I talk about the little man in my life a lot, but I don’t talk about the big man in my life that much (here). I bet you readers (lol) are wondering if I A. make him up or B. have ambivalent feelings toward his existence. The truth is, after 10 years together, he’s more like an appendage than an impediment. He’s comfortable. The chipmunk? Is a pleasant disruption. So I talk about him more. I can call my husband an appendage cause he knows I dig him. I even made him take his clothes off at the laundry machine yesterday so he’d have to stroll nekkid through the house.
**
We’re driving home from Chuck E Cheese on Sunday. Chipmunk is full of pizza and exhausted and is zonking out staring at his sticker-prizes in the back seat. George finds that this is the perfect opportune time to start telling me all about how he’s discovered some great oral sex tips from porn stars on the Internet.
“Oh,” I respond, glancing over my shoulder at the oblivious toddler in the back seat. “I guess I’ll groom so we can try those out. But I’ll have to wait until after the um… yeast infection.”
What I wanted to say is I am mostly compelled rub my crotch on the nearest tree to relieve the current mind-numbing itch. But Christ, who is going to turn down free and probably un-reciprocated oral sex? Not I said the fly.
To his credit, he rolls with my answer. Then we debate the validity of cunnilingus-tips-from-men, decide chicks have the best input, hate on Ron Jeremy for being a skeezeball, he explains how the clitoris is like an itty bitty penis, and we start talking about Venture Brothers. This is why we’re awesome.
I figure we have like, four more months before S starts repeating things we don’t think he’s listening to. Right? RIGHT?
**
Last night he made dinner for me and the Chipmunk, hand fed every bite of gnocchi to the jerkwad-unappreciative-toddler to keep me from murdering said toddler (for throwing his dinner on the floor), and then cleaned the kitchen. And let me sit on my ass knitting a hat for two hours.
**
I asked him to lotion my belly last night. Cause I’ve hit that critical level of itchy discomfort and last time it ended up being a nice little bonding thing between him and my distended stomach. So he reaches for the nearest container on the bathroom sink.
“Is this the lotion?” he asks.
No, they’re Publix-brand hemorrhoid wipes.
“Um… no, those are. Cleansing. Wipe. Things. For my…”
Uncomfortable silence while I hand him the actual lotion.
**
We’re walking to get Cold Stone on Saturday night because I Have To Have Ice Cream Right Now. I’m telling him the epic story of why I’m glad other people appreciate the Mountain Goats.
“You know, now that you’re all gay-ified I bet you might like them.”
Note: George has started listening to the kind of shit they play during Grey’s Anatomy. In other words, music I totally dig—that he’ s been making fun of me for liking for the past oh, million years. As a result, I retain the right to make fun of him until I tire of doing so.
“Can I quote you on that?” he asks. Proudly.
**
A few days ago I linger in bed, arms outstretched languidly. I feel like a woman in a painting. Round. Fertile. Supine.
Chipmunk busts into the room “WAKE UP, MAMA” and then goes to put his head on the bed beside me to cuddle. Cause sometimes he’s really sweet.
Then he spots my armpit.
“YUCKAHS.”
I blink. “That’s hair.” Stubble. Barely-there stubble. Shut up, I’m part Italian.
George, getting dressed at the closet, nods. “Yuckahs.”
“Yuckah HAIR,” Chipmunk amends. “Make it all better.”
“Yeah,” George snickers, “make it all better.”
I’m so outnumbered.
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