About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Friday, February 6, 2009
For once, it wasn't the French
If my husband, Chuck, and his best friend were dogs and they died and went to Doggie Heaven, they would run and frolic and sniff each other’s butts in all the euphoric glory that non-sexual but intimate contact can bring two men who are in love with each other but don’t want to make out.
Whew. I’ve wanted to say that for years.
Now that you know that Chuck is in non-sexual love with his best friend, you should also know that Chuck was very hurt when he read someone’s comment from my last post that said “Chuck’s best friend is a dick…”
After I was done holding him, I gently reminded Chuck that over the last 12 years, his best friend has been a dick. When I first came along, he referred to me as the nameless “Chuck’s girlfriend”—for almost a year. If he wanted to hang out but Chuck was hanging out with me, he’d have a tantrum. He told me flat out that he liked Chuck’s ex better.
And then there was the bag of rocks.
I don’t know if you’ve ever known someone who wears rocks around his or her neck, but Chuck was the first person I’d ever met who wore a totem bag—and I thought it was the weirdest thing ever. But if you saw that pouch against his tan Magnum PI chest, you’d overlook it too.
Chuck’s best friend also thought the rock bag was the weirdest thing ever. Sadly, this shared sentiment did little to bring us together. (Because emotionally he is equivalent to a pre-schooler.)
Anyway, fast-forward to 2002, when Chuck and I took a vacation to Paris.
Day one. Sacré-Coeur.
Chuck: This is boring.
Me: Do you smell something funny?
Chuck: Yes, French people.
Day three. Zara (what, you think I only wanted to see Parisian monuments?)
Chuck: Kiss me.
Me: No. You stink.
Chuck: Come on.
Me: Did you buy French cologne made with vomit?
Day five. Bateaux-Mouches.
Chuck: Kiss me.
Me: You smell so bad I think I might throw up.
Chuck: Come on.
Me: Oh God, stop the mouche. I need le bucket.
Day seven. Air France.
Chuck: I can’t take it anymore. What the hell is that smell?
Me: People are looking at us.
Chuck [touching his neck]: My totem bag is wet.
Me: I think we should break up.
Chuck [sniffing his rock bag]: That mother fucker!
Chuck opened the bag and out came blobs of moldy cheese, along with some raisins. Suddenly he understood why his best friend had wanted to borrow his totem bag right before we left on our trip.
He thought it was funny. I wanted to kick Chuck’s best friend in the nuts.
Until Chuck said sadly, “I guess I’ll have to throw it away.”
If our lives were growth charts, this is where I would make a notation that Chuck’s best friend rose 0.00091876 points in the amount I was able to tolerate him. And if you’re wondering why you don’t know Chuck’s best friend’s name, it’s because I live by tit-for-tat and he hasn’t earned it yet.*
* Okay, not really. We’ve gotten to be really good friends.