Dirty Little Secret

Hot Guy and I are celebrating our anniversary today, because tomorrow (our real anniversary) we will celebrating the 4th of July (because my hometown is weird like that). Also, my parents have the kids.

After doing a lot of cleaning (and we don’t even have impending visitors. Hot Guy feels we should stop living like trailer trash. I say I would much rather live like people with servants, but he claims that’s not in our budget) we retired to the patio with books and drinks.

It was quite peaceful, except for the occasional blast of illegal fireworks. Which is sort of like our old neighborhood in KC, except there it wasn’t always fireworks. Anyway, given the time and the relative quiet, I was able to reflect upon the reasons that I love Hot Guy.

1. He’s hot. Duh.

2. He’s pretty understanding about my pathological need for alone time.

3. And about my crush on Tim Riggins.

4. He’s funny.

5. He’s an excellent father.

6. He cooks.

7. He can fix things.

8. He can answer all the kid questions I can’t.

9. He’s incredibly outgoing.

10. He can remember exactly when Pickett’s charge was, but not when the next pediatrician appointment is.

11. He never hides anything.

12. He accepts me exactly the way I am. (Except for the cleaning issue. Which I guess is sort of understandable.)

13. He lets me pick out his clothes.

14. He knows how to help around the house.

15. He can sing.

Hot Guy calls it “the big black”. How I love it. It’s huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It’s MINE. It’s my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.

Sure, it’s probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don’t care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I’ve been overly attached to it every since. It’s not just that it’s black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11′s ass). It’s not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children’s births). It’s that I’ve declared it as mine.

When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it’s not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?

Enter “the big black” a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn’t want him to use it at all.

My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he’d use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he’d just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he’d suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn’t exercising, she wouldn’t have invented Diet Pepsi.

Anyway,  it’s getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn’t seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.

I know, I know. It’s a cup. That’s Hot Guy’s argument. Why get worked up over a cup?

I don’t know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I’m asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?

Recently I’ve heard people say things like, “Don’t tell my husband that I just want to see that movie because Hugh Jackman’s in it,” and “My wife thinks I just agree to see chick flicks because of her, she doesn’t know about my crush on Rachel McAdams.”

And I shake my head.

Hot Guy and I don’t have secret crushes, we have permission lists.

Like, if I ever get a chance to be naked with Hugh Jackman, I have permission to go for it. Likewise Jon Stewart (okay, mostly I just want him to talk to me, but I’ll be naked if that’s what it’ll take for him to talk to me.). And if I get to do Ben Affleck or Matt Damon, Hot Guy will be really happy for me, as long as I tell him the details. Really.

He has my permission for Drew Barrymore and Sandra Bullock, plus some others I can’t remember. But not Christina Ricci. He thinks she’s on his list, but she’s not. I think she’s weird. She seems like she’d go all stalker or something.

Anyway, I suppose my point is that Hot Guy and I discuss our crushes openly. Possibly even eagerly. And even though I’m the chubbiest I’ve ever been and am pushing 40, I am never threatened by his crushes. Why would I be? The vows talk about forsaking all others, not forsaking all sexual fantasies.

When I was in high school, there was this boy I really, really liked. Surprisingly, we actually started dating. All was fine until he was in a play with this girl that he had a crush on. No, he didn’t dump me. In fact, he was a perfectly attentive boyfriend. It was just that I could tell that he had a crush on this girl, not that she was interested. But it bothered me so much that I dumped him.

I spent the next year and a half regretting it. 18 months of wasting being a cute little thing because I was hung up on a guy who was never going to trust me again. Genius, I tell you. Though  it sure got me over being jealous about somebody’s crushes.

But I’m starting to wonder if Hot Guy and I are in the minority. Do you hide your crushes from your spouse? Or do you have a list?

Very early on in our relationship, Hot Guy rearranged my refrigerator. As all it contained was breakfast food, condiments and diet Pepsi, I didn’t really think much about it. If he wanted to bring food over and cook it for me, who was I to complain about the organization of my refrigerator? Besides, it was so cute how much interest he took in it.

Now, of course, I make breakfast and lunch for the kids and myself every day. A lot of times I have to make dinner (or, you know, an attempt at dinner) too. The refrigerator is usually full. So – and it was just a coincidence that Hot Guy was out of town – I rearranged the fridge and freezer the way I like it. I like to have things organized because my short-term memory is shot from lack of sleep. Sorting things by category allows me to find things quickly, which makes me happy. And cuts down on the whining. The kids appreciate quick service.

Anyway, now Hot Guy is back. And what did I discover on the breakfast shelf of the freezer this morning? Chicken nuggets. I mean, sure, the kids probably WOULD eat them for breakfast. But they don’t. The chicken nuggets had been on the meat shelf. With the other meat. Like should be put with like. In rows. With the oldest ones in the front. Because that’s what makes sense, right? RIGHT?

Already his expensive Parmesan has moved from the cheese shelf to right in front of the yogurt.

I think his system can be summed up as, “Wherever I can put it quickly”. He says it has to do with being a cook. Either way, it means that stuff gets forgotten as it winds up in the back. And you always have to move stuff out of the way to get what you want. And it just looks messier. Not that he seems to care. He has absolutely no respect for my system.

So, which one of us is the problem here? Do you have an organized fridge? Or do you think I’m weird?

When Garmin Girl did not lead us directly to the interstate, I didn’t say anything. After all, we already know that I have issues with the GPS, plus driving around all of these speeding old people makes Hot Guy annoyed enough without my helpful suggestions.

I also kept my tongue when Garmin Girl had us bypass the interstate completely. Just because the ad for the outlets had stated its interstate exit did not mean that the interstate was the best way for us to get there. Still, I began to worry. Garmin Girl is not known for sensible alternatives to the highway, after all.

We drove farther and farther into the Gulf Coast’s interior, which seemed to me a logical place for an outlet mall. Land would be cheaper and no one would be distracted by a good view. It sort of looked like Kansas with palm trees. Except soon there were less shopping centers. My mother was the first to voice her concern about our location. By that time, though, we were nearly there.

Or so Garmin Girl said.

Garmin Girl felt that the outlet mall was on the dirt road to the right. Not even the paved version of the road on the left, not for Garmin Girl. That’s when I thought about Dad programming the GPS for us. And how, of course, you have to program the town before you can program the street name. I asked Hot Guy if Garmin Girl would search for a street name in the nearby towns too.

Apparently Garmin Girl is not able to that, she searches one town only. Get the wrong town and you wind up at the end of a dirt road surrounded by swampland. Which mom and I were totally open to exploring, but Hot Guy and the kids not so much. So, while I did find the correct route to the correct place on Garmin Girl, we mostly followed MY directions to get to the outlets.

Because unlike Garmin Girl, I can synthesize information. And use logic.

Thankfully, Hot Guy finds these skills sexy.

I got my haircut yesterday. Thanks to my great fear of pregnancy/post-partum hormones and hair decisions arising from them(at least I learned from the dye job that made me look like a goth after I had Ironflower), I have not had a haircut since July. Except for the bangs I cut myself in September (hormones + stress = I’m convinced I can fix my own hair problems). Anyway, my hair had gotten quite long. Hot Guy LOVES long hair – and doesn’t notice things like split ends or style when the hair is long – so I felt slightly bad chopping it off. But only slightly.

Besides, I didn’t chop it ALL off. Just about four inches (my hair grows really fast). So now it’s shoulder length and layered to encourage the wave and all that. I actually kind of like it now. But I was a little worried about what Hot Guy would think, since he’s such a big fan of long hair.

When I got home, he said it looked good. But as we talked (and I confessed to buying product too) I realized that he looked slightly . . .guilty. Shifty. Not happy. I started questioning him. Finally he admitted, “You’ll be mad if I tell you what I really think.”

I was kinda surprised. After all, it wasn’t like it was truly short. But since I was sure it was cute I knew I could handle his opinion, no matter how bad it was. I told him to tell me the truth.

“I can’t tell the difference, ” he said fearfully. He then went on to explain that since I wear it back so much and since it always “looks nice” when I wear it down. . . well, it just didn’t look any different to him.

“But I cut off FOUR INCHES!” I exclaimed. He nodded and looked at me as though expecting a blow. I wasn’t mad, though – I was just relieved that he didn’t want me to grow it out again. Okay, and a little shocked at his lack of observational powers.

The shock and relief may have turned to a little bit of frustration when he went on to explain that he doesn’t really notice whether I’m wearing make-up or not. “WHAT?” I said, possibly quite loudly. I’m very pale. My skin is uneven. I have straight eyelashes. I look A LOT better when I put on make-up. The difference is palpable. The comments from other people on how rested or not rested I look correlate WAY more to how much make-up I have on than to how much actually sleep I have gotten.

Hot Guy, possibly feeling more confident because I wasn’t acting mad, went on to explain that I always looked fine – and the same – to him. Though he did make sure to point out that I did look especially nice when we got dressed up.

I’m not sure what to do with this information. Although it’s caused me to realize – as I put on concealer and blush this morning – that I definitely don’t do these things for my husband’s benefit. (Since he doesn’t EVEN NOTICE) It’s so empowering to know that I style my hair and do my make-up for me. . .isn’t it?

Maybe it’s because I was (slightly) over 30 when Hot Guy and I got together. Maybe it’s because I am an only child. Maybe it’s because I can barely remember which emails I’ve read, even though I mark them. . . .

But I just can’t imagine sharing an email address with my spouse.

I love Hot Guy. I know his password and he knows mine. We have no email secrets. Half of my emails are forwards from him. But I can’t imagine having to read the titles of twice the emails I get now and then having to mentally sort them between his, mine and ours. I can’t imagine sending the silly e-cards I send him to my own email address. I can’t imagine having to figure out whether I’ve read the light blue (the Gmail read color) email from a mutual friend, or he has. I can’t imagine not having an internet identity of my own.

I suppose I can see having a joint email for certain purposes (although when it’s so easy to press “forward”, I’m not sure why you’d NEED one), as long as you had solo ones too. But I know some people whose only email is the one they share with their spouse.

Is that weird, or is my inner only child coming out?

Thank you guys so much for all of your thoughts, prayers, hugs and support. You all must have superpowers, because Hubby got out of the hospital last night. It’s just such a relief to have him home, I can’t even tell you.

It turns out that his left bundle branch in his heart is partially blocked. He is on a bunch of drugs to help unblock it and lower his blood pressure. So it’s not great news, but it’s not horrible news either. We’re slowly learning about it and working on making changes to our diet (we’d already cut out trans fats and switched to whole grains at home, at least). And we’re going to use all the money we used to spend on our vices (eating out too much, alcohol, sometimes cigarettes – and don’t worry, I haven’t had any of the naughty vices lately) to join a gym.

So we’re just trying to take this as a wake up call for a healthier lifestyle.

I will catch up with all of you soon.

So Friday afternoon, Hubby goes to the doctor for a check-up (because we finally have health insurance again, did I mention that?). We expect that he will get a long lecture about his blood pressure and a couple of prescriptions.

Instead, I get a phone call from the perky receptionist. “Mrs.Jerseygirl? Your husband wanted me to call you and let you know that he’s on his way to the emergency room”

Me: “What? Why? ”

Receptionist, in an upbeat voice that should be used to sell juicers on late night infomercials: ” Well, he had very high blood pressure when he came in and his EKG was abnormal so an ambulance is taking him to the ER at Valley. He wanted me to let you know that your car is still at the doctor’s office. But you can meet him at the ER, if you want.”

So for a little while, I just stand in my kitchen. Then I realize I can’t erase the past few minutes, so I call my parents.

They rush up here so that my mom can stay with the kids, who are napping, and my dad can take me to our car. The doctor calls while they are on the way to explain things a bit better but all I really remember about that is that he says Hubby will be fine. And that some big shot cardiologist will be seeing him at the hospital.

It feels like forever until I get to the ER and the sullen guy in reception directs me to Hubby. Hubby is alone and loopy looking. I want to cry, but I don’t. I don’t think that will help. Various doctors come in and chat as we hold hands. An ultradsound tech comes in to do an ultrasound of his heart. I babble.

The cardiologist tells us that Hubby did not have a heart attack, but he is concerned. Between the super high blood pressure and something off about the left side of his heart, they are keeping him over night.

My parents keep the kids and I stay with Hubby until is settled in his room and feeling less loopy – many hours later.

That night, I drive home sobbing.

Even though it is now Monday, Hubby is still in the hospital.

They’ve been concerned about his potassium levels. They’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with his heart. They’re trying to find the best drugs for keeping his blood pressure down. At least, that’s what I think. There have been so many doctors, and a lot of them have very thick accents. It’s hard to follow.

Hubby is stir crazy and stressing about all of the work he is missing. I feel like I will break if one thing goes wrong. And by wrong, I mean if I drop a plate. Ironflower and Lovebug seem to be handling things okay – provided I don’t scar them with my short temper.

So, I apologize for not reading your blog or answering your comments lately. I’ll be back soon.

On a brighter note, the houseguests have left.

Before I discuss today’s horror from reality television, I want to point out that I did many other things – some even intellectually stimulating – yesterday before I watched My Fair Brady. I read news magazines (including The Week – it sums up what all the major papers are saying about all the major news stories – it’s great) and books, I wrote a blog, I played with my children, I saw a great movie (Juno – more about that later).

So please remember all of the above when I admit that the only reason I watched My Fair Brady was because it came on between Scott Baio Is 46 And Pregnant and Rock of Love 2 (I was REALLY watching the Screen Actors Guild Awards replay, but I can’t stand commercials and filler). So anyway, My Fair Brady is about Chris Knight, aka Peter Brady, and the bride half his age that he met doing The Surreal Life. I am not making this up. The show was all about her attempts to give her hubby a happy birthday. As a gift, she does a “tasteful” nude photo shoot. Fine. Maybe if I had a body like hers Hubby would get nude photos too. (Probably not, but never say never) But Mrs.Brady also invited one of her female friends into the nude photo shoot. And gave an album of wife-on-friend naked action to Peter. ..er, Chris.

Leaving aside the idea of posing naked with one of my friends (which I could probably do for a lot of money or to cure cancer or something), I’m pretty sure I don’t want Hubby looking at nude photos of any of my friends. Am I being terribly conservative here? The wife says he can use it to masturbate. Does anyone else think that one’s husband masturbating to naked pictures of one of your friends is a bad idea?

I’ve always prided myself on not being the jealous type. I’ve never cared whether Hubby looked at porn or said this or that movie star was hot. But apparently I am not so cool because the day I give Hubby naked pictures of one of my friends is the day I REALLY sell my children to the gypsies. It will never happen.

So, what do you think?

I think I’m not going to watch My Fair Brady anymore.