My daughter shares her opinion of her mother's hair and her father's beard. I don't know if I should post this picture. I must never have looked in a mirror in the 1990's.
When my husband was courting me–which, incidentally, he never officially did because we were just friends. JUST FRIENDS. SERIOUSLY. Just friends who got engaged, but whatev. Just friends because I had one of those *angelic choirs singing in dulcet tones* AhhhhhhhhhAHHHHHHHHHHHHHahhhhhhhh *end angelic choirs singing*-types of experiences when we met. You know, the kind where you think you've met each other before, and it's comforting in a freaky sort of way because that probably means this is IT. And you've just been dumped so you don't want this to be IT. So you tell your future husband that as ballroom dance partners on the university (back up) team, you probably shouldn't date. And then he says–waaaay too quickly–"Okay." But what you thought he was going to say was, "What?! No! Only if you insist! I guess we can just be partners and not date. *weep*". And so then you pretty much want to smack him every time he asks you to do something as JUST FRIENDS.
Er . . . what was I saying?
Oh yeah, when my husband wasn't dating me, he took me to see a really great old flick for Halloween called "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken." Have you seen it? You should. It stars Don Knotts. And if that doesn't talk you into it then how 'bout this: it also stars a haunted old mansion, a creepy gardener, a beautiful woman with a beefy arrogant lummox-like boyfriend, the painting of a woman who keeps winding up with garden sheers stabbed into her ample bosom, and an organ that plays by itself. Most of which Don Knotts agrees to hang out with over night in order to prove to the Lummox Boyfriend and the Beautiful Girl, and the Whole Town While We're At It, that he ain't no wimpy, useless, also-ran. With hopes to get the girl in the end.
I am telling you, this is a great movie. We first saw it at the university cinema, where everyone had seen it 50 times, and so they would scream out advice to Mr. Knotts, but he never heard them. And then the girls in the audience would shriek with terror every time the organ would start playing its creepy music. And the guys in the audience would pretend to shriek whenever the gardener showed up. And everybody cheered in the end when . . . .*Not going to spoil it*
If I was irritated by my future fiancé's much-too-quick response to the assertion that we should just be friends and not date, it was sort of fixed by watching him get such a kick out of an old Don Knotts flick. I mean, clearly my man had a soft spot for the sweet old things in life. And that meant he'd probably do pretty well with kids. And me. If I could ever bring him around to seeing me as more than the Fall-Back-Date dance partner in his life.
Well I did. He had known it all along and was just being a dork. So we got married and had kids, and then showed them "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken."
It completely freaked them out. Not romantic at. all. And they wouldn't watch it for years.
But that's okay. In the end of our story the great big lummox (my hub) did get the girl (me). And he didn't even have to sleep in a haunted house to do it. He just had to get a little bit of the Don Knotts in him and notice what he was missing.
And my kids? They've come around. We're all watching Don Knotts this year for Halloween as a family. No one scared. No one being goofy about the girl they're with. And everybody screaming advice to Mr. Chicken.
I guess this means we've arrived.
Now, you tell me. If this little dude showed up at your door on Halloween dressed like a pumpkin, and he just stood there smiling at you and not saying anything, even though his mother had spent a week teaching him to say "Trick or Treat," wouldn't you just dump your entire candy bowl into his bag?
And then if this cutie patootie woke up Halloween morning and told you that instead of being a witch like always, she was going to be a Pretty Pink Fairy, so you dressed her up in layers of pink tulle and gauze and made her a crown and gave her a wand, and then she came home from pre-school and announced that she was not a Pretty Pink Fairy after all; she was a Not Very Nice Pink Fairy instead, and by lunch she was a Mean Pink Fairy, and by afternoon snack she was a Bad Pink Fairy, and by evening she was knocking on doors dressed as a Witch–wouldn't you think she was totally hilarious?
I'm right there with you.
Of course, if this chicklet–who looks like an ad for Yo Ho O's Cereal–started running about making everyone walk the plank, speaking with Arrrrs and Matey's, and refusing to wear a coat over her costume even though it was snowing, so you had to layer her up with many pairs of long underwear and tights and turtlenecks and little knit gloves, wouldn't you just love to take her around the lily-livered neighborhood to plunder candy?
And finally, if this little munchkin turned around and you found that he had a lightening-bolt scar drawn onto his forehead with eyebrow pencil, and he'd been wearing jeans but he'd herked on them, and there'd been a cape but he kept twisting it around backward trying to get it off, and the Harry Potter glasses? They'd been chewed until their little pipe-cleaner selves no longer resembled anything so much as a soggy caterpillar, wouldn't you hug the stuffing out of him?
Yep. And I did.
That was then. This is now. My little Halloweenies are all growed up. Mostly. And they don't really look like this any more, except reminiscently in a few facial expressions and a bit around the eyebrows. But that personality you see their in their eyes and in their posture? That's ALL there. And will be for many Halloweens to come.
You think I'm making this up? Listen. I don't do that.
When my husband was in graduate school in Indiana (A place of great beauty and weird experiences. Go check out my UFO abduction on www.threegnomes.blogspot.com if you want proof.) . . . where was I? Oh yes. Graduate school. I used to fall asleep on his shoulder. There was this little crook–just perfect for my head. And the front of my feet folded exactly into the sides of his.
Where was I again? Oh yes. Feet. So anyway, this one night I fall asleep on the man's shoulder with my feet tucked in, per usual. And apparently sometime after midnight I roll over and pinch off his armal artery ("armal" meaning "of the arm". I did not just make that up) thereby stopping the flow of blood and numbing it completely.
So, I'm snoozing away with, I kid you not, the light from a full moon shafting in through my partially opened blinds, completely unaware that hub has now come to a semi-conscious state due to being entirely unable to feel his arm. It is a shocking thing. And not only that, he can hear someone next to him breathing in a suspicious manner. "AHA!" He thinks in a rational and analytical fashion. "Someone is sitting on my arm. Someone intent, I am sure, on attacking us and stealing my, um, student ID. Or the very cool argyle socks on the floor. Or possibly my wife's eye drops which are sitting on the dresser. But they shall not get away with it, no they shall not! For I shall get them! I shall use the element of surprise and shock them into inactivity, at which time I will disable them." Yes. This is exactly what he is thinking.
Now, I am peacefully dreaming away on my soon to be attacker's arm. Dreaming, probably, of flowers. But more likely those little dark chocolate-drenched mint-sticks. I am dreaming happily–when an unearthly, ungodly howl pierces the air. I blearily open my eyes, "Wha?" Then I slide them to the right.
SOMETHING IS SITTING UP IN BED HOWLING AT THE MOON! The head is thrown back, the adam's apple distended. It kind of looks like . . . IT IS! My husband is turning into A WEREWOLF!
Holy Snot! I have to do something. But before I can so much as raise a hand, the evil creature is upon me. Werehusband has cleverly flipped himself over and is using his muscular and spectacularly ripped bulk to pin me to the bed (he's turning into a werewolf, remember. Those things use steroids). Wrapping his vile claws around my neck he begins to choke. Choke, choke, choke. We have a waterbed, so I am sloshing like crazy.
I come-to and realize the little whack-job is dreaming, and he is about to throttle the daylights out of me. So I gasp, as he is wagging my head up and down: "Stop! Stop! Stop! *gasp* It's Janiel! It's Janiel! It's Janiel! *gasp*"
After like an hour, Hub's vacant eyes flood with intelligence again. He sees me. Stares. Says "Omigosh." And collapses on top of me, wheezing and insuflating (which is similar to gasping, but I've used gasping too many times). I can feel the dude's heart pounding into my chest. It's going like 90.
We lay there for ages, neither of us having the strength to move. Then my husband manages to slide away, explaining that he thought I was an intruder attacking us, but he had a plan to dispatch me, so I didn't need to worry. Well. That's . . . good . . .
So, we laugh the next day. Shakily. Tell a few people, most of whom think it is hilarious. But I will tell you, it is a while before I stick my head in that stupid crook of hubby-dubby's shoulder again. And I find out that you can sleep very comfortably in the space between a waterbed mattress and the frame. Faaaaarr away from your attack . . . er . . . husband.
|Close-up of my Werespouse. Oh yeah. It's him.|
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