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, May 1, 2009
Forget bedroom eyes. The proof's in the pony
My walking partner has been on an extended leave thanks to an ill husband so poor Mrs. Mullet has been walking the lunchtime streets alone. I think my coworkers have mistaken my solitude for social ineptitude; the neck brace is only intensifying their suspicions (I can just hear them in the car as they drive by: “Oh no, it’s that chick from marketing with the neck brace…and she’s walking alone…awww).
Today a woman (Woman A) I’m lukewarmly friendly with invited me to sit with her and another woman (Woman B) for our company's potluck. I can tolerate Woman A in small doses (she walks with her knees touching). I can tolerate Woman B in even smaller doses (she reminds me of a spider). But I was intrigued by Woman A’s thoughtfully placed hand on my shoulder as we washed our hands in the bathroom.
“You should really join us," she said.
So, um, voila, lunch:
Woman A: “Woman B, you know Mrs. Mullet?”
Woman B: “Yah.”
Woman A: “Your hair is getting so long, Woman B.”
Woman B: “Yah.”
Woman A: “I like it pulled back like that, in a ponytail.”
Woman B [flipping her hair]: “It’s the sign.”
Woman A: “For what?”
Woman B: “You know.”
Woman A: “No, I don’t.”
Woman B: “That I’m up for it.”
Woman A: “Up for what?”
Woman B: “That I’m in the mood.”
Woman A: “What?”
Woman B: “It’s how I let my husband know.”
Woman A: “Ooooooooh.”
Woman B: “It is getting long, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Mullet: “I have to get back to work now. Hasta la vista freaknuts.”
At the time I was so blindsided by the bizarre nature of the conversation that I had to leave (and fine, I dropped some of the tuna sandwich I brought* on the neck brace and holy shit, one must tend to that immediately), but in hindsight, I wish I’d stayed for the rest of the conversation.
I have so many questions for Woman B! Like, when and how did the ponytail-means-sex thing begin? Was she extra frisky on ponytail days so that she and her husband came to a nonverbal understanding? Or was it decided over mashed potatoes one night? "Henceforth, a ponytail shall mean we fornicate! Here! Here!"
What if she’s just having a bad hair day and needs the ponytail to be, well, just a ponytail? Does she fill hubs in before he tries to paw her? Like, “This ponytail is for functional purposes only, mister”? But what if he thinks she’s just playing hard to get? Maybe there’s a different color hair tie for that.
What if the ponytail is at half-mast? Does that mean just foreplay?
How can her husband not see women on the street sporting ponytails and think about sex?
What if she’s in the mood on a non-ponytail day? Does she have to go into the bathroom and put her hair up, or can she just say, “Let’s get in on?” You know how people get attached to their crutches…
I could go on and on, but I won’t.
Please tell me, do you have a secret code/ password/ saying/ hairstyle you employ when you want to let your partner know you’re in the mood? I put melon balls in a symmetrical pattern on the hood of the car when I want Chuck to jump me, but I’m always shopping around for something that’s less seasonal. Figs, maybe?
* Yah, I brought my own lunch. I told you, potlucks skeeve me.