ahream

It started with a librarian in Texas several years ago, a lovely woman more than old enough to be my mother.

Her: “Wow, your husband is really handsome.”

Me: “Um...er...yeah...well, yes. Thank you.”

Now, I’ve ALWAYS thought my husband was handsome. He is, after all, my husband, and a base level of attraction is a prerequisite. What I have not, over the past thirteen years of our relationship, been prepared for is the number of other women who would suddenly discover this, a veritable flood of Holly-come-latelies. Frankly, I’m becoming concerned.

Loyal blog readers may have noticed that my dear groom takes a fair bit of good-natured ribbing on my part. The Curious Incident of the Eclairs in the Nighttime springs to mind. (See my website, www.ahream.com. Click on “blog” and then “The funniest dang thing I’ve ever seen.”)

It would be fair to say he’s a little goofy. It would also be fair to say he’s hot. Unequivocally and undeniably hot. And it’s causing me no small amount of grief. I just wasn’t prepared. It turns out he’s one of those people who actually get better looking with a few years on the calendar and a few lines around the eyes. I’ve spent a goodly amount of time wishing bad things on just those kind of people, all the while unaware one had slipped into the house entirely undetected.

It was last year when the wheels really came off the wagon.

My mother: “He’s very good looking, you know.”

Me: “Mom!”

Mom: “Well, he is.”

Me: “MOM!”

Jesus.

Yes, okay, he has eyes a color of blue the Crayola people should work on reproducing. And yes, several years of devout gym-going have produced shoulders that stubbornly refuse to fit neatly into any dress shirt made by man. And then there are the dimples. But by God, they’re MY dimples!

Last night, yet another lovely lady broached what is fast becoming the number one topic of conversation in my life, and despite the innocent nature of the compliment, I was irrationally seized by the sudden need to drive stakes into the ground surrounding him and run several hundred rows of razor wire around them. It’s possible I growled. There may have been spitting.

A new sheet of paper has gone up on our refrigerator. “Husband Rule #1: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #2: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #3: See rules 1 and 2.”

I have to go buy razor wire.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (6) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2006-11-04 3:37 PM He's hot, hot, hot It started with a librarian in Texas several years ago, a lovely woman more than old enough to be my mother. Her: “Wow, your husband is really handsome.” Me: “Um...er...yeah...well, yes. Thank you.” Now, I’ve ALWAYS thought my husband was handsome. He is, after all, my husband, and a base level of attraction is a prerequisite. What I have not, over the past thirteen years of our relationship, been prepared for is the number of other women who would suddenly discover this, a veritable flood of Holly-come-latelies. Frankly, I’m becoming concerned. Loyal blog readers may have noticed that my dear groom takes a fair bit of good-natured ribbing on my part. The Curious Incident of the Eclairs in the Nighttime springs to mind. (See my website, www.ahream.com. Click on “blog” and then “The funniest dang thing I’ve ever seen.”) It would be fair to say he’s a little goofy. It would also be fair to say he’s hot. Unequivocally and undeniably hot. And it’s causing me no small amount of grief. I just wasn’t prepared. It turns out he’s one of those people who actually get better looking with a few years on the calendar and a few lines around the eyes. I’ve spent a goodly amount of time wishing bad things on just those kind of people, all the while unaware one had slipped into the house entirely undetected. It was last year when the wheels really came off the wagon. My mother: “He’s very good looking, you know.” Me: “Mom!” Mom: “Well, he is.” Me: “MOM!” Jesus. Yes, okay, he has eyes a color of blue the Crayola people should work on reproducing. And yes, several years of devout gym-going have produced shoulders that stubbornly refuse to fit neatly into any dress shirt made by man. And then there are the dimples. But by God, they’re MY dimples! Last night, yet another lovely lady broached what is fast becoming the number one topic of conversation in my life, and despite the innocent nature of the compliment, I was irrationally seized by the sudden need to drive stakes into the ground surrounding him and run several hundred rows of razor wire around them. It’s possible I growled. There may have been spitting. A new sheet of paper has gone up on our refrigerator. “Husband Rule #1: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #2: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #3: See rules 1 and 2.” I have to go buy razor wire. Read/Post Comments (6) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top