No Nuns in New York

Recently, I ventured into New York City with Mr. Magilla for a marathon date.  We get time every so often to do so.  We use those stolen moments to reconnect, to laugh, to unshoulder the mantles of endless responsibilities that we have

….and just be.

We both have aging parents.  We have a lot of family responsibilities that don’t allow for much time together, or more specifically, romantic time together.

Now, my husband is the picture of literal thinking.  Hey Magilla, you see that dead bird?  *he looks up*  Do not take this in any way that my husband is stupid, far from it.  But his first instinct is a literal translation.  When you present him with an abstract concept, he looks as if you speak ancient Aramaic and your head is about to do a 360 on your neck.  He can run rings around most people I know, but God forbid you easily see that.  He watches all, sees all.  But I swear, the shit that comes out of that man’s mouth sometimes astounds me.

We went to go see Sting and Peter Gabriel in concert at Madison Square Garden.  It was without question, the best show I have ever seen.  And I’ll leave it at that since I don’t like to gloat (neener neener boo boo).

So we check into our hotel and were referred to this fantastic little Italian restaurant for dinner.  I will give Azalea on 51st a shameless plug here.  They’re phenomenal.  Make the trip if you’re in the city.

I love people watching.  Love it.  It’s food for this blog.  So as we’re walking from our hotel to the restaurant, we see a nun.  Mr. Magilla informs me that nuns shouldn’t be in this particular city.

Why?

Because, Giuliani cleaned this place up

Did you just hear yourself?  Nuns are everywhere.  They offer hope.

No, they use rulers and everything here is crooked.

That is Magilla logic.  Here is some unsubstantiated shit i just made up, therefore it must be fact and I’m going to argue it as such because I like it when your face is red from pure frustration.    And who is the idiot you wonder?  That would be me.  I fall for it every time.

A couple of years ago he came home from a lengthy business trip.  These trips usually entail a suitcase that comes up to my waist.  He likes to pack the necessities.  Suits, business reading, journals from the past 20 years just in case someone asks a question, fishing ledgers and maps, Fritos, toiletries, shirts, socks, shoes, 4 pillows, the neighbors terrier, a small lamp, shoes he doesn’t even wear and his iPod which I’m pretty sure has the same songs on it now that it did 3 years ago.

So my parents were visiting and this monstrosity of a suitcase is still in the middle of our kitchen.  I had to go to the grocery store to get extra chicken since he decided to arrive home a day early and not tell me.  I was late getting dinner started and Magilla is a man driven by his appetite.  A woman with PMS has nothing on a hungry Magilla.  So I’m late, annoyed and I have to keep stepping over his Titanic trunk packed by a debutante size luggage in order to cook dinner as he’s bitching that he’s hungry.  About 5 minutes in (I must have been patient that day) I freaked.  I mean freaked.  GET THIS PIECE OF SHIT OUT OF THIS KITCHEN AND PUT IN DOWN IN THE BASEMENT OR I SWEAR I’M PUTTING EX LAX IN YOUR DINNER!

And then I did the mature thing.  I stormed into the bathroom to drink mouth wash….I mean to compose myself.  When I emerged?  No suitcase.  Magilla is calmly watching me as an antelope would watch a lion and decides that my savage nature has been soothed by the removal of said offensive object.

I had dinner about halfway done when I had to go into our garage to throw something out and what do I trip over?  Yep.  The suitcase.

My parents are used to our banter by now.  But back then, they weren’t so sure.  I kicked the suitcase and questioned its mother’s integrity and pedigree as well as the legitimacy of marriage arrangements and whether it tends to sleep around.  My mother was horrified and I’m pretty sure my father was proud as he had unwittingly taught me some of the terms I was throwing about like confetti when I was five.

Mr. Magilla decides to ask me what’s wrong.

What’s wrong?  You are utterly incapable of listening to a simple instruction?  I’m pretty sure I asked you to put that damn thing down in the basement.  Did you think I wouldn’t see it in the garage?  It’s the size of an elephant for !@#%#*(%!&#_  sake.  Why can’t you just put it in the basement where it’s out the way?

He looked me dead in the face, with the most impish little grin I’ve ever seen and informed me, “It’s scary down there.”

How do you argue with that?

By the way, there are no nuns in New York.

 

 

 

 

 

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