picking (not choosing)

I woke up this morning with absolutely no ideas for a blog topic.

Well, I had some ideas. But, none of them began writing themselves in my head. Which would have meant that I would have actually had to do some of the work.

Pffft. Sucks to that.

I got an early morning IM from HRC. It mostly consisted of her talking about Canadian chocolate bars. Which was followed by me complaining, “I have nothing to blog about!”

She said that I should blog about how pretty she is. Or about the time when she looked the prettiest.

I rolled my eyes like a 15 year old girl.

You can do that while IM’ing and not get punched.


So, I said something nice to her. (It was early.)

And she MOCKED me.


And THEN blamed me because she claims that she learned how to pick on people by watching me.

Which reminded me of the voting I got you folks to do the other day.

The winner was…

“Terrible thing… I have a wife, yet I have to do all the housework. She can’t figure out how to start the broom. She is still looking for the pull cord.”

I know! I’m as shocked as you.

The masturbation one jumped out to an immediate lead — not surprising as the history of the democratic process has taught us that pervs vote early — but, the terrible wife ended up squeezing out a slim victory.

The quote was actually something my uncle said to me last weekend. Then he giggled. Then his wife swatted him.

And then he giggled some more.

You see, I come from a family of pickers.

He is my mom’s brother. And he is legendary for his picking.

And for being an outlaw in his youth. He and his friends would frequently tear around in his car — sometimes with a friend sitting on a wooden chair on the hood. Old people in neighbouring towns would refuse to leave their houses on Sunday afternoons. (For some reason, that was when he raised his biggest ruckuses.)

He got his picking honestly. My grandfather was a picker too. It was great.

Plus, my grandfather would tell people the craziest stories. And then get angry if you doubted him.

He’d convince people that he was his own twin and that his “brother” had died. And then let them give condolences.

An old lady once told him that she hadn’t seen him in twenty years. She asked where he’d been. He told her “jail.” She asked what for. “Rape and murder.”

I know, right? This is my DNA, people.

My uncle has a son.

Yes, also a picker.

It’s the family business.

My cousin is very dry. And many people have never heard him speak. He’s the kind of person that, if he doesn’t like you, he isn’t talking to you. AT ALL. Don’t bother asking questions.

One of my favourite moments with him was at a party many moons ago. A buddy of mine was trying to get my cousin to drink some sissy drink. All my cousin would say was…

“I like beer and I like rum.”

My friend kept trying.

“It tastes great!”

“I like beer and I like rum.”

“One sip?”

“I like beer and I like rum.”

“Honestly. You are going to love it.”

“I like beer and I like rum.”

Finally he talked my cousin into taking a swig. My cousin held it in his mouth for about ten seconds. Swallowed. Then looked straight ahead…

“I like beer and I like rum.”

It is good to see that the next generation in the family is also good at picking.

You may remember two little chicks called The ACN and The Monkey.

What about me?

Well, I asked HRC for some examples of my picking. She struggled to find any. And when she mentioned things, they just made me sound delightful.

I guess I am the exception in a family of pickers.

And, yay!, I wrote a post.

I even thanked HRC for starting the ball rolling with her “pretty” comments.

Peter: your raging ego and constant need for validation came in handy!

HRC: fists!

Mocking and threats. That is what I get.

Terrible, right?

But, don’t feel TOO bad for me.

I told her, “Now that you are engaged, people don’t see you as a woman anymore.” (As I giggled.)

And then warned her that her itchy eye could be “tiny spider eggs.”

I guess she probably shouldn’t have mocked me.

16 thoughts on “picking (not choosing)

  1. i’m always picked on. hmph.

    remind me not to get on your bad side. but i have feeling that if i was on your good side i’d get picked on just as much.

  2. miriam: It is kinda long, eh? (That’s what she said.) 29 days in and I am still able to spin some crap. Yay!

    michelle: Ha! My good side is CONSIDERABLY smaller.

  3. princess of the universe: Hee hee hee

    molly: I think it is like in prison. You gotta smack down the biggest picker and then they move on to someone else. Or you have to sell yourself for a pack of smokes. Something.

  4. Oh I am so the picked on one because they all think I’m kind of flighty and not at all street smart and look how gullible Clink is! She actually believed that tiny worms make the holes in swiss cheese!

    I didn’t eat swiss cheese for three years. Damn them.

  5. I am definitely more the goof than the goofed. I had my brother convinced that an old motel with one of the lights blinking out front was a stop on the Underground Railroad, and the blinking light was a signal that it was safe to stay there. He believed me, despite the fact that a) the motel was MAYBE 20 years old; and b) it was in San Diego. California. Pretty sure the Underground Railroad didn’t have many stops out here.

    Anyway, cheers to the foolish and fooled alike!

  6. My family’s the same way. Mainly my dad. And it comes in the form of lame joke-like stories. And then we sit there trying to figure out if they actually happened or he’s totally making them up.

    When telling us about his trip to the grocery store for Thanksgiving dinner, he said “when I was checking out, the bagger asked me if I wanted paper or plastic…and I told him I didn’t care, he could choose. He looked at me and said, ‘baggers can’t be choosers.'”

    Ummm right, Dad. I know this didn’t actually happen because it was only the 8329 time I’ve heard this story. But my neighbors believed him and thought it was great. He loves when he gets a new audience.

  7. jenny: Like all great things in life, the Underground Railroad ended up in Canada.

    susie: Ha! Only a dad could get away with that story, eh? In my family, it would likely involve more swearing.

  8. I’ve heard about tiny spider eggs being embedded in someone’s skin. I thought that was an urban legend? In the US anyway…I bet that shit happens in Canada all the time, huh?

  9. ahh tiny spider eggs!!

    thank you, MY completely-unrelated-to-story-and-in-fact-in-another-country eye is now twitching.


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