…after co-habitating for one month
The Boy is a complete gemini, he’s loud and outgoing and likes eleventy billion toppings on his pizza.
He tells me everything, even things I don’t care to know, like what the doodad on the lawnmower does or the exact name of the part the dishwasher needs.
Sometimes he talks just to talk. He’ll tell me what’s down the road we’ve driven on multiple times.
He likes to mix foods together that should not be mixed together. Like hashbrowns and hamburger helper. Or the entire contents of the soda fountain. Or oreos in honey bunches of oats.
He can single task like nobody’s business, almost to the point of obsession. Sometimes this gets on my nerves (like when he insisted on installing the air conditioner, untangling the cord, and reading the owners manual as I lugged boxes up the stairs. Other times, it’s nice. Our appliances get fixed in a jiffy.
When he’s tickled he laughs through his teeth at first.
He makes this face a lot, most of the time to make me laugh.
He is good at video games and is currently kicking my ass in Mafia Wars (yes, we’re losers who hang out on the couch doing “jobs” on a facebook mobster game). “Love, I totally did some mad bank heists.”
He is ultra passionate about life in general (and me, luckily).
He’s the happiest person I know, and comes home smiling to me everyday. I hope when I’m employed I can return the favor.
And last but not least, he thinks my but is fantastic.
But really, who could blame him?
Yup. Especially intuitive and imaginative and self-reliant. Home loving? Yes. Definitely. Most nights I’m happy to hang out at home. Self-reliant is also true, though it sometimes gets me into trouble. I’ll micromanage or take on tasks too big for one person and not want to relinquish control. Sometimes I even snap at The Boy when he tries to help me with something I’m struggling with because I CAN DO IT MYSELF!!!! Yes. I am a toddler. I know. Nicer than EVERYONE else is a stretch. There are many people nicer than me. I’m not mean, but sometimes I come off as aloof (really, I’m just shy). I’m not outgoing and bubbly. I’m not enthusiastic about a lot of things (this drives my parents/The Boy crazy). I internalize a lot of things, so while I may be bursting with excitement on the inside no one else would ever know. This does allow me to be more perceptive than most, though.
I beg to differ with the clingy/needy/manipulative. Actually I think being a little more manipulative would help me in some ways…I kid. Or do I? However the Suspicious? Over imaginative? Procrastinating? Self-absorbed? Yes. I’d have to agree. My imagination is a curse sometimes, like when I’m sitting here giving weight to inane comments* and implied meanings. Mark that one under suspicious, while we’re at it. And over sensitive? Let’s just say one slightly hurtful word can make me start to doubt the things I know to be true.
When I’m Old Wednesday May 13, 2009
When I’m old I will keep a treasure chest of toys and baubles for my grandchildren to play with.
There was always something about Grandma’s house toys that made them better. Even when the “toys” were just jars full of buttons or identical twin beds (perfect for playing Orphanage).
My cousins and I played a lot of pretend games in our youth.* The house we were at determined the game we played. My parent’s house was reserved for cops and robbers (a big back yard, a huge plastic artillery, and a camcorder provided many COPS-like playbacks), olympics (trampoline, gymnast rings, a playschool mini slide that served as the 1,2,3 podium and a plethora of shooting sports medals that functioned as olympic standins**) and Titanic (old suitcases and my bunk bed).
Our great aunt’s house, with in ground swimming pool and diving board, was the set of many a’ shipwreck/island adventure games. We can’t be the only kids who used the diving rings/sticks as makeshift “food” and “treasure”.
My grandmother’s house, the few times we were there, was Peter Pan land. Mainly because she had a bedroom with a crib in it and she didn’t care if we took spoonfuls of chocolate syrup “medicine.”
We played a lot of runaway games at my cousin’s house thanks to her fake kitchen set and crawlspaces. Cops and Robbers got thrown in a lot too, she had fake speghetti sauce that often doubled as blood. Sometimes we played orphanage there, but man, her grandma’s house was Orphanage central.
Two twin beds with identical bedding. Raggedy Ann dolls in the middle. Sparse furniture. Old luggage. It was perfect. We played it so much our families still refer to the third floor of that house as The Orphanage.
Sigh. Memories.
What pretend games did you play growing up?
*Ok, fine, we’ve been known to still have Faerie Garden Parties on occasion. Complete with faerie vernacular and pseudonyms. Sometimes we dress up. We are both, indeed, college educated women.
** We also had matching USA Olympic track suits. We were so cool.