There’s an old saying that familiarity breeds contempt. I disagree. Having been married for nearly 20 years, there’s an ease to the way Hubs and I relate to each other that I think is one of the ultimate perks of a long-term relationship. It’s comfortable. It’s accepting. It’s affirming. It’s without artifice.
And it’s blog fodder.
I mean, c’mon, if we were newlyweds, I doubt I’d feel okay exposing something that happened in the bedroom to the blogosphere, or publicly calling myself (or Hubs) out for doing or saying something stupid.
But being older—and thankfully prone to laughing at and with each other—sometimes stuff happens that I just have to share (with Hubs’ blessing, of course). Some recent examples:
We’re cleaning up after a dinner party, with me washing items that can’t go in the dishwasher while Hubs dries. Having consumed a healthy quantity of wine during the evening, our powers of observation aren’t at their keenest—and I don’t notice that he’s putting the clean, dry items on the kitchen island behind us. And he doesn’t notice that I’m turning around, grabbing those items and washing them—again.
Me: Hey, wait a minute—didn’t I already wash this?
Hubs: Where’d you get it?
Me: Off the island.
Hubs: Those are all clean.
Me: Oh, for gawd’s sake. Time to call it a night.
The two of us are sitting at the dining table, having a casual supper and just gabbing about whatever—as married couples are wont to do.
Hubs: I saw a video today that showed a snake swallowing an alligator whole, and x-rays showed how the carcass dissolved inside the snake over the course of a week.
Me: Wow, snakes must secrete some strong stomach acid.
Hubs: It’s too bad cats couldn’t do that with hairballs instead of urping them up the way Kirby (our long-haired cat) does.
Me: This is some appetizing dinner conversation, huh?
Hubs is able to recall his dreams quite vividly, and recaps them for me most mornings—and they’re usually quite entertaining. One recent morning:
Hubs: Last night I had a stress dream.
Me: About what?
Hubs: I had a bunch of cardboard boxes in the garage to cut up before the trash pickup got here, and I wasn’t sure I’d get it done in time.
Me: If that’s what you consider stress, I think you’ve been retired too long.
It’s early one morning, and Hubs and I are about to have an amorous encounter. Suddenly, however, we hear a repetitive slapping noise coming from the adjacent bathroom.
Hubs: What the hell is that?
Me: It’s Kirby trying to cover up a turd that must’ve landed outside the litter box.
There’s a plastic mat outside the box to catch litter and occasional other droppings, and Kirby is scratching the edge in an attempt to bury a piece of poop he’s dropped, causing the mat to lift up then flap on the floor. So I get up, retrieve the errant turd with some toilet paper, and throw it in the toilet, washing my hands before returning to bed to resume what Hubs and I had begun. En route, however, I see Kirby hunched over and dragging his butt across the bedroom rug.
Me: Aw, crap.
Me: Kirby must have more poop stuck to his butt; he’s scooching across the rug.
I grab the cat and carry him back into the bathroom for inspection. Sure enough, there’s a piece of fecal matter that didn’t completely make its exit from his poop chute.
Me: Can you help me here?
Hubs: What do you want me to do?
Me: Can you hold him while I get the poop off him?
So there we are, in our birthday suits, taking care of the business end of a cat. Our mission successfully accomplished, we both wash our hands and return to bed. And with the single-minded focus that men seem particularly capable of exhibiting at times like this:
Hubs: So, where were we?
Which inspired this haiku:
You know you’re well-loved
when even rogue cat turds don’t
derail his desire.
Comments? Got some scenes of your own you’re willing to share?