Marital Mondays: I’m From the South
Hannibal has many similarities with my father. Aside from both gentlemen having hoarding tendencies, they’re also Aquarians from the south. Hannibal’s southern origin has many fun things to offer. He still opens my car door now (it didn’t end after the first date, like it does with most guys). It typically wouldn’t be anything I would care about given my often feminist perspective, but it’s nice. I feel like royalty when he does that. It certainly wouldn’t be a deal breaker, however, if he didn’t.
Hannibal also sounds really funny when he gets upset. He sounds like he’s in the backwoods of Mississippi somewhere. All the country comes out — even though he was actually raised in the city (Memphis). His diet was wonky when I met him. Much like my father’s food choices, Hannibal was largely focused on meat and potatoes. Though he eats lots of raw spinach and sauteed broccoli now, I wouldn’t go waving a fried chicken boob in front of his face if I were you.
Anyway, one of the main things both my father and Hannibal love to do is point out the most random differences between Cali and the south (which I truly think are really their own idiosyncratic preferences) and they start each thought with “I’m from the south … ” I’ve provided you with some lovely examples below. Enjoy.
M: Hannibal, would you like non-dairy whipped cream on your pie?
H: I’m from the south. I don’t eat anything white and creamy. Somebody might’ve put some (pause) Look, I don’t eat anything white and creamy.
M: Hannibal, will you wear a tie in our wedding, please?
H: I’m from the south, and I’m a Black man. I’m tying anything around my neck. What I look like, strange fruit?
M: Hannibal, will you go on a cruise with me?
H: I’m from the south. We came on a boat across the Atlantic to get here, and how did that work out for us?
Thematic Thursdays: Are You Happy With Me?
I ask Hannibal this at least once per week. We check in. This week I emailed it to him, and his response is pasted below. I think I’ll email the question more often. *blush*
Short answer: yes.
Long answer: There are joys with you that cannot be replicated, cannot
be gotten anywhere else, that would not be worth trading for a billion
dollars, the end of life as we know it or any of my other
non-you-related fondest dreams.
Smoothness of your thigh against mine, skies igniting with merest hint
of your smile, the real one with genuine surprise or joy, not the
ridiculous affectation we both use for emphasis. Hook shots your
brain concocts for even the most everyday of conversations, grandmama
quilt security of your support and appreciation. Whisper of your voice
against my chest or neck after kids are tucked in.
Sure, challenges hang between us like natty draperies in
less-than-favorite aunt’s den. Exhaustion makes vocabulary coarse
instead of common, bare third wire desires scalding sleepless
sensitivities, forcing flinches and recoils at awkward moments. Our
matched nihilism manifests in different ways — me dreaming of
rewriting reality one paragraph at a time, yours retreating into
neatly arranged family function.
Payday makes work worthwhile, rewards of you and pint sized
reflections of your grace far outweigh fleeting burdens of bluster,
dropped calls, late night snores.
You are everything, cosmos of possibility held fast to tedious
firmament by history best left dusty, undisturbed. You are aviation,
dream of cloud tops and scraping sky, wings tracing lines to follow
footsteps of chasing toddler or chauffeuring firstborn.
Would you tell me, how could it be any better than this?
Marital Mondays: Dick Dollars
H: So, I need to hire your design company to design the covers for my three books.
M: Mmmm hmmmm …
H: What’s the exchange rate from regular dollars to dick dollars?
M: PENIS!
H: That sounds like a good exchange rate.
M: Deal.
Marital Mondays: Sick and Joyful
This daily blog hangs over my head like an antique chandelier — pretty, but heavy enough to fall and knock the words right out of me. I was sick as hell last week, so I rested for two days like a normal person and didn’t write at all. I actually didn’t miss it. It gave me time to focus on curriculum building for Fuss and other household administrative tasks.
Hannibal made many sacrifices last week, including coming home from work early Tuesday (like leaving right after he got there), because Fuss was throwing all brands of tantrum and I was too weak to deal with it. He did all of my normal driving that day, with the exception of driving Mooch to school. I have no idea how I got her there that morning, but we’re all still alive.
So, this week’s “Marital Mondays” blog is a simple shout out to the man who supports me even when it throws his whole day completely off the rails. I think he even tried to cook a little that day. He hustles so that I can customize my lifestyle, and I can’t thank him enough for the impact it is having on our girls to have me molding them all day everyday. Thanks, honey!
Marital Mondays: No 3 Year Itch Here
“The only thing consistent in the world is change.”
I don’t know if Hannibal squeezes toothpaste from the middle of the tube or even leaves the cap off, because we use separate tubes. I’ve never found pubic hair on the soap, because I don’t scrub with his Dove. The cliche toilet seat up, or typical toenail clippings in the bed, don’t happen in our house, but that doesn’t mean Hannibal doesn’t find new and clandestine ways to annoy the living shit out of me. On rare occasions he places his oleaginous head on my pillow leaving behind a residue that makes me cringe. The love of my life is the only one I know who can pick food from his teeth with his pinky nail all while talking and chewing simultaneously. Yeah, it’s pretty gross.
Hannibal is marinated in so much awesome sauce that the aforementioned criticisms don’t even show up on his marital report card (for lack of a better metaphor, because I’m writing this at fucking midnight). He shows up for the damn job. Everyday. This man washes dishes, cleans the kitchen, bathes the baby, reads countless chapters to Mooch, cuddles with me, listens to me, and makes us all laugh incessantly. All of that is AFTER working eight hours, and he doesn’t complain. He does all of that, puts me to bed, and then works some more on his own projects! His ambition borders on the psychotic.
This Wednesday at 6:30-ish, our marriage will be officially three years old. That’s right. Our marriage is a stumbling toddler, who is just gaining speed and getting it’s vocabulary together. During the first three years of marriage, a lot of adjustment takes place — sleep schedules, sex schedules, diet, free time, budgeting, spending habits. I’m no expert at all, but I’ll offer this: KEEP BONING! The endorphins, and general sextastic energy makes all the work so worth it. I know. Kids make everyone tired. Sometimes my kids make me want to gouge my spleen out with a spork. Get it in! Morning sex, mid-night sex, makeout sessions, massages, holding each other, spooning, oral sex — these all count. Do them. Laugh and have sex. Then laugh some more. Rinse and repeat.
When we have sex, we speak to each other so much more sweetly. Shit gets resolved. We come up with new projects and ideas. Then we go work even harder and be even more supportive. I’ve got no beef with marriage. This has been a hilarious three years, and I’m looking forward to eternity.
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