Wednesday, June 1, 2011

My Husband, Man Magnet

I’m not precisely sure what it is about my husband that sends off that “You want to hang out with me” signal to all my friends’ husbands and the dads of our kid’s friends, but the message comes across loud and clear. I suspect it has something to do with his mix of machismo (Red Meat! Beer! Now!) and sensitivity (cries at The Giving Tree, pained to kill a mouse), and his Southern salt-of-the-earth-ness doesn’t hurt either.

At first I thought this irresistible man-appeal was cool but now I see that David is actually stealing my thunder. I discovered this the night David and I went to a fancy fundraiser for Primo’s school. I suited up in a new red silk cocktail dress with skin-colored fishnets and a ruby necklace from the 1920s that my aunt gave to me. Heels, too, and makeup. I dusted my décolletage with sparkly powder. You know, the whole nine yards.

David put on a white button down shirt and a blazer.

On the way to the party, we pass one of our friends Jerry, a dad of one of Primo’s pals, who I hang out with sometimes on playdates and David hangs out with sometimes at concerts. If that equally distribution of time indicates that he likes David and I equally, that would be incorrect. He has a big time bromance going on with David.

“Hey David!” Jerry exclaims, “Look at you! You look sharp! Nice sports coat!”

I smile, waiting for him to say something about my head-to-toe glamorama makeover. I’m wearing hellfire red for the love of God and there’s cleavage, ample cleavage on offer. Did I mention the heels? When you see a woman in heels and lipstick, you HAVE to note it, even if she doesn’t actually look nice. Even if its overkill and she’s trying too hard and she’s past her prime or whatever, a man is contractually obligated, by virtue of having being incubated inside a woman’s uterus, TO SAY THAT SHE LOOKS NICE. I didn’t make up the rules, guys, I’m just telling you what they are.

“Thanks man,” David says, “We’re going to the school fundraiser, you know how it is.”

“Oh yeah,” says David’s friend, “Well, you clean up nice, man. Real sharp.”

Usually, I restrain myself from fishing for compliments because by my age, I understand what a fruitless endeavor it is. The only compliments you catch when you’re fishing are foul, stinking, dead and rotting compliments, the kinds you have to throw back or else you’ll makes yourself sick. By this time, I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t let this violation of the “You, man, give compliment to fancy woman” rule.

“HELLO?” I yell, like a banshee, ”What the hell am I, chopped meat?”

At that Jerry looked blankly at him, like he didn’t get it, and then -- “Ohhhhh, yeah!” -- he got red in the face and tried to backtrack.

“Of course, you look great!” he stuttered.

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

“I mean, but you always look great, so you know, I didn’t say anything because you know . . . but David, he never gets dressed up, so that’s why . . “

“I mean, I know you guys have this bromance and all, but come on.”

David laughed nervously, because he knew full well that hell hath no fury like his wife unnoticed.

Jerry laughed, too, and then beat a hasty retreat leaving me no one to punish but my man magnet husband.

“I mean, I know men love you and all but come ON!” I shrieked, “AM I INVISIBLE NOW???”

David rolled his eyes

“LOOK at you! You’re not even wearing a TIE! It took you two minutes to get dressed! And now you’re RUDOLPH VALENTINO!”

“Oh come on, don’t punish me for the misdeed of others.” David said.

“And YOU haven’t said I look nice EITHER!!!”

“You didn’t give me a chance!”


Fun times. Shining moments.