My darlings, I have a dilemma: Husband did not care for the last blog entry.
I have unfairly failed to represent his side of the whatsit debate, apparently. Or something.
Also, he feels – quite strongly – that it just wasn’t funny. Not my best work, he says.
What he fails to understand is that this isn’t about is my best work. Nor am I necessarily aiming at humor. My goal, quite unselfishly, is to offer you a window through which to view our lives. I love an audience above all things, so it’s hardly surprising is it?
I mentioned the snoring conversations I’ve got all stored up, ready to offer you, but apparently those are off the table just now. I’m still not quite clear on why, but I suspect the words “I don’t snore” would be hurled in my direction if I pressed the point.
I cannot adequately express to you how tired I am of those words.
But what to do?
I literally lay awake very late tonight after we discussed my last entry, turning this question over and over in my mind; unpacking it, checking the fittings, giving it a good airing out in case an answer was trapped in a seam. Totally resigned to having no answer at all until he relented on the snoring thing because I, foolishly, haven’t been taking very good notes ever since this debacle:
I mean, he says so many Things that you sort of get inoculated against the shock that would prompt you to write it down, you know? Sure, some of these Things are more memorable than others, but…
And that’s when I remembered that I actually wanted to tell you this story; it’s become one of our running bits, actually, and once the idea entered my brain it continued to fizz around until I finally had to get out of bed and write.
La Muse, she’s a peremptory bitch isn’t she?
As it happens, this story takes place way back in the days before Husband was my husband. In fact, we weren’t even dating at the time, if you can imagine it. I think he was actually still dating one of my best friends, but it’s all sort of foggy because she was a clingy one and even after he broke up with her (someday I may tell you that story, but only after you all promise to love him as much as I do) she sort of kept thinking of herself as his one true love. Until she found someone else to obsess over and decided that he was actually still hung up on her.
We’re not friends anymore. She was weird.
Anyway, at the time she was picking up some extra money by distributing newspapers – delivering to homes and those funny dispensers downtown, you know the ones. This lasted only a week or two because she was actually even less of a morning person than I am and also print media is dying and everyone knows it.
At the time, Husband was living in a house he shared with two to four other twenty-somethings, because that’s what you do in your early twenties, isn’t it? The faces changed from time to time, but in the grand tradition of such houses it was always where a half-dozen or so of my friends could be found and so it was where everyone hung out when they weren’t at their shitty jobs or out looking for a non-shitty job while really being willing to settle for anything that got them away from begging money off the parents. (Those of you who did not spend those years in a college town probably had a shitty apartment instead, but you’re still familiar with the arrangement.) So it was, that on this day, I was lounging around having the “seriously, what are we going to do this weekend?” debate with a few of my friends when not-yet-Husband walked through the front door with probably-still-his-girlfriend – we’ll call her Emily, because that is absolutely not her name – and announced, “I’ve figured out what I’m going to do when I’m rich and homeless.”
To save you the trouble of re-reading that bit, I’ll repeat: he had figured out what he was going to do when he’s rich and homeless.
Naturally, the entire room responded with variations on, “huh?”
“I’m going to go around to all the newspaper vending machines, buy all the papers out of them, and give them away on the street,” he elaborated. “Free papers for everyone!”
I thought about reminding him that print media was dying, but I was having way too much fun keeping Emily up so late every night that it really only made sense for her to keep going until it was time to go get her papers. (I am not a good friend.) Instead, I focused on the time management issue: “Yeah, but that’ll really only keep you busy for a couple of hours very early in the morning. What’ll you do with the rest of your day?”
The rest of the room gaped at me as if to say, “that’s the bit you’re hung up on?” but not-yet-Husband had already thought this through and announced, “I’ll stand on a street corner with a sign that says need money? and when people stop to offer spare change, I’ll hand them $50. It’ll be so funny!” he assured.
These were my friends, so of course each one was easily distracted and they couldn’t help but agree the sign was a good idea. Suggested variations on the theme were being offered when I pointed out, “rich and homeless? That’s an unlikely combination.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But maybe someday….”
You guys, he said this with the same wistful tone with which I refer to a sunny yellow barn and an actual sleigh for when it snows.
Honestly, it’s surprising I didn’t forcibly marry him on the spot.