Why Does My Husband Get it And I Don't?

Deb: I’m a bright girl! I’ve been well edumacated! So why does it take me so long to grasp simple technical things? For example, I learn on Tuesday how to organize my photos. Wednesday, I look at the screen and cock my head to the side like a dog! My husband comes over and calmly goes: click, drag, pull, puff ... and done. “Thank you dear,” I say, not meaning it. Eventually I get it, but it takes days, sometimes weeks, even months. I swear he is NOT smarter than me! Okay, he may disagree, but hey, this is MY blog. Truly––WE ARE EQUAL SMART! So how come he “gets it”? 

Barbara: Oh my gaawwwwd! This is so me! Why, oh why, does it take so long (if ever) for me to absorb technical things? I feel like I should wear a “I’m a techno-simp” bib when talking with, well, anyone who owns a TV, DVD player, or computer––especially my husband!  My husband's grasp of electronics and such just blows me away. It's like he just has to LOOK at a piece of equipment to understand it. And I, sadly, never, ever feel like I get it no matter how many times I STUDY it....

Deb and I already riffed on our low E.Q. (Electronics Quotient) when we bemoaned our blog-making-conundrums, but it’s especially frustrating when the “illiteracy” involves everyday items, like new-fangled washing machines or coffee-makers. 

Deb: Add to that the humiliation of my three-year-old niece grabbing the remote from me with a look of disgust on her face when I couldn’t access the “Movies on Demand” channel. I thought I handled it with great maturity. Told her I’d run out of cookies.

Really???????

Deb: So I get an email from an old high-school friend who seems determined to tell me why she doesn’t sign “love” at the end of her email as I do. She explained to me “nicely” that she feels awkward signing “love” when I am not her husband or her child. 

Gotta say, little miffed. 

I said to her, “Wow, we’ve been friends since we were 10 and I do love you. I thought you loved me too. I’m sorry that my signing of ‘love’ offended you.” Doesn’t that sound graceful? Truth was, I was offended and seething. 

But I faked it, faked it up, faked the “love”! 

She responded with a lesson in email signing. I LOVE GETTING A LESSON FROM A FRIEND WHO IN MY OPINION IS IN THE WRONG! I BATHE IN THE CONDESCENSION! She told me that in her opinion, you should sign “Love” to your husband or lover, “Love ya”, “Love you”, or “Love, Mom” to your kids. And to your friends––depending where they are in the emotional pecking order––“Luv” (that old sixties fave), or your name with an “xo” after it, or “Cheers”, and if they are new friends or casual acquaintances, “Best”... and your name. 

I responded to her with “What the Fuck? Love, Deb xoxoxox” 

Barbara: Ouch! No, you know what? Bugs me too when people tell me what the “general rules” are or should be when it comes to mundane (and, for all intents and purposes, completely sweet) gestures. “Don’t drive drunk”: a rule that should be mandated. “Don’t send love”: Um … 

But I’m also notoriously affectionate in my email. Even to the point of x-and-oing complete strangers! I’m not gonna change. I think we need MORE random acts of affection. And I kinda think of it as the alphabetic equivalent of a French kiss—er, I mean, the double-cheek kiss that the French employ. They don’t think about how much they love you when they’re laying two of those babies on your face—especially if they only have a passing acquaintance with you––they’re just being affectionately polite. For them, saying hello or goodbye is excuse enough to share the warmth. 

Follow this link for a very funny (and short) Stephen Colbert video on emailing drunk (and other no-no’s).

In Sickness Or in Health

Barbara: After some 30-odd years under my belt with the same man (see About Us. I know, I know, we’re an enigma, an anomaly, but it somehow works … even when we want to kill each other), I’m still shocked at the clichés we manifest on a daily basis. He’s the car guy, home-fixer, disciplinarian; I’m the closet-cleaner, appointment-maker, nurturer. 

I mean, we’re a thoroughly modern couple—always have been. We share the household and parental duties equally. But I’m so the girl and he’s so the boy. I defer to his money sense and he defers to my sense of fashion. He wants my opinion on everything and I want to give it to him. He likes to tell jokes and I like to laugh at them. He likes a good steak and I’m partial to poultry (but only if it’s organic free-range). 

So why is it that I am always surprised when he gets sick … and suddenly becomes a feeble patient on his deathbed barely able to utter his last words (which are plaintive mewlings begging for tender mercy and comfort)?? My Tarzan/Jane fantasy image is one of him pounding his chest in the face of the Common Cold, brazenly daring it to defeat him while he goes about his business. But the reality always reflects one of the most common clichés in the male/female dynamic—he is the dying swan and I am (read: should be) his besotted nursemaid. Oh well—I guess that’s the difference between fantasy and cliché! 


Deb: Unlike Barb, my relationship is hard to define because actually over the last year or so it has evolved yet again. Mostly my husband takes care of money, but I have recently stepped up in that arena. I am the spender; he is the saver. We share the household duties, but according to my friends, MY husband is a saint for one simple reason ... he cooks ... ALL the meals. Wonderful meals, thoughtful meals, nutritious meals. At one point when our son was in grade three, he had to write a paragraph on what his parents did at home and he said, “My Dad buys the groceries and cooks the dinner and my Mom lights the candles and pours the wine”. Out of the mouths of babes. 

While that observation contains truth, I always get defensive because it is tough to define what I do around the house. I do the stuff that goes unnoticed, unappreciated––yes, my husband cleans up, but it is “boy clean” … and I am “girl clean”. I do the ironing and my share of the laundry and I (deep breath here) pick up dirty clothes from the floor, wipe down counters and cupboards again and again, fluff pillows, tidy rooms, water and care for plants, book and oversee all appointments, medical and home repair, organize all social events (do I sound defensive yet?), tidy constantly, shut open closet doors, turn out lights, turn out lights again, control house temperature, fireplaces (man, do I sound defensive), tend garden, plant garden, decorate, polish, and scrub. 

In effect, I do all the things that don’t elicit thanks or verbal appreciation. We don’t thank someone for picking up dirty underwear because they just disappear into the hamper. We don’t thank someone for cleaning a kitchen. It just appears as if by magic. Clean. But when a meal is prepared, we are all over it with the thanks! My man can walk by something 50 times that needs to be put away. I don’t think he ignores it as much as truly doesn’t see it! But me? I’m with the “girl clean” radar! Beep beep beep: dirty underwear ... beep beep beep: wilting plant ... beep beep beep: crumbs on coffee table.... 

Wow, did I digress! This is supposed to be about whiney men with colds, isn’t it? Umm, okay, I guess the reason I ranted on in the other direction is because when it comes to my whiney Cold Man, I stand rant-less. My man is stoic, a rock, a beacon of the “buck up”. Never complains. Right this minute, he has a raging cold and is limping off to the grocery store to get dinner groceries. Why limping, you ask? Well, because he is in agonizing pain in the face of knee surgery that he will have in a few weeks. Yet as he went out the door the last thing he said to me (smiling pleasantly, damn him) was, “Can I pick you up anything for your lunch?” I watched him go off, gently closing the closet door he left opened, and thought, “Light the damn candles and count your blessings, you whiney cow”. 

Barbara: Okay, I will avow that Deb’s husband has many saintly qualities, but after having worked with Deb for 5 years, I can also avow that she never stops futzing—EVER! It’s quite amazing, actually. I just sip my tea and marvel at her. 

Anyway, we found this great video we had to share with you—it is hysterical!––and exactly Barbara’s life in a comedic nutshell. 

Oodles of Odes

Deb: ODE TO A SPARKLER

In Canada, hooray, it’s Victoria Day,

And we celebrate this in a most special way.

We come to pay homage to our long dead queen

And celebrate her life, for it’s in our genes.

We emerge from our winter homes primed for the sun

And run to buy fireworks, the fun has begun.

We stand on our streets; we stand neighbour to neighbour

And shout oooh and ahhh at the fruits of our labour.

But there is one little gem on this traditional night

That stays in my heart with its light burning bright,

The simple wee sparkler with its festive display

Like a tiny bright fairy lighting my way.

It can take me way back to my days as a child

When the summer was starting, and the weather turned mild.

In its light I see my parents wrapped in their youth

In its buzzing I hear laughter, memories, truth,

Truth in traditions that make the world sweet

All over the planet and on our tiny street.

Barbara: ODE TO AN ODE

Dear Deb, how I love your beautiful ode

To sparklers and neigbours and a traditional mode.

I cherish these things very much as you do,

Memories of warm nights, cold beer, and fireworks too.

But homage to queens of British descent

Don’t do much except maybe make me resent

That I’ve never had blood of this Anglophile line.

So I may well be a disrespectful bovine

When I say, “Queen Victoria, well, fiddle-dee-dee,

I don’t give a fig that they named a holiday for thee,

But I’ll party, relax, and savour the break

And light sparklers and hug neighbours for your glorious sake.”

Thanks for humouring us, everyone! We have posted NEW FUN STUFF to Side of Slaw and WTF?!  Click over to read.

Happy Victoria Day … or Monday, whichever you prefer!

Big Little Dig

Barbara: Yesterday, my husband and I were going out for dinner and my youngest daughter was going to be home alone until the older one came home from work. I went into M’s room to say goodbye and asked her to remember to tell S when she came home that there was dinner in the fridge. Except I preambled that request with, “Don’t ignore your sister like you usually do when she gets home.” M stopped and looked at me sidelong … then wondered aloud why I needed to add the “dig”. And, she wondered, why did “digs” so often have to accompany our parental requests? Couldn’t we just ask her to do something and leave it at that? 

I hedged and stammered and thought and considered––because M ALWAYS wants an answer. And then blurted that I thought the “digs”, as she called them, had something to do with the fact that we so often ask her and her sister to do something—and they so often DON’T do them, even with several reminders, so we resort to “strong-arm tactics”—like the aforementioned “dig”. 

Well, M, in all her old-soul glory, pinned me with one of her eviscerating, penetrating stares and carefully reminded me that she was still going through adolescence and that, while she knew she could often “be a bitch”, these digs hurt her feelings and, more importantly, had a cumulative negative impact. 

Hmmmm. Can’t argue with that, right? 

Left me feeling a little … careless. 

Deb: Nothing worse than a teenager with a good point. Should be against the law.

However, the next time she gives you “eyes on the ceiling” or a sarcastic comment ... you got her, baby!!!!!!!!! 

Barbara: True dat!

Hair and Now

Deb: The very instant I look in the mirror and decide it’s time for a hair change, it is all I can do not to run right that second to my hairdresser, the lovely Laura. From the moment I know, I can no longer stand to look at the old hair! CANNOT BEAR IT! Then when it’s done, I come out of the salon feeling wonderful, and I want instant gratification. “Hey nice cut”; “Wow, love your colour”; “This look is killer, where did you get it done???”  I know this sounds narcissistic.  Don’t care. I have made my peace with that.  

But this last time I changed my hair, something curious happened. Only the odd person noticed. And I went very short! Even my parents didn’t notice. Brother and sister-in-law––not a word. Neighbours––nope. Then a friend said “Wow I love your hair!” THANK YOU!  YES!  THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!!

I explained to her that she was the first person to notice. She told me that the same thing has happened to her since she turned fifty. “Why?” I said, tears welling up under my new canopy of funky bangs with chunky blonde highlights. “Because, well, we’re older and people have seen all the versions of your hair. What seems like a huge change to you isn’t noticeable.”        

... Wow. Must I resort to a mohawk?! 

Or is it enough that every time I flick my bangs and give my husband a needy look he quickly says “LOVE YOUR HAIR, IT’S SASSY!”  So if you see me on the street and you want to give my husband a break, PLEASE mention my hair....

Barbara: I’ve experienced a kind of a different sitch. After being blonde for virtually all of my many(many) years, I went brunette for a role and decided to keep it for awhile. Play the other team for a change…. And people don’t recognize me. Even if I'm aggressively smiling at and greeting them. They get that glazed-over look and plastered-on smile that makes me think of how some people look at delusional street-people.

So I’ve learned to approach friends I haven’t seen in awhile by smiling, greeting, and then pointing at myself and saying “It’s Barbara. Brown-haired Barbara.” That seems to work.

But I guess you can say that they noticed I changed my hair!

PS My husband still feels compelled to point out that my “blonde roots are showing” … and he's not talking about my hair!

Black Hole

Barbara: A couple of weeks ago, the strangest thing happened to me. Deb and I were chatting and she mentioned that she was working with a colleague of mine. I was delighted and surprised to hear the news and told her as much. Deb stopped––I’ll never forget her expression: one of disbelief mixed with a kind of abject sorrow––and she said, very kindly and gently, “Barb, your mind is like a steel-trap, that’s how I think of you. But I’ve told you this news three times and you’re surprised every time I tell you.”

Oh my god. I mean, really? I was devastated. Not by her words, of course, but by the shocking slap in the face of my own brain’s sudden unreliability!!! Okay, I’m used to having extraneous information maybe come and go, but pertinent, delightful, and interesting news that has a deep connection to my own stuff??? Has my brain become riddled with Black Holes into which the most important parts of my life will inevitably get sucked, leaving only random inconsequential details like when Deb is getting her oil changed, or when my sister’s husband’s mother is going for tea with her girlfriends????!!

Deb:  Barb, even your blondest moment is air-tight and ON IT!  And FYI, I found the tin foil in the fridge this morning ... there by the grace of God go I.

Barbara: Thanks for the vote of confidence, Deb. Gotta say—the tin foil in the fridge did make me feel better.

Oh, and just started reading this book in the hopes it might help me. My good friend, Angie, gave it to me for Christmas, but I, um, kept forgetting to read it….

And Human Kindness

Barbara: Since your post, Deb, about the Human Spirit, I’ve been thinking a lot about Human Kindness.

Do you ever wonder if maybe there would be more acts of kindness if people had a set of rules they HAD to follow? You know, a “Human Manual” with instructions to help you cope when things go awry. Something like: if someone collapses in front of you, you 1) approach them 2) find out if they’re okay 3) if they’re not okay, call 911 or get someone else to call. Or something to that effect.

I know this is probably second-nature to the kinds of people who read this blog, but I can’t help having a sort of wild faith in those people you hear about (or see on video surveillance footage) who walk past that guy who’s writhing on the street. What if it’s that they just DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO and not that they don’t have it in their hearts to DO SOMETHING? Maybe for them it’s a terrible moment of panic and impotence instead of apathy. Maybe our fight or flight response also applies to our reactions in the face of other people’s adversity (whether it’s witnessing a crime or hearing that a friend has cancer—and either responding like a mensch or slinking away and ignoring it).

And I think this division between those for whom kindness is easy and those for whom it needs to be learned can be found around the world, regardless of personal history. And KIND people generally outnumber cheek-turning, mean-talking, need-to-consult-a-Human-Manual Apathetics.

Recently, I heard from my cousin who’s peacekeeping in Afghanistan and he told me that the locals there have no desire to fight, but just want to live their lives and feed their children. Most of them go about their days showing respect and hospitality to both “sides”. It reminded me that no matter what our backgrounds, we have so MUCH in common. And our expansive love and kindness can be found even in the least fertile places.  



After all, it’s like that scientist said: there is greater diversity in the DNA of a handful of snails than there is in the entire human race!

We are (or can be) so much better than our press would have us believe.

The Human Spirit

Deb: I had a good juicy rant about rudeness all prepped for today’s blog … and then something happened to me. I was all at once enveloped in the human spirit at its best. I participated in a walk that I have done for a few years now called Meagan’s Walk, which ends with the world’s largest hug as we gather around Sick Children's Hospital in Toronto and hug it. Families and sick kids stare out the windows to watch and let the big hug of love wash over them.

Each year, I am moved beyond words. I walk in gratitude for my healthy child, but there are too many walking for the memory of their lost babies, and others walking with hope for their children who are fighting for their lives. Mother’s Day was the ninth annual walk, but this one had extra poignancy as it was the tenth anniversary of wee Meagan’s passing.

It always moves me to see the ambulance driver who took Meagan to the hospital that one last time. He shows up for the walk every single year, smiling and handing out candy from his ambulance. And then there’s Meagan’s mom, Denise, pushing through her grief to help and comfort others with her huge can-do spirit.   

Human beings at their best kill me. Their capacity for compassion and empathy is bigger than air. And when we are lucky enough to witness it or be a part of it, we are filled to bursting. I was giving Swarovski crystal butterflies to the mom’s of the kids in the hospital, and one lovely young mom told me that her child was losing his eight-year battle and would die that day at ten years of age. Mother’s Day. With tears streaming down our faces, we stood there hugging and weeping. Two strangers bonded by humanness. God bless her and God rest his little soul. 

A Primer For The Middle Ages

Okay, we know that many of you are blog aficionados, speeding along the internet highway in your snappy roadster, stopping in at all the fun places and meeting the most amazing people. But we also know there are a fair number of you who are new to this, cautiously visiting with your tin of fresh-baked cookies clutched in your hands and no idea where to leave them! So if you’re a roadster-type and know all this stuff, then you can just skip to the end of the post for the FUN STUFF.

But if you’re a cautious new visitor, then we thought we might walk you through the few basics we’ve picked up. Oy, talk about the blind leading the blind!

Anyway, for what it’s worth, here goes:

Finding us again: If you like our site, you can “bookmark”  or "favourite" it (top of the page in the toolbar) on your server (ie: Google) and come back with a mere click of the mouse. Or you can go to your “url” feed at the top of the server page (ie that long white oval where the web address shows up) and start typing “t-h-e-m-i-d” (etc), and the feed should give you our site (http://themiddle-ages.blogspot.com/) as an option: just click on it and voila. 

Links: If you see a word or words in our post that show/s up in another colour, that is a link to another page, site, article, or video. Just click on the word/s and off you go! And speaking of which, you can also check out our own blog page-links in the left-hand column (About Us, WTF?!, and Side of Slaw) with more—you guessed it—Fun Stuff!

Comments: Right underneath every post is a discreet little word: “comments”. If you click on this, then you can see how other readers weigh in––and often this is the best part! And, if you want, you can leave your own comment. Start a WHOLE discussion. (But you must "play nice", even if you disagree with us!) To leave a comment, just fill in the square. It will ask you for a profile of sorts, but that is up to you: full name, anonymous, pseudonym. And your privacy is as protected as you would like it to be. The first few times, most people feel shy commenting—but try it and you’ll see how quickly it becomes easy, and how suddenly the world feels like “a cozy place” (as we like to say).

** Edited to say: We've had some issues with people not being able to post comments, so we tried a pop-up window, but that didn't work on our side. If you're having problems, please keep trying. ••

In creating a profile (even with a pseudonym), you can link your name/icon to your OWN website or blog (or any other site you want to support). And that way, every time you comment, your icon shows up and anyone who’s interested can link to you and your stuff. That’s how we spread the blog love … or “blove”!!

Why be a “follower”, how does it work, and will my privacy be compromised? Turns out following is a two-way street. Nice for us as we know you’re out there and reading and we can click on your icon and maybe get to know you a bit too. Good for you because if you have a blogger feed, it’ll tell you the moment we’ve posted something new (on your “dashboard”). And either way, it’s another opportunity to link your profile to your own blog or website. To be a follower, you need to click on the "Follow" icon and it will talk you through the (very easy) steps.

Privacy? We will never pass any of your info over to anyone! But we can’t possibly know all the loopholes that may exist. So … if you’re interested in having a full profile for any of the above reasons but you have concerns, then you can create a free email account (ie: Google gmail or Yahoo) in literally 2 minutes and web-browse using that email address. To avoid missing any emails, just have the new account routed to your private account.

Sharing our blog: If there’s a post you particularly (b)love, you can “share it” on your Facebook or Twitter accounts. You simply click on those prompts (in the bottom left column) and our address and a short passage will go straight to your home page.

If ANYONE has any tweaks or suggestions or questions for this primer, PLEASE let us know and we will try to address them. We plan to create a separate page for the primer after this post, so it’s always there for newbies!

FUN STUFF. As that was (hopefully) helpful but (probably) boring, we have other PAGES you can check out (under “More Fun Stuff” in the column to the left) with new posts in WTF?! and SIDE OF SLAW… . Click over to read.

And speaking of which: We would love to hear and add YOUR anecdotes for WTF?! and/or Side of Slaw. If you want to share, email us your story at: radeckirites@gmail.com

Thanks and enjoy!

Grammar, I hardly knew her

Deb: I confess that my computer helps me with spelling and I also confess that sometimes I spell so badly, my computer doesn’t even recognize the word and has no options for me. At least these humiliating moments are between me and my Mac––and Mac keeps my hillbilly spelling in the vault.

But grammar-wise, I have a bee in my bonnet (2 N’s and 1 E): When did the word “anyway” become “anywayS”? When did the plural-ing of the innocent “anyway” become widely acceptable? Even my lawyer now says “So, anywayS....” ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH! WHY DOES THIS AFFECT ME LIKE A FORK SCRAPING A DISH???

Why are we accepting this laying/lying/? down? You may be one of many people out there who would respond with “Well, I could care less”! And if you do, why the hell are you saying “I could care less”? It’s “I COULDN’T care less” for the love of God! “I COULD care less means you actually DO CARE because you have stated that you COULD in fact care less! If you “couldn’t care less” it means you really, really DON’T care. Let’s solve the world’s problems by starting with grammar.

By the way, I spelled “grammar” with an “e,r” first. But Mac––bless him––set me straight.

Barbara: “Anyways.” Shudder for me too. (Although I do love using it through a character’s voice in my writing!) Apropos of language, you know what word I love that I never knew was an actual word till recently? “Whatnot.” How cute is that word? “Whatnot.” I’m just gonna keep saying it now: Whatnot, whatnot, whatnot …

Deb: Speaking of grammar and whatnot, why do we call lots of email “emails”? We do not refer to snail-mail as “mails”: “Got lots of mails today.” But we say “emails”. Bugs me. Can we stop it?

Barbara: Argh! I have caught myself not once but many times using “emails”––even after your very sensible plea. Even tried mid-sentence to change it to “email”, but then felt all wonky and slipped the “s” on at the end!!! I’ve been infected! Does this mean I have to start calling the stuff in my mailbox “mails”?

Oh, and if you like grammar, check out this site: Grammar Girl.

I Invented It

Deb: I did! Dog costumes and shortening words like “Brill” for “Brilliant”! Why doesn’t anyone believe me? 

My friend invented the Christmas light blankets for bushes. Nobody believes him either. It’s hard to live with, yes, indeed it is.

Barbara: Okay, I invented the Weather Witch (a figment of my imagination who changes inclement weather for my own personal needs). It’s not a commonly used invention––does it still count?

Deb: Uh-uh.

Dirt Cheap

Barbara: I’m not a sucker for sales—it’s not like I can’t pass one by without gorging, BUT…if I need something, say a shirt or a new pair of jeans, there’s something about getting it on sale that turns me into the proverbial rabid dog. 

I feel this inexplicable joy at being able to nab that perfect item—or near-perfect (because, yes, I will throw “perfect” to the wolves if “near-perfect” is good enough and 50% off)—from the sales racks. 

But this is the part that kills me—I can’t leave self-satisfaction alone. If someone notices and/or compliments something I’m wearing, I must share, rejoice, and celebrate my purchase-triumph. Me, breathlessly: “You like it?! Well, this dress was originally $250, but then it was marked down to $120, which was already great, but when I got to the cash, it was only $87!!!!” Even as I hear the exultation pouring from my mouth, I have begun to cringe at the sound of my own joy. It’s so embarrassing. To the poor gal-pal I’ve cornered, I must sound like either a gloating Braggerton or a Cheapie McCheaperton. Why can’t I just say “Thank you” and leave it at that???

Deb: Oh to be you! I would save a fortune! I admire you, I really do. But when I compliment something fabulous on someone and they say they got it on sale, the item is instantly lowered in my estimation. I think, “Clearly something was wrong with it to go so cheaply.” 

When I shop I love to see each piece on its own mannequin––featured and standing proud––saying, “Look at me, I’m brand new and sexy, right off the runway. You need me!”

Sales are so very sad to me. Pieces once so full of promise are now squished and tossed on tables with no regard for seasons or ensemble-looks. “Oh, look a Michael Kors evening jacket!”––yeahbut, COVERED IN DEODORANT STAINS, with FINGERPRINTS and DRESSING ROOM CA-CA on the hem. Poor bastard!

I may have to eat mac and cheese for a solid week, but I’ll stick with my shiny new clothes. They are out there, waiting for me.

Barbara: And I wish I had your commitment! Purely intellectually, I see how it’s good for those creative geniuses who design the clothes and for the tailors and crafts-people who construct them that I save my money in order to spend it wisely in support of the best quality stuff. But my inner-commoner can’t help thinking, “To hell with it, what’s a little dirt and dressing room ca-ca when there’s the gentle-cycle at home and an iron, and it’s ON SALE!!! And anyway, if I don’t buy it, it would only go to that sad, lonely world of Unwanted Clothes where it will die a tragic and unnatural death. I am here to save it from obscurity and ruin!”

I am the Green Peace Warrior of clothing.

… No?

Deb: Yes! 

But I’ve been meaning to tell you that your new half-price linen jacket is missing a button.

Barbara: Shit….