‘Kayso, this is what happened:
We were at a party my mother was hosting (because, Bobby’s birthday) and he was there, counting out yellow thumb tacks and creating strange designs on the (drab green ’50s style) carpet with them, kind of keeping to himself and being all grouchy and introverted and such, wearing sunglasses and ratty jeans and a general air of lazy hostility. So my mom decided she’d had enough of his famous ‘famousness’ (I’m famous too, by the way) and decided to herd all the kids outside (there were waaaaay too many knee-knockers running around, let me tell ya – I don’t know why, but I do know I don’t teach preschool for a reason) and let Bob just do his thing while I started cleaning up. Of course, I had to clean *around* Bob, because he’s Too Famous To Clean (insert Right Said Fred tune, here: I’m. Too famous for this party. Too famous for this party, no way I’m disco dancing…), and while I’m doing so, I ask him how he’s doing. Because, grouch-o-saurus. And he starts talking to me about how he doesn’t have any real friends and everybody just wants something from him and I’m all, “Um, my mom is your friend. She even made you sloppy joes.” (The sloppy joes are important. They will come up again later. Make a note.) And he’s like, “Well, I want to be your friend” and I’m like, “Okay, let’s hang out” but then he gets all doe-eyed and tells me, “I don’t know if I can be your friend, because I’m seriously thinking about asking you to marry me.”
What. The. Foxtrot.
“Um, what?! Err… Why…???”
And he tells me he thinks my mom is mean (my mom is SO not mean!) and that he’s worried I might be ‘in trouble’. I’m pretty sure this was a euphemism for ‘pregnant’ (thanks a lot, Bob) and I’m walking around, picking up his yellow thumb tacks, thinking to myself, If I am pregnant (and I’m definitely NOT), what concern would it be of his?
It was all very strange.
Oh! And then he was like, “I want you to take a nap with me.”
So he pulled out the hide-a-bed on what might have been the ugliest sofa in the universe and got all sprawley and comfy, and I felt kinda sorry for him because his head is way too big for his body and stuff (seriously – look at a picture of the guy), so I curled up on a separate section of the pull-out mattress (NOT touching him!) and waited for him to go to sleep. When the snoring started, I got up and finished cleaning the room.
I know, I know – You’re thinking, Whaaa…?!
I WAS TOO.
And then I woke up.
I told my husband all about my dream, of course, and what was his response?
“Hon, ANY man would want to marry you after tasting your mother’s sloppy joes.”
What the…? Wha…? WHAT?!
Because obviously, according to my dear husband, it doesn’t matter that I’m smart or talented or funny or that I’m forgiving of randomly acquired STDs or that I look good in sunglasses or that I’m an amazing seductress.
No, no. Those things do not matter AT ALL.
Getting proposed to on the basis of my own merits does not even enter into the equation.
Nope. It doesn’t even matter that I’m good in bed. Apparently my marriageability is based on my mother’s ability to manipulate seasoned ground beef into something sandwich-able. AND I’M A VEGETARIAN!
Thanks, dear. No, really. THANK YOU.
Oh-oh! AND, hubs tells me: “Seems like he’s right up your alley. I mean, the guy is what? Seventy-hundred or something? You do like older men.”
:: momentary pause ::
“Well, I wouldn’t marry him.”
:: insert thinking time here ::
“Yeah, I can see how that would be a deal breaker.”
Oh, and also-also: Hubby told me, “I think you were actually dreaming about me” and has started referring to himself as ‘Bob’.
Nevermind the whole Bob’s yer uncle business. It’s worse than Bob uncles. My dad’s name is Bob. (Eeeeuuuw–!)
Also, there’s a famous cartoon character named Bob. Now I look at my spouse and see this:
I. Can’t. Even.
SO. Welcome to my nightmare.
What are you dreaming about, hmmm?