Saturday, November 22, 2008

Flashback 1995: Love, Despite the Heir

Another post from the days when I was still attempting to make money by writing.  Ha, ha!  Isn't that silly?  Instead I joined Corporate America, which doesn't traditionally embrace humor.  I count on all my Loyal Readers (I am making the optimistic assumption that Loyal Readers is plural) to embrace it instead.

      I've begun to court my wife.  You know, like in the olden days when dashing young squires on horseback would gallop up to the window of the local castle, singing ardent songs of love in hope that their maiden of choice would appear at the balcony and blow them kisses, and maybe the squires could get a peek up their dress.

      Well, I'm sort of doing that with my wife.  We're happily married and living together and all, but we also have an adorable energy-sucking five-month-old son.  Between his odd sleep hours and my odd work hours, somehow the missus and I keep missing each other at the bright witty romantic parts of our day.

      For example, Rufus will go to bed for the night and my wife will slink seductively into our darkened bedroom to find me waiting for her with my mouth open an attractive width, deep in sleep with the alarm set for work at 1:30 am.

      Or I will get home in the morning with the sun shining brightly, the baby playing merrily by himself, and all right with the world.  I'll sidle up to my lovely wife and breathe softly into her ear, causing her to say something sexy like, "My morning breath killed the azalea this morning and every time I try to brush my teeth your darling son shrieks his head off.  Do try to entertain him while I eat breakfast, please."

      It is this type of interaction that alerted us to the fact that if we were to stay married this year, then we had better restart some type of courtship.  To this end we have begun to refine the art of the flirtatious compliment. 

"My," one of us will say dreamily, "the redness in your eyes reminds me of the sunset over Hawaii," or "The paleness of your tired cheeks can only be compared to the ethereal beauty of the fog rolling off the Bay". 

      Rufus helps me put his mother in a romantic mood.  I'll pick out one of her favorite soft CD's and he'll whack the buttons on the CD player until music starts to play.  I massage her tired shoulders while Rufus slaps her skin to improve her circulation. 

      So that she does not forget why she married me, I make a special effort to remind my wife of the things I do that make me a desirable male, worthy of her attentions.  "I don't wear a diaper," I remind her.

      "Tell me more," she says, obviously aroused.

      "I wash dishes," I tell her.

      "This is important," she admits.

      "And," I remind her modestly, "I am a cool and stylish Dad-person."

      "In stained sweat pants?"  she laughs, "How do you manage that?"

      "Hey, no fair looking at my clothes," I tell her, "I dress this way only because I get puked on a lot.  But look at the outfit I dressed Rufus in today - there are dinosaurs on it.  Doesn't he look suave and sophisticated?  It takes talent to make such a young man look masculine in primary colors."

      She looks at Rufus sitting glassy-eyed in his swing, chin glistening with drool. He plays limply with a rattle, a look of bemused tolerance on his face.  "You win," she says, "He does look dashing."

      "And let us not forget that I have made significant headway in face-to-face communication with The Boy.  I have taught him to say 'Hi'."

      She frowns.  "He says 'AAAAAAA!'."

      "He means 'Hi',” I say quickly, “And wait, I am not yet done with reasons why you love me.  You also love me because I am a Man Who Cooks!  I made Rufus pears for breakfast, carrots for lunch, and sweet potatoes for dinner!  Everything a young boy needs to grow big and strong-- not whiny and annoying like your side of the family."

      "I fed him the carrots."

      "Perhaps. But while you and Rufus were out at the library I made dinner for the two of us."

      Her eyes go wide and her tongue darts briefly out of her mouth at the mention of hot fresh food not made by Gerber.  "Is it still hot?"

      "It's warm.  I've already eaten mine." 

I play my trump card.  No sensible 90's woman could resist: I massage her shoulders and tell her to "Go ahead and eat while I put the boy to bed."

      She dashes into the kitchen and yanks off the pot lid, putting most of her face inside the pot.  A slow smile spreads across her face.  "You truly are a Renaissance man," she says.

      "A lucky Renaissance man?"  I ask.

      "Come to bed soon," she says, "I'll slip into something a little less drooled on..."

      Hot diggety.  I didn't even have to climb the balcony.