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[The Fella enters the room to see me scowling at the computer screen.]
The Fella: Whatcha watchin’?
Elsa: I’m watching… [looks more closely] a turtle… plaaaaaying… with a shoe.
TF: Oh, the turtle humping the shoe. Sure.
E: I don’t know if he’s humping it. He’s rubbing against it with the center of his shell, but that’s not where turtle genitals are.
[The video cuts to a close-up of the turtle's genitals moving vigorously as it humps]
E: Oh. Ew! [clicks the tab closed] EW! AUGH, that was turtle porn! Who posts turtle porn?
TF: Who watches turtle porn?
E: I watched an unsatisfactory turtle* video, of a turtle eating salad, and I was looking for a better one. And instead I saw turtle porn! EW! Good thing we had sex [recently] because that’s over for a bit. It’s ruined.
[later that day]
The Fella: What are you smiling at?
Elsa: Nothin’.
TF: Whaaaaat? Are you watching cute puppy videos or chicken-having-sex-with-a-donkey videos, or whatever you get up to online?
E: [cuts him a slow look]
TF: Hey, you were watching turtle porn earlier, don’t act so innocent.
E: I didn’t know it was going to be turtle porn! I said “ew!” [quietly] That was gross.
TF: Yoooooou were watching turtle porn and you know it.
E: I HAD JUST WATCHED AN UNSATISFACTORY TURTLE VIDEO! It was a turtle eating a salad, but sped up. That is someone who does not get the point of turtles.
TF: No.
E: Who looks at a turtle and thinks “They’d be awesome if only they went FASTER”? No one!
TF: … Fast turtles would be awesome, though.
E: Yeah, IN A WAR. Not on YouTube.
*Apparently, that’s actually a tortoise. My mistake.
I’ve been thinking a lot this week about partnership and marriage, and especially about being married to The Fella, which is, y’know, awesome.
This Ask Metafilter comment gets to the heart of that awesomeness:
You know when you were a kid, and you’d get excited about sleepovers because you could stay up all night watching movies and talking to someone who just cracked you up and really understood you? Remember how special those nights felt?
Every day is like that now. Except we get to have really good sex, too.
Yup, that sums it up: I get to spend every day and every night with my very favorite person from now on, and we get to express that favorite-ness in every way we wish.
But I still haven’t really internalized that this is a two-way street of Awesome — that my very favorite person’s very favorite person is me.
Let me digress.
I had a rotten morning. You don’t need to know the details, but I made a small error that caused the not-sane part of my brain to castigate me and call me names (which A. is not productive and B. is NOT ALLOWED) while I flailed around trying to get dressed and out of the house in a hurry.
During this ridiculous few minutes of blistering self-loathing, The Fella kept interjecting helpful comments like, “You’re not stupid, you just made a mistake” and “How can I help?” and “Are these your pants?” When he should have been sleeping peacefully (and could very rightfully have been giving me grief over my meltdown), he was cheerfully pitching in to soothe me, to help me, to solve my problem.
And later in the day, I added some of those things together. I did the emotional math: I am married to my very favorite person, the person whose opinion I value more than anyone else’s, the person who I think is the downright AWESOMEST person in the whole wide world.
And he thinks I’m THE AWESOMEST, too.
I think he must be right. You don’t argue with the transitive property.
At not-quite-the-end of a long week of work and deadlines, The Fella came home from work around midnight and sat down with a blank look on his face, getting ready to write the weekly newsletter.
“You look a little beat, hon,” I said. “Did you have dinner?”
“Not really.”
It took me all of three minutes to whip up something simple for him to eat. As I gave him the plate and a beer, The Fella took my hand and quietly, earnestly said, “Thank you. Thank you for marrying me.”
Today is our second anniversary, and The Fella’s hatched some secret plans. (Nothing big, he assures me. Just secret.) The first item on the agenda: he got me an enormous coffee. Number two on the agenda: he’s doing laundry.
This guy gets me.
* [The Fella, don't hover over the links!] update Now that I’ve given The Fella his gift, I can describe it here. We’re going to have a mid-year variation on our Valentine’s day tradition of staying in with cheesy horror movies and pizza.
For the cotton anniversary, I gave The Fella the abominable-looking Lady Frankenstein, starring Joseph Cotten. Yeah.
Because it’s too hot to heat the oven, I’ll be picking up fantastic take-out pizza from Otto.
Wait for it… cotton.
I toyed with plenty of other gift ideas. For example, I thought about getting a really luxurious set of sheets, which we kinda need. Or towels, ditto. But I dismissed those as gifts for me, not for The Fella.
What did The Fella give me? A really luxurious set of sheets. And a really luxurious towel. Did I mention: this guy gets me.
Love is: coming home after two days away and finding the The Fella left the half-pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer where I left it. What a guy!
(Or maybe he just doesn’t like pistachio. But it’s still love!)
The Fella often surprises me with a pint of ice cream. About as often, he picks one up at my specific request. (Somewhat less often, he picks one up even though I specifically asked him not to. Why would I ask him not to? Because I don’t always want it, but I will always eat it.)
Since the corner store rotates flavors randomly, there’s no point requesting a specific flavor. Still, The Fella knows what kind to get me: Chocolate with stuff in, or stuff with chocolate in.
Or pistachio.
We’ve had the “or pistachio!” conversation at least three times now, and here’s how that goes, more or less, every time:
Elsa: Or pistachio!
The Fella: [stops tying his shoes, looks up at me in disbelief] … really?
E: Yes.
TF: …
E: It’s my favorite, but they almost never have it. If they ever have it, I get it. If they ever have it, get it. EVER.
TF: How did I not know this? It’s like I don’t even know you!*
*This last sentence only occurred in the first iteration of this conversation, which suggests to me that subconsciously he does recall it, or he would face the same vivid surprise and apparent horror each time.
This weekend, we had another round of the same conversation, at which time I altered the standing order. From now on, the standing order: chocolate with stuff in or stuff with chocolate in, or pistachio. Even if I have specifically requested “no ice cream,” if they have pistachio, get pistachio. “Pistachio rescinds all other orders.”
A conversation, the nature of which makes me wonder why he seems so happy.
The Fella: I’m running to the store, do y—
Elsa: ICE CREAM!
The Fella: [chuckling] I thought you might! What ki—
Elsa: Chocolate with stuff in or stuff with chocolate in.
The Fella: I thought so! Anyth—
Elsa: Or pistachio!
I’ve discovered an unexpected side effect of watching The Karate Kid for the first time in my 40s. For the past few weeks, any time I have to push myself or offer a little self-encouragement, I hear a little internal soundtrack:
Sometimes that soundtrack gets externalized in the form of me singing the chorus — and only the chorus — in a strained whisper-yell as I putter around the house. It’s fitting when I’m lifting weights for my physical therapy or doing crunches for core strength… but even I admit that it’s a little funnier when I’m rolling out pastry dough.
It also intersects oddly with a standard household compliment peculiar to us; we routinely tell each other “Aw, you’re the best girl.”* The conflation leads to exchanges like this morning’s:
Elsa: No hurry! We’ve got plenty of time to get everything done. We’re the best! arou-ound!
The Fella: You are the best.
Elsa: AROU-OUND!
The Fella: I know! You’re the best girl.
Elsa: [punching the air] And nuthin’s gonna EVER KEEP ME DOWN!
*You read that right.
Elli
Elsa
