By: Ann Brown
I’m kinda liking Robin lately. And not just because he woke me up yesterday to tell me I was right about the thing we talked about.
Although that didn’t hurt.
Today I like Robin because he dropped by with a co-worker this morning with a shitload of organic strawberries they bought from a roadside stand on their way back from – ostensibly – a meeting. I don’t know exactly what Robin does for a living, so I accept his comings and goings with a modicum of faith that the paycheck will arrive on Thursdays. His profession isn’t a secret; it’s just that I don’t pay attention when he talks about it. I catch some keywords – photovoltaic and sustainable and I deposited my paycheck into your account – but the rest is pretty much white noise to me, you know? I’ve adopted a need to know policy in our marriage. It saves on brain space. As it is, I still get mixed up about where he went to high school. I’ve narrowed it down to Pasadena or Palo Alto. Maybe. Am I a bad wife? Is Marabel Morgan – remember that scumbag ‘ho, the one who wrote The Total Woman, suggesting we meet our husbands at the door every evening wearing nothing but Saran Wrap and warning us to abrogate our own rights and needs to be subservient to men?- shaking her helmet-coiffed head and tsk tsk‘ing me right now? God, I hope so.
I think it was Erma Bombeck who once wrote about that Saran Wrap thing and how she hated to waste all that plastic, so she just used two Tupperware cupcake holders and a snap-lid party tray on her privates when her husband came home from work. Man, I miss the ‘beck…
So, anyway, not really knowing the why’s or where’s of Robin’s work life, I accepted the fact that he and Lori somehow wound up at an organic fruit stand at 10:30 on a Thursday morning with the same neutral detachment that I accept, say, gravity. Or that Bruce Jenner is part of the Kardashians. Some shit you just accept, right?
Frankly, I am not a fan of the strawberry. Not an enemy, not a frenemy, not allergic. The strawberry just doesn’t speak to me the way, for instance, a raspberry speaks to me. Still, having a flat of just-picked, gorgeous, deep red organic strawberries in your refrigerator is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, as the saying goes. But the berries are not the reason I am liking Robin today.
My affection stems from the fact that he and Lori were wearing matching outfits. Well, not matching exactly, in that Robin is a man, a burly man, with kinda a knuckle-dragger, strong like ox body, and Lori is, well, Lori is just as cute as a button. Still, with their sky blue shirts (hers- a sweet little, J Crew-y type cardigan over a white tank top; his – JCPenney’s best button down) black jeans and black shoes, it was pretty fucking adorable. She looked like his matching little Polly Pocket. I wondered if they called each other this morning to plan what to wear, like I used to do with my friends in junior high. Back then, the discussion was centered around which pair of white go-go boots we were going to wear with which scent of Bonne Bell Lipsmacker lipgloss, while Robin and Lori are pretty much confined to fashion appropriate for…uh…errr…whatever it is they do, but the idea that they planned their outfits to match makes me believe that there is hope for the construction industry. With a little federal stimulus money, in fact, Robin could upgrade to Sears.
Or Saran Wrap.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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