Conversations with My Husband

Lawyer Boy and I are a match made in white-wedding heaven, and not just because I love to cook home-style fatty things and then not eat them (because of lady-guilt*), and he loves to eat them and then not put on any weight at all. This not only solidifies our bond, but also proves that chemistry and genetics really are the tricky little bitches I thought they were in high school science class. I think a large part of our matrimonial magic has to do with the well-known fact that I’m weirder than a blow-up Santa Claus at an Easter Parade, and he’s…not. If opposites attract and relationships are about balance, then I’m the powder-blue, highly-flammable polyester leisure suit to his starched lawyerly dress shirt. The Jon Stewart to his Dick Cheney. The Gene Simmons to his Marie Osmond. (This contrast will no longer be so drastic if the long-fabled line of Gene Simmons Delicate Porcelain Whimsy Dolls finally debuts on QVC. Stay tuned.)

One thing I have noticed, after seven years of inflicting my personality on him, is that it's starting to rub off. Just like when you cook a big pot of chili and eventually everything you own, including your cat, your couches, and the grubby dollar bills in your wallet, smells like stale cayenne and digestive woes, so too has LB's personality begin to reek of Grace. He’s still a far cry from being the insanity-spewing fountain of hipster** slang that I am, but he’s becoming progressively goofier with every minute that ticks by into the Great Beyond that is the rest of our lives together. The only thing that really stands between him and the lofty goal of being my nuttier than Mr. Peanut’s pants equal is that he still sometimes struggles to keep pace with the rapid-fire lunacy that I call pleasant conversation.

Here’s a good example. Recently I had dragged an unwilling LB on some evening errands with me, out to the side of town where the SUVs are almost as big as the McMansions and the toddlers are almost as big as their Twiggy McTightpants moms. I’ve only ever known one guy to use the phrase “I’d love to run errands with you, honey,” without gagging and then ducking behind the nearest sofa for cover, so file that one under “Lies My Ex-Boyfriends Told Me,” along with “‘Come On Eileen’ is a U2 song’” and “I’m a virgin.”

I was trying to distract LB from the fact that he was about to enter the grocery store, which he hates because they won’t let him eat one of everything, so I corralled him into a conversation about his favorite topic, Our Old House. We were discussing which project to tackle next, now that Holy Shit, Mice! and Why Are The Walls Black? were under control. I suggested that we go ahead and roll into painting the front hall, ending my argument with, “Because, LBH, those walls aren’t going to paint themselves.”

“What’s ‘LBH’?” LB asked, thinking it was his new monogram--short for “Lawyer Boy Husband” or perhaps, on days when he sends me flowers, “Lawyer Boy Hottie.”

“Short for ‘let’s be honest,’” I said, amazed that he hadn’t picked this up from the 19 previous times I had used it (that day).

A word on LBH: While I know for sure that I am not the originator of this jargon-y gem, I’m apparently the only one who uses it in conversation, confusing everyone I encounter. All part of my charm, amigos.

Our trip through the grocery store was uneventful, save Lawyer Boy’s insistence that we buy the jumbo-pack of garlic cloves sheathed in what appeared to be the foot of a pair of used panty hose, storming of the bread-and-dip sample station, and refusal to allow me to buy goat cheese because, “it’s just filthy.” Wonder why I normally go alone? Ask and ye shall receive.

We got back in the car, toting canvas sacks of 16 things that I didn’t need to buy and only 3 that I did, when I suddenly remembered something I needed LB to do as soon as we slid into home base. “I don’t remember you telling me about that before now,” was his counter argument.

“I did so. I told you the other night while we were watching TV!”

Silence.

“Did you black that out?”

Silence.

“OMG, do you black out everything I say to you while we’re watching TV?” Eureka!

LB was quiet for a minute, then turned to face me, and with the definition of a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, said, “Well…LBH.”

I am not teaching him any more new words.


*Someone has to fit into all these fabulous sundresses, and you can bet your string of pearls it won’t be the cat.
**Hipsters wear aprons and revel in the creation of another perfectly-domed Bundt cake. Yup.