If you’re anything like my husband, you’re getting sick of all the turtle talk and ready for a change of subject. Thus it is time to address, in that sideways fashion reserved for ongoing legal dramas, The Other Thing.
This week contains my last few “normal” days before I begin terrorizing the citizens of St. Louis every single night, which means I’m spending whatever little bits of time I can with Husband—cuddling, sitting with him while he finally watches Mindhunter, and taking care of some projects we foolishly put off until the least convenient season.
Yes, I really want to tell you about one of them, but I can’t. It’s too big (and not at a shareable stage yet). We’ll get there, I promise.
But my altered schedule makes my nightly call with Offspring easier; most nights I just call him when I’m on my way home to wash the blood out of my hair.
It is very frustrating for me, as you know, to have… things… going on here—important things—of which I cannot keep you informed.
But every time I reach for my phone or laptop in a blind rage about The Thing I’m just about tackled by Husband and a full legal team.
While my weird hours leave me almost no time for Husband, they do make it much more convenient for me to chat with Offspring; I’m not staying up for him anymore, if anything he’s staying up for me.
And I’m sure you won’t be surprised which one is currently experiencing overwhelming job dissatisfaction.
I would like to address this comment, to which I did not reply directly because I was busy accumulating evidence.
Now, I saw that comment and had to laugh; that’s my little smartass, doing his level best to make me look like the crazy overprotective mother.
Which gives me all the excuse I need to tell you just how reassuring he’s been these past weeks since his arrival at Fabulous Bagram, Afghanistan.
Offspring is in Afghanistan.
ME: How’s it going?
OFFSPRING: Pretty shitty day, actually. It’s raining, long shift… and I had to enact the River City protocol.
ME: What’s that?
OFFSPRING: Shut down internet. Because someone died. Someone I was literally just talking to.
ME: … I’m so sorry, hon.
(we talk about this for a while; him clearly still in shock and sleep-deprived, me gamely hiding my own tears of sympathy and relief that it wasn’t my boy)
ME: Wait a minute… if there’s no internet, how are you calling me?
OFFSPRING: Oh, it was on the other side. Plus… I’m on dirty internet.
OFFSPRING: ‘s technically illegal, but I ran it myself, in my own room, so it’s fine.
ME: … I love you, kid.
OFFSPRING: What’re they gonna do, right?
Husband is in Taiwan.
HIM: They took us out for dinner.
ME: (sleepily, I am 13 hours behind) Mmmh?
HIM: To a “traditional Chinese restaurant.”
ME: … Oh.
HIM: Yeah. The second course was some sort of tofu with a fish sauce.
ME: Oh honey… I’m sorry.
HIM: I didn’t know about the fish sauce until I took that first bite.
ME: (nodding) Because you’re in a place where fish is so ubiquitous they don’t even think of it as an ingredient.
HIM: So now not only do I not like tofu because of the texture—
ME: Okay, I keep telling you—
HIM: But now the last time I had it there was fish sauce and I got sick.
ME: … Right. But the texture thing: tofu has a lot of textures. There’s no one specific texture that’s “tofu.”
HIM: But that’s part of the problem!
ME: … (considers possibility that I’m actually still asleep)