Blue Balls Under My Pants On Fire

The Next Family

By: Ann Brown

waiting for a snow day

I can’t even get started on Sarah Palin. My head will fall off.

But I will take a few moments to muse about what it feels like to wait for snow.

I grew up in LA and moved to the Pacific Northwest only fifteen years ago, so winter is still a big deal to me. And when snow is predicted, when snow days are promised, when we get a handful of flakes and then…nothing, well, it’s the weather equivalent of having blue balls.

I am horny for snow. I want it so bad. I look at the news, footage of the East coast storms and I think to myself, “I would totally hit that.”
Snow is the ultimate Absence Excuse/Tardy Excuse/ Get Out of PE note. It’s from GOD. Which only goes to prove that even the Lord understands how fabulous it is to stay in your jammies all day, eat the unhealthy peanut butter (the one that can live, unrefrigerated, in your cupboard for, like, ten years) from the earthquake kit and catch up on all the episodes of Sister Wives. And, just because I am on the subject, I bet God would agree with me that the concept of sister wives is kinda cool, but that Cody dude is a douche. Seriously, if I were going to share a man with a gaggle of like-minded gals, I would pick someone way more worthy. Like, Barack Obama.

I’d totally be in the ‘Bam’s stable.

I’m not sure Michelle would dig it. Or maybe she would. She’s kinda hard to read on the subject of sharing her man. If I ever get a chance to meet her, remind me to ask her if she watches “SisterWives” on TLC.

Actually, there is no one more worthy of a stable than my Robin. I tend towards the hermit, Unibomber lifestyle and Robin tends towards the normal, healthy, social one. He’s been okay with my tendency towards agoraphobia for the past thirty -one years, but I think he’s getting ansty lately. The other night, he came into my office, saw me in my pajamas and bite guard, typing away at the computer, lemon water by my side, and said to me, “you know it’s only 7:15, don’t you?”

I had to think really hard about what his point was.

“Did you want to go out somewhere?” I asked him. I said the words go out with the horror one would say, for instance, stab kittens. Or taunt the poor.

He gave me a long look during which, I imagine, he willed himself to list all my good qualities. Come to think of it, it wasn’t such a long look.

“You know what?” I said after a moment, “you’re right. Let’s go out. I’ll go get dressed.”

I know, right? I am an awesome wife.

Only thing is, he knows my game. He knows that I’m not going anywhere. He knows that I know that he isn’t going to force me to go out, just like he knows that I know that he isn’t going to force me to turn off the TV when he wants to sleep and I need it on because in the silence all I can hear are the voices (the voices! the voices!) even when I haul my body out of bed and say, “you sleep. I’ll go watch TV downstairs. In the cold. Dank. Where you once saw a mouse.”

It’s the little things, the habitual lies and nefarious manipulations, that keep marriage alive. And keep my man at home, every night, bored, itching for a social life, for thirty-one years.

It also can’t hurt if, when we climb into bed tonight, I picture Robin as snow.

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