1999 Sense and Nonsense
I caught the flu bug just before Christmas. Although my husband and I refrained from kissing and engaging in any germ-exchanging activities, he managed to catch it anyway. We spent the holidays hacking and coughing and complaining, each one of us convinced that the other was not nearly as sick as we were. It became a competition as to who deserved the largest portion of pity.
I guess I won. About the second day into the New Year, my husband entered his usual early morning disgustingly-cheerful state of mind. Much of his early years were spent on a farm in Central Alberta and, as such, his vocabulary is littered with a repertoire of colourful “made in Alberta” clichés.
He finally noticed that I was not as well as he was. “You poor thing,” he stated compassionately, “You look about as miserable as a mule in a hailstorm.”
My face opened slightly in a horrible caricature of a grin.
“What was that?” he inquired. “Could it have been a smile?” He peered into my sombre countenance but I was not ready for any more banter. He turned away and I heard him mutter, “Must have been gas.”
Later, after strolling outside with the dog through snowflakes “the size of cigarette papers” and in the process, becoming “as wet as a new born calf” he entered the room and complained about the lack of wattage in our kitchen light bulbs. “It’s as dark in here as the inside of an Angus cow at midnight!” he snorted.
Alberta clichés often allude to a small part of the human anatomy that is not exposed to the sun’s rays. The other day my husband listened to a television commentator who was expressing a particularly uninformed opinion about gun control. “That fellow talks as if he has a paper anus,” he growled. (He didn’t exactly say ‘anus’)
“When it comes to knowing the facts, he is about as lost as a pet hog in a snowstorm!”
The other day when I emerged from the utility room with a basketful of laundry, a broom, a mop and the vacuum cleaner, my husband was taken aback. “Oh no, you’re back in cleaning mode!” he exclaimed. “Why do you have to tackle everything as if you were killing snakes?”
The look I gave him was “colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss” and “sour enough to make a pig squeal.”