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?

The other day I was watching an episode of Mercy (because I am addicted to watching TV on Hulu and I ran out of shows I normally watch and it’s kind of like Grey’s Anatomy but with nurses) and I had a flashback to my single years.

In the episode, one of the nurses thinks she’s found this wonderful guy. But it turns out that he’s married, which she discovers when his wife and her two friends humiliate her at a restaurant (worth noting: one of the trashy, loudmouthed friends was played by one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. . .typecasting, yes?).

You see, once upon a time, I too met this great guy. He was gorgeous, rich, smart, funny, charming and kind. And he thought I was awesome.

Would you like to know why?

It wasn’t really my own looks, smarts or charm (not that I was a loser or anything, but this guy. . .WOW). It was because I already knew he was married.

So I wouldn’t date him. We’d run into each other, we’d flirt, he’d buy me drinks and then I would go home. And he thought that made me the greatest thing since sliced bread. I thought it made me . . . .not an idiot. So I’m not saying I was in the position of the girl on the show – I was not dating the guy and I knew he was married – but if his wife had been bothered by the unknowing women he WAS dating (yeah, that’s a euphemism) or by his friendship with me. . .who do you think she would have gotten pissed at?

That just seems so wrong to me. HE was the one betraying the marriage (or not, to hear him tell it she was off doing her own thing as well but I never ran into her) like the guy on Mercy. . . . and Brad Pitt. (C’mon, we all know he cheated with Angelina. We may have gotten over it, but I will always be on Team Aniston.)

What do you think? When a guy cheats, is it really because of some seductive woman? Or is it because he’s a cheater?

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?

I’ve mentioned my love for this show before. It's FINALLY back on regular TV, after a fall on DirecTV only. I stayed up late last night just to watch it with Hot Guy - it's one of the few shows we both like.