ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby 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.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Dear Buzzkill: Thanks for coming so quickly

Well, well, well. My children repaid me for my weekend away by getting sick. Today was the first day, in fact, I was able to make it into the office. I joked with my boss that I've missed so much work I should double check my inter-office mail for hidden explosives.

She laughed, but it was one of those "That's a great idea!" laughs. Not to be confused with the "That's so not going to happen!" laugh. (You know, the kind you give your partner at 10 pm when his/her hand crosses over into foreign territory and you've already started to drool on the pillow.)

I know you don't want to read about vomit and fevers (Lord knows I don't want to talk about them), so I'll write about something much, much sexier: my neighbor.

I can't stop watching him out the window. He's unattractive and scrawny. His nose is pinched and his forehead is too large. He wears a large fur hat. His voice is nasally and whiny at the same time, but I can't stop daydreaming about him.

Why? The man is a workhorse.

He diligently cleans his gutters. He rakes. Bags. Drags to the woods. Before Hurricane Irene he moved his patio furniture inside. Tied things down. He paints. Tidies. He erected an arbor. He sweeps. He sprays. He wipes down his grill! Every time!

And this is all before 7 am.

Now look, I love my husband but:

a) he's an absolute slob. He leaves empty wrappers and boxes in the cabinets and fridge on a daily basis.

b) he's a reactor as opposed to a planner. His Hurricane Irene emergency plan consisted of putting peanut butter and batteries on the grocery list.

c) he has been away a lot for work. A lot.

A handyman who is:

a) home and

b) compulsive about said home is very, very attractive—even if his physical appearance makes me want to puke.

Crap, sorry, I said I wouldn't talk about puke.

Not to mention, I myself am compulsive and lately I've been wondering: what happens when two compulsive people get together? Would we be the most efficient couple in the world? Would we take over small countries? What if my partner tidied alongside me, instead of in direct opposition to me?

To dream!

And what is sex between two compulsive, efficient people like? Downright tidy, I imagine. I bet, like me, he'd hop into bed having already brushed, flossed, gargled, moisturized, serumed, anti-wrinkled, peed and picked out his clothes for the next day. I bet he'd have a post-coital beverage waiting for me before I knew I even wanted one.

It'd be a mad race to the bedroom, not to disrobe but to turn down the sheets and dust the night table. We'd frolic with Pledge.

Small countries I tell you! Small, dusty countries!

I should go to Northampton again, shouldn't I?

(Say yes, say yes.)

2 comments:

Pricilla said...

Yes, with Pledge.

Jess said...

Yes, and stop here and take me with you :)