Christine And Deborah, Up A Tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
We are an odd combination, Christine and me. I've never loved anyone the way I love her, she makes me want to be a better person, I'm a lucky woman.
At night, I'm also a cold woman, because my sweet Chris is a dedicated and accomplished blanket hog. She denies it, just like she denies she takes her half of the bed out of the middle, but goosebumps don't lie.
She can't fold laundry. How a well educated, intelligent, talented woman made it to 40 not knowing how to fold a pair of drawers is beyond me. She is banned (happily, of course) from doing the laundry, because when she tries, my clothes come back in worse shape than they were when she started.
I can see us as a "little" (it's all relative, y'know) old couple. She'll have a selection of aprons to wear around her neck when she eats, because food never goes directly from her fork to her mouth, there has to be a detour to her shirt. Hopefully the aprons will be multi-pocketed. She'll then have easy access to her kleenex, her lip balm, and her hand cream. It'll be better that way, because God help anyone who comes between Chris and her lip balm.
She'll spend her days drinking Tetley tea, watching reruns of "her" Kiefer on 24. (I wonder whether Jack will have finally broken down and taken a bathroom break, or changed his cell phone battery by the time Chris is 80?). She'll have her remotes, telephone, iPod, salt shaker and back-up lip balm laid out beside her chair. There will be a small breed dog in either arm, although I doubt she'll be doing the "Pee Piper, pee Piper, Piper go pee, good peeing Piper" routine by herself then.
She'll still yell at me from five rooms away, and get frustrated when I don't respond because I don't hear her. She'll also continue to point out that I do the exact same thing.
Will she still laugh when I need an audience? Will she still carry on inane conversations with me just because we like the sound of one anothers' voices? Will she still tell me I'm strong and smart and beautiful, and be able to make me believe it?
No doubt she'll still be putting her cup in the sink right after I've finished the dishes. She'll still get all bent about whether the toilet paper goes over or under, and I'll still never get it right. She'll still leave time on the microwave, and refuse to wear a watch, choosing instead to ask me the time 200 times a day.
Will she still love "hens and chicks"? Milk served partially frozen? The Walrus magazine? Will she still be a computer whiz? Will she still dance like Elaine from Seinfeld?
Will she still order Shirley Temples at high-end restaurants?
What will Angelina and I call her when "Gamma" is no longer a joke? We'll come up with something, I'm sure.
Will she still prefer screechy, atonal, angry female singers and schmaltzy, folky, oh-so-earnest male singers? Will she still be cold when everyone else is hot, and hot whenever everyone else is cold? Will she still want every electronic "toy" on the market, the very moment it becomes available?
Will hers still be the only opinion that really matters? Will it still be her voice that grounds me, her touch that comforts me, her eyes that see straight into my soul?
I am a lucky woman.
At night, I'm also a cold woman, because my sweet Chris is a dedicated and accomplished blanket hog. She denies it, just like she denies she takes her half of the bed out of the middle, but goosebumps don't lie.
She can't fold laundry. How a well educated, intelligent, talented woman made it to 40 not knowing how to fold a pair of drawers is beyond me. She is banned (happily, of course) from doing the laundry, because when she tries, my clothes come back in worse shape than they were when she started.
I can see us as a "little" (it's all relative, y'know) old couple. She'll have a selection of aprons to wear around her neck when she eats, because food never goes directly from her fork to her mouth, there has to be a detour to her shirt. Hopefully the aprons will be multi-pocketed. She'll then have easy access to her kleenex, her lip balm, and her hand cream. It'll be better that way, because God help anyone who comes between Chris and her lip balm.
She'll spend her days drinking Tetley tea, watching reruns of "her" Kiefer on 24. (I wonder whether Jack will have finally broken down and taken a bathroom break, or changed his cell phone battery by the time Chris is 80?). She'll have her remotes, telephone, iPod, salt shaker and back-up lip balm laid out beside her chair. There will be a small breed dog in either arm, although I doubt she'll be doing the "Pee Piper, pee Piper, Piper go pee, good peeing Piper" routine by herself then.
She'll still yell at me from five rooms away, and get frustrated when I don't respond because I don't hear her. She'll also continue to point out that I do the exact same thing.
Will she still laugh when I need an audience? Will she still carry on inane conversations with me just because we like the sound of one anothers' voices? Will she still tell me I'm strong and smart and beautiful, and be able to make me believe it?
No doubt she'll still be putting her cup in the sink right after I've finished the dishes. She'll still get all bent about whether the toilet paper goes over or under, and I'll still never get it right. She'll still leave time on the microwave, and refuse to wear a watch, choosing instead to ask me the time 200 times a day.
Will she still love "hens and chicks"? Milk served partially frozen? The Walrus magazine? Will she still be a computer whiz? Will she still dance like Elaine from Seinfeld?
Will she still order Shirley Temples at high-end restaurants?
What will Angelina and I call her when "Gamma" is no longer a joke? We'll come up with something, I'm sure.
Will she still prefer screechy, atonal, angry female singers and schmaltzy, folky, oh-so-earnest male singers? Will she still be cold when everyone else is hot, and hot whenever everyone else is cold? Will she still want every electronic "toy" on the market, the very moment it becomes available?
Will hers still be the only opinion that really matters? Will it still be her voice that grounds me, her touch that comforts me, her eyes that see straight into my soul?
I am a lucky woman.
posted by Alphamutt at 6:05 PM
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