Sometimes I think I might just be too stupid to live. But there I go “thinking” again.
I am a bright woman. I have had experiences and boy, have I learned from them. I went to college. I even GRADUATED college. With a theatre degree, but still. I graduated. Not that school means you’re smart, I don’t believe it does. The common sense angle is much harder to come by. You’re either born with it or you’re not.
I can hold my own in intelligent conversations and I can write well. I can speak to any number of subjects and have some knowledge about them. I can admit when I don’t know something – which is a quality that is hard to come by in a society where people who have no knowledge of a subject drone on and on about it and even worse – people listen.
But then, WHAMMO. You get pregnant. DOUBLY PREGNANT. And you are basically fucked for life as far as your brain goes.
So, here’s the thing. In the quiet of our home, when no one else is around, I say dumb shit. I mean, really really, profoundly dumb shit. And poor sweet dumpster husband is always the one who has to deal with the fallout with no one around to hear the nonsense.
I should mention also that DH is smart. Like, knows something about everything smart and not a ditz at all like yours truly. Just my luck that I wind up with someone like that. With just one look or non-sound or a breath, he can make me cackle with how dumb I am with something I say.
I ask him questions. I take that back. I BOMBARD him with questions. While out for a walk, say, it will be something like this:
- “What are they building there?
- “Did you see that couple from down the street with the kids? They got a new car. Did you see their new car?”
- “Who’s that actress with the hair that has that red shirt on that commercial you said?” WHAT.
ANSWER ME. God help that man if he doesn’t say something, ANYTHING in return to any comment I make about any nonsense I say. I NEED VALIDATION.
I locked my baby girl in the vestibule of our building for 15 minutes not long ago while running around trying to find someone home who could let me in*. My boy was outside with me in his car seat as I ran around ringing everyone’s buzzer yelling, “CAN YOU HELP ME I’VE LOCKED MY BABY INSIDE AND NEED TO GET IN TO RESCUE HER.” DH simply said, “I wouldn’t have opened the door to that craziness either.”
The saddest part is that it took me getting locked out AGAIN after the trauma of “VESTIBULE GATE” to get another set of keys and have them available for when I do this yet again. Do you guys have ANY IDEA how much shit I have to remember while trying to get out 3 doors of a 2nd story walk up apartment with 2 babies? This shit ain’t for the weak.
Now, I give you more of a beautiful taste of what happens behind the curtain of our apartment, lest you don’t believe me.
- “Did I have two umbilical cords?” This was just last night and he just was silent. Didn’t laugh, didn’t say anything, just silent until I hit him on the face and he still didn’t even say anything.
- “How did the babies breathe inside me?”
- Katy: “Is this new ice cream? I never had this flavor before!”
DH – “look at what you’re holding.”
I look down and see NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW all over the package.
DH: “That is the dumbest thing I’ve seen all day.”
- Any gossip show that happens to be on because we forgot to turn the channel ensues in me saying, “Who’s that? What’s she from? How do I know her?”
Then DH answers, “She’s from the show you’ve never heard of and WHY THE FUCK ARE WE WATCHING THIS?”
Katy: “But who is she?”
As if you need more, just now as I was typing this post my typing just stopped showing up on the computer. I unplugged my machine. I hit the computer. I fonzied the keyboard. “I CALLED OUR IT GURU.”
BATTERIES, BLONDIE. BATTERIES. Problem solved.
You know how people talk about “resting bitch face” or RBF? I’ve got “resting blonde face” RBF. Take a look at what I just did there. Good lord in heaven, I am dumb.
It’s true. I’m a smart, capable lady, but damn, I say dumb shit. I worry it will affect my job sometimes, so it causes me to be extra diligent in checking and re-checking my work. Luckily most of my work is email, so I can proof it before sending. It’s that face to face contact and me tripping over my tongue that I worry about these days. People smile at me like I’m a cute puppy that just tripped and fell down the stairs. They want to pat me on the head and tell me it’s ok.
I can no longer blame it on pregnancy brain, and to be fair, I have always been this way, but now it’s like I’m getting dumber by the day. I killed a lot of brain cells while drinking, but they grow back stronger, right? Oh dear, there I go again. It’s a good thing I am so dang cute.
Imagine this boy with the star over his face is DH and this girl on the ground is me. Yeah. That.
* No Hall & Oates were harmed in the ridiculousness of their mama’s troubles.
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