By: Ann Brown
Robin’s been out of town, won’t be home until late tomorrow night, and for reasons too complicated to explain, I needed to get some money. Fast.
I checked all my usual hiding places but – no shock – they were empty. There was a note in my best hiding place, written from me to, I guess, me. It read: REPLACE THIS MONEY YOU ARE TAKING.
Actually, that would be a fun note to leave for burglars. Although, being raised a nice Jewish girl, first I’d have to write, “And please excuse the mess. And help yourself to leftover chicken in the fridge. Honey mustard. Delish.”
And, as an afterthought, “Are you single? I have a cousin.”
And “P.S. Is this just a temporary thing, burglary? You are waiting for your LSAT scores, maybe?”
And finally, “please don’t go through my drawers and judge me by the gargantuan size of my underpants. I like a lot of room.”
The Oregonian would post a story about a nice, single law student breaking into my house and enjoying my chicken which would – my luck – give him the runs and then my mom would read the story and call me up and say, “See? You are so worried about my chicken not be refrigerated and look what happens when a person eats yours straight from the fridge.” And then she’d remind me not to write shit about her anymore on my blog.
And, of course, all the Oregonian would report about me is: the 57-year old victim – who swears she is starting a diet tomorrow – wears a size XXL maternity brief.
But this is not what my post is about.
I decided to do some online banking and move money into my checking account since I can’t wait for Robin to get home tomorrow night to do this for me. I am embarrassed to admit that I have never done online banking. I leave that to Robin because, honestly, if I did everything else I do AND the banking, too, well, I’d just be too fabulous and I’d probably implode or something. Also, because I really don’t want to do it. It makes me anxious.
So I get to the bank site and I click “forgot username” and “forgot password”.
They tell me they will email me my username and password. I just need to answer a few questions.
No problem. Robin and I have been married for almost 31 years. What he knows, I know.
First question: what is the name of your high school?
Shit. I know this. I know this. I have to know this.
I don’t know this.
I go to the next question: what was your favorite childhood pet?
Shit. Robin told me stories about a golden retriever named Cindy. No wait, that was his brother’s old girlfriend. Shit. I don’t know this, either. Wait. Nola! No, that was the cleaning lady who – clearly having no sense of smell – folded Robin’s funky, worn underwear and put them back in the drawer every Tuesday.
Question #3: In what city were you born?
Are you fucking kidding me? Why don’t I know this??? God, I guess what Robin always says is true – I do not listen to him.
Unbefuckinglievable. I cannot answer one question about Robin’s life. Can I really be as self-absorbed as this?
I shut down the computer. Gotta wait until tomorrow night to have Robin fix this. Why didn’t I pay better attention these past, oh, 31 years when he was talking? Sometimes I don’t even mute the TV. And now, because I am such a sucky wife, I am shit outta luck with the money.
Hold on, the phone is ringing. It’s Robin!!!
Well, well. He just called to say his plane, which is coming in TONIGHT (Oh. Not late tomorrow night? Oops) will be a little bit late. Tonight. Like he had told me.
Which I totally knew.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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