I Know a Guy …

Jamee Photography - Wedding 2006 007

 

I know a guy with deep-set dark eyes that sparkle when he smiles.

 

I know a guy that for years never washed his hair because the dirt kept it tame. “I hope the kids have your hair,” he laughed.

 

I know a guy who moved to Colorado and was asked to be a hair model.

 

I know a guy who is extremely handsome, but doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does.

 

I know a guy that listens to endless amounts of sports radio.

 

I know a guy that when it comes to sports (among other things), he is BRILLIANT. Sports trivia, he should be everyone’s ‘phone a friend’.

 

I know a guy who uses aerosol deodorant. Ugh. Years ago when he and his girlfriend backpacked through Europe he “sprayed” his clothes with Right Guard to clean them. His girlfriend experienced chemical asphyxiation each time she hugged him.

 

I know a guy who 13 years later still uses the same noxious substance.

 

I know a guy who does laundry nearly every day and becomes exasperated by the way his wife and daughters shed their clothes with their underwear still in the pants and socks in each pant leg.

 

I know a guy who sings Frozen duets with his daughter in the shower.

 

I know a guy that grew up with no sisters and hardly any friends of the opposite sex, but was happy to grow old surrounded women.

 

I know a guy who didn’t wish for a son, and grew irritated by everyone who presumed he wanted anything other than his daughters.

 

I know a guy who didn’t need a boy, but got a boy.

 

I know a guy that kisses that boy and his girls every day.

 

I know a guy who can’t wait to play sports with his son and daughters.

 

I know a guy who works hard all day supporting his family and comes home to help with dinner, dishes, and bedtime.

 

I know a guy who works extremely hard and tells his wife that she works harder.

 

I know a guy who chooses to spend time with his wife.

 

I know a guy who went camping for the first time in his late twenties and now wants to camp every summer.

 

I know a guy who is truly his wife’s best friend.

 

I know a guy who hates bugs and is scared of snakes.

 

I know a guy who sometimes loses his temper, but knows how to say sorry.

 

I know a guy who loves air conditioning and his wife negotiated a deal that he could control the thermostat if she never had to look at the electric bill when they first co-habitated.

 

I know a guy who is slowly losing control of the thermostat.

 

I know a guy who fills the bath with bubbles and hides princess figures in the tub, so his girls get clean searching for them.

 

I know a guy who gets swept away coloring with his kids, meticulously drawing their favorite cartoon characters out of sidewalk chalk on the fence. Sometimes his wife rolls her eyes, “The kids aren’t coloring anymore … You are supposed to be playing with them!”

 

I know a guy who two years ago got upset when his toddler crushed his beautiful sand castles.

 

I know a guy who now sometimes laughs when his toddler knocks over his block, sand or lego creations.

 

I know a guy who told his wife she was beautiful every day throughout three pregnancies.

 

I know a guy who tells his wife she is beautiful even when she hasn’t showered, brushed her hair or put on makeup.

 

I know a guy who feels pain when his wife cries.

 

I know a guy who loves all things that start with the letter P. Pittsburgh. Pickles. Penguins. Platypus. Perogies. Plott Hounds. This guy loves P so much that when he found out that his daughter’s preschool class had parent volunteers to teach each letter of the alphabet, he knew he must have P week.

 

I know a guy who was crestfallen when another parent signed up for P week.

 

I know a guy whose wife negotiated a letter week trade with an unknown parent because her husband LOVES the letter “P”.

 

I know a guy who is now known as “Mr. Pickle” because he hosted a pickle tasting in his daughter’s classroom for P week.

 

I know a guy who loves fashion and often predicts the upcoming trends.

 

I know a guy who likes to spend a lot of money on obscure designer clothing.

 

I know a guy who buys beautiful clothes for his wife – just because.

 

I know a guy who loves to give gifts and wraps them beautifully.

 

I know a guy who is athletic. He runs fast, throws a ball further than anyone I know and has an amazing free throw.

 

I know a guy who shoots hoops so well that he wins prizes for his children at amusement parks.

 

I know a guy who seems normal, but may be the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.

 

I know a guy addicted to gummies – especially peachy penguins.

 

I know a guy who gets along with octogenarians better than any other group of people.

 

I know a guy who is loyal to no end.

 

I know a guy who loves the Lord of the Rings.

 

I know a guy who must watch the Steelers in real time – no recordings – much to the exasperation of his wife.

 

I know a guy who drinks sweet coffee – Creamer. Sweet and Low. The works.

 

I know a guy who is not afraid to order fruity drinks at a restaurant.

 

I know a guy who can be misunderstood.

 

I know a guy who hates fajitas, the sizzling spotlight.

 

I know a guy who deserves to be in the spotlight.

 

I know a guy who met a girl at a bar.

 

I know a guy who spilled a beer on that girl at the bar … or maybe the girl spilled the beer on him?

 

I know a guy who drove that girl to New York City to meet her father.

 

I know a guy who introduced her to all his grandparents along the way.

 

I know a guy that sat at a diner with her father and told him he wanted to be a pediatric neurosurgeon and discussed his ‘philosophy of love’.

 

I know a guy who decided to be a family practice doctor, so he could spend time with his family.

 

I know a guy who never ate fish – an alleged allergy.

 

I know a guy whose girlfriend convinced him to try fish.

 

I know a guy who now likes sushi.

 

I know a guy who married that girl.

 

I know a guy who is a role model for my son.

 

I know a guy and I hope my daughters find men like him.

 

I know a guy who will be embarrassed by this essay.

 

I know a guy and he knows me.

 

My love – Happy 8th Anniversary – I hope we last forever.

 

 

 

 

 

Fajitas

The plate sizzles, oil popping, its not a plate but a large skillet, the steam is acting as an emergency smoke signal as the waiter carries it across the dining room.  Heads turn, necks crane, a woman twists in her chair, everyone is wondering who ordered those fajitas, and where will they land?

*****

“Fajitas,” he comments, “I hate fajitas.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, thinking to myself that you can’t really go wrong with fajitas.  We are in our early twenties, it may be our second date, it may be our fifth, I know that I really like this guy and he’s not bad to look at either.

“You know, the spectacle of fajitas, where everyone turns and stares at the person in the restaurant that ordered the huge sizzling plate of food.”  He states with obvious distaste in his voice.

I smile knowingly, “Like when you go to a restaurant for a birthday and the wait staff gathers around the table to sing Happy Birthday?”

“Exactly, definite fajitas,” he says.

“I don’t really like fajitas either,” I say blushing, thinking who is this handsome guy and why doesn’t he want to be the center of attention?  In an instant a part of our family vernacular is born…

*****

Fast forward ten years later, married, two beautiful daughters, a gorgeous basset hound, a handsome plot hound, and fajitas are still a part of our shared family language.  But the question is, do we really hate fajitas?  Fajitas are now served to us on a daily basis.  For instance:

1)  Walking our basset hound to the park on a hot summer day, her ears flapping, her neck flab swinging, her paws, she is a walking cartoon.  Children and adults constantly asking if they can pet her, “No she doesn’t like people,” embarrassed I repeat the warning over and over.  She is the definition of fajitas.

2)  It’s Christmas, my oldest daughter is two, the mall is swarming with holiday shoppers, we each hold her hand tightly pushing our way through the crowds, my daughter is singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ at the top of her lungs, “IT MEANS NO WORRIES FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS.”

“This is fajitas,” I whisper to my blushing husband, we share a smile.

3)  Spring break, a sunny afternoon at the park, mothers and children surround us from all sides. I’ve been in the house for a week with sick kids, but decide to stop by the park to get some fresh air.  I’m dressed like I just got out of jail, dirty, oily, and ratty.  I had no idea the park would be a social gathering, probably would have put on some nice jeans, or brushed my hair if I’d known.  It’s almost nap time, we need to leave, I give the girls the mandatory count down, “two minutes … one more minute … okay time to go.”

My youngest starts screaming immediately, “No Mama, no mama, no mama,” building in momentum and intensity like an Italian Opera.  I scoop her up in my arms.

My oldest whines, “My friends are still here, they’re still playing, why can’t I? I want to stay! I’m not going!”  Then she turns her pleading into the ‘car alarm cry’, shriek, breath, shriek, breath, it sounds as if I’m stabbing her in the middle of the playground.  I would scoop her up as well, but I only have two arms, a baby in one, a picnic blanket, and diaper bag in the other.  How the hell am I going to make it to the car? My blood pressure rises, sweat makes my clothes stick in ways they shouldn’t, I am the spectacle.

*****

Parenthood is all about fajitas, little people with their own thoughts and behaviors that no parenting strategy will ever fully control. They live without social filters as they learn societal norms and etiquette.  If a friend chooses to play with someone else, tears stream down my oldest daughter’s face.  I may feel the same way at happy hour, but I’ve learned to tone down my reaction.  My youngest squeals in excitement when she sees a slide and throws herself on the floor screaming when its time to brush teeth. My daughters behave this way in the solitude of our home, or at a “Meet the Parent Picnic” in a room full of strangers I’d like to impress. Toddlers could care less whether their parents like to be the center of attention.

*****

Dear Husband,

Toddlers (and basset hounds) are the definition of fajitas. I think we’ve got to learn to live with them.  Mexican food is great, pour yourself a margarita and enjoy the ride.

Love,

Your Adoring WifeImage