Freaky Is The New Black
My husband is my biggest fan. He reads my blog religiously, like every…single…day. It’s like he is stalking me. I think he does it mostly to make sure that I’m not saying anything particularly bad about him. As if I would ever do something that, idiot. And he IS an idiot – sometimes. Why? Because he refuses to let me drive his car. What’s his problem? We bought the damn thing with OUR money – our COMBINED money – his annoyingly large income and my simple graciousness – the fact he went to school for an eternity (or what seemed like an eternity) and the just as important fact that I supported him all that time while staying home to raise our hyper and/or difficult offspring. Yeah, so the car IS part mine – like fifty percent mine – no, more like fifty-three percent mine since I wash the dirty underpants in this house (that should damn well count for something), and since I’m better at organizing Tupperware than he is. OK, so I have my own fairly nice car, but still, he should share.
Anyway, after reading my post from the other day – the one where I was rambling on about almost nothing – he said, “You know Fern, most of the time, I think you are smart and funny. Today though, I think you are a fucking lunatic.” We were in the bathroom getting ready for bed. I wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying because I was flossing my teeth. You can never be too careful when it comes to your dental hygiene. “Did you hear me, Fern? I said that I think you are a fucking lunatic.” He reads my blog while sitting in the bath. I told you – stalker. What’s under those bubbles, eh buddy?
After I’d finally absorbed his rude comment, I was shocked. “A lunatic? Wow. That’s pretty harsh. And I’m your wife, not some bum on the street, or some seventeen- or nineteen- or twenty-one-year-old kid who lives in this house who is made from half of your genes.” Incensed, I tied my housecoat tightly around my waist – letting out a low “fuck you” – and went straight to bed, where I took the good pillows, rolled onto my side, and didn’t even bother to give him a goodnight kiss before falling into a deep, deep, Colin Firth-induced sleep. I suffer; he suffers. He should know that by now.
Since then however, I’ve given some thought as to what he said. Sometimes, you have to calm down to realize the hard truth. And you know what? He’s right. Sometimes, I AM a bit of a lunatic – not like “I want to eat you alive starting with your ears” lunatic, but lunatic like crazy, crazy like weird, weird like different, different like “fucking awesome”.
These days, people all over the world are striving to be distinct. There are too many of us – the world is grossly over-populated. How else is a person supposed to make their mark? But you gotta know when to stop, because there’s weird as in “you are fun and quirky and I’d really like you to come to my birthday party” and then there’s weird as in “you wrap elastics around and around your head because you think – in some warped way – that it makes you look thinner, and you are trying to attract girls, so what other choice do you have”.
There’s weird as in “you’ve decorated your bedroom – which is in the basement of your parents’ house – to look a lot like the inside of a space station, and you sit in there wearing a red shear teddy, goggles, and a headset with your multiple old-school remote controls, and you play online aircraft simulation games with other nutjobs who’ve never held down a job for longer than a week, or never had sex with another human being, or both”.
There’s weird as in “you and your friends play this game where you go out to a farm, put on pigs’ masks (except one of you who dresses like an alien) and you pull your collective dominatrix – Xena, Captain Mother – around the field in a chariot-style wagon while she yells, ‘Onward you dirty swine. Take Momma to her stall and she will reward you with as many penis stomps as you can endure’”.
There’s weird as in “you look like you have toaster elements all over your head, and you even have the plug”.
OK, so I’m weird, but I’m not THAT weird. Yes, I shaved my head when I was a teenager. And yes, I like peanut butter and cheese on toast. (We’ve been over that one before. It is the best snack ever.) And yes, I like wearing my husband’s boxer briefs to bed. It makes me feel safe.
So I say, if you are different, embrace it. And if you want to bring a horse up to your apartment, go for it. I don’t know how you are going to get it there, but hey, that’s not my problem.