You’ll be happy to know that stinky wife week has ended. Well, you won’t, but my family is. Although the dogs paid me much more attention than usual.
As I’ve said in my previous post The End Is Nigh, it is practice for the apocalypse. The hair I let grow on my legs is for camouflage (I figure I can hide like a Sasquatch. Or a Wookie. Lets say Wookie, because Wookies are real!) but I do shave when it gets to the point that if I move quickly, I smell burning hair. This is all stuff that my husband can’t understand.
“What’s with the armpit hair?”
“What in the fuck are you pretending? That you are a hairy man?”
I don’t tell him a Wookie.
“I’m pretending I’m a French girl. Or Italian. Spanish. I don’t know. Some European country where it’s considered sexy not to shave.”
“Well maybe you should be pretending to be a not hairy Canadian and get a razor. And a bar of soap.”
That man has no sense of adventure.
Last spring I was alone here in the country. Son was at school. All peace and quiet. I looked out at my neighbour’s and saw three men in orange vests moving slowly across his property. They had helmets and walkie talkies, and some sort of weird machine that I thought was a Geiger counter. I was convinced aliens had crashed in his yard.
I phoned my husband and spoke in a terrified whisper.
“There are guys all over the place! They’re looking for aliens! I think it’s the government! You’d better get home! They might kill me because I know too much!”
To which my hero replied: “Did you put a bra on this morning?”
I’m not sure how that would have saved my life. Perhaps he thought if I was buxom and pert, they may let me survive.
I have pulled him out of bed to look at something in the sky that I was sure was a UFO. That was headed for our house. To get me.
“C’mon! Just look at it! What d’ya think it is?”
“A plane. Listen. Hear It? Are you even sober? I’m going back to bed, weirdo.”
He doesn’t believe. It’s all right. He indulges my whimsy and I think it gives him something to talk about at work.
The upside? When my emergency preparedness funkiness ends, he thinks something really exciting and special is happening.
“WOW! You look great! Is it our anniversary? Did I miss it?”
No, baby. This is just for you.
(And because my pit hair was actually starting to tangle. He doesn’t need to know that.)