Happily Wedded Wit

My pet peeve with my husband is his habit of queuing up on the counter anything that needs to be put back in the fridge, but never actually making the leap to putting it IN the fridge! I watched him queue up the butter, milk, and juice on the counter the other morning, mere inches from the fridge door.  So I said; “You know, when we’re old and in the assisted living home that’s the thing that’s gonna’ drive me to smother you with your pillow.”

I’ve got nine years on my sweet man, and at times like these he loves to pull that fact out for a little airing. I can already see it coming. A poker face he has not. With an extreme head-tilt he asks me; “When WE get old?”  He pantomimes pushing me in a wheelchair up to an imaginary door and ding-dong-ditching me on the invisible doorstep of the old folk’s home. With great exaggeration he presses the doorbell and mimes his arms pumping as he runs away. For theatrical effect, he arcs a wide salute, and says, “SEE YA!” By now I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying.

What I am most grateful for in my relationship with this lovely man is our compatible sense of humor. My first husband (we’ll call him John for privacy purposes) and I shared a great sense of humor too, but there was a bipolar quality to it early on. Once, John and I were having a knock-down drag-out war of words on our way to a wedding in my old rusted out Chevy Nova. It had rained all day, and the rain had pooled into deep bodies of water alongside the road. Seeing his opportunity and my lack of a floorboard, John swerved into one of the biggest puddles. A wall of water lifted my floor mat and drenched me and my new Gunne Sax dress.  After a moment of stunned silence, I caught my breath, wiped the mud off my face, and we both started laughing. One moment it could be really, really funny, and the next it was really, really not. With my husband now, there is a less volatile line between hysterical laughter and, well, “hysterical” laughter.

The other morning as Alan was heading out the door to try his first Yoga class I casually gave him a little advice; “Don’t wear baggy shorts and go showin’ off the good china to all those ladies in the class.” He responded with a grin, “Is that a racist remark?” (He is Chinese-reference blog photo above). “No,” I said, “it’s a compliment directed toward all that is good about your china . . .ness.”  Our daughter walked in and asked us what we were laughing about.  We looked at each other and I said, we were just discussing whose turn it was to do the dishes!

Mammaste.

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