get the phone. I don’t have a landline now, but there is one in my future, apparently. I wonder who will be
calling me.

Guinness doesn’t live here anymore (and neither does Phil Donahue)

So, the Esquire replaced its draught Guinness with some milk stout. I couldn’t decide if I should flip a table or shed a tear. Needless to say, it was an emotional discovery. It continues to haunt my dreams.

I don’t do Facebook too much these days, but for some reason I’ve had a strong urge to post, “RIP Phil Donahue,” just to see the response. One thing keeping me from conducting this experiment is the likelihood that it would have very little impact on anyone. And that makes me sad. Not because I’m a big fan of Phil, but because it would reinforce how dated I already feel in today’s world. Okay, I guess I really am a fan of Phil. And then I feel guilty for thinking that, like somehow I’m going to be responsible for his eminent death. Well, if I am, may he rest in peace.

Words of wisdom

I saw a tattoo recently that read: Write drunk, edit sober. I’ll let you decide which one I’m doing tonight.

And finally, without incriminating any of my dearest friends, here are a few anonymous quotes/texts from the week: “I thought, I need to help this person. But then I laughed, and then I didn’t.” And, “I just looked at my toenails and threw up in my mouth a little bit. How are you?”

Living the dream.

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