About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, 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?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Random Tuesday thoughts feel so right
The other day I told Chuck we need more intimacy in our relationship. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, “But I asked you to look at my ass [after the surgery].” Because I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, I said, “Are you telling me that we're doing fine in the intimacy department because you asked me to look at your ass?” He said yes. Then he told me he didn’t ask any of his friends to look at his ass. He only asked me. In his estimation, we couldn’t be any closer than we already are. Thank God we had that talk.
Once I went on a blind date with an oceanographer. I wore sneakers on the date because I thought he was going to take me to the beach so he could point to crabs and barnacles and seaweed and tell me their scientific names. Instead he wanted to get ice cream. When I ordered coffee ice cream, he said, “Gross.” He didn’t even pay for it. I’m not sure why I still think about him; maybe because I’d like to go back in time and tell him he sucked.
A coworker told me she and her husband save the "corners and edges" for Sunday nights; it's their thing. At first I thought she meant something kinky. Then she told me she meant the rugs. She made me feel better about the Chuck/intimacy thing. Slightly.
I took Junior to visit my uncle the firefighter at his fire station this weekend. At first it was cute how Junior kept pointing to the trucks and yelling “am-blance” and “fire [f]uck.” After 10 minutes I wanted to yell, “I know! I’ve been alive for 34 years. I know we are standing next to ambulances and fire trucks. I freaking know.” Instead I kept saying, “Yes, honey. Good job.” That made me tired.
Why does Chuck's brother keep calling Junior “the baby”? As in, “We can’t come see the baby this weekend.” I feel like he’s saying he can’t come see the Pope or an exhibit at a museum. I mean, Junior has a name. Maybe if his sucky wife gave him back his testicles and they actually left their house, his life would come into focus again and he’d start calling things by their proper names. Then again, I thought the same thing about the oceanographer. And look where that got me.
Thank you, UnMom. I feel lighter already.