Phil has always been the romantic one in our relationship. Throughout our long distance courtship he would often surprise me with love letters, daisies, or a mixed CD. The first time I drove from New Jersey to PA for the weekend, I arrived to a picnic spread of wine, cheese, almonds and strawberries (a lovely gesture that would cost him YEARS of Strawberry Shortcake practical jokes from his two roommates). On the day of our wedding, I received a beautiful mahogany memory box filled with every memento he had saved from our three years together: concert/movie ticket stubs, chopsticks from a sushi restaurant, the shopping list where I scribbled my phone number the night we met (now laminated)…I could go on and on but not without compromising his manhood.
What did I get him for a wedding gift, you ask? A (scratched) R.E.M. CD. I know, it’s terrible. Romance just does not come naturally to me, what can I say. I was raised in an Irish Catholic household. We demonstrate love by showing up to wakes and weddings and avoiding eye contact.
So, as you can see I have been spoiled by my sweet and sensitive husband…he set the bar high early in the game. I have become accustomed to his flair for anticipating my needs. But recently, his smooth moves have become a little…rusty.
Now granted, we have had a tough year. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I had my colon removed in April, after months of countless diagnostic procedures, the majority of which involved the words “Anal” or “Rectal.” Phil was by my side for every single one of these fun-filled appointments to the colorectal surgeon…and while I was grateful for his support, a defecography exam (go ahead, click the link…you know you are curious) kind of lacks the whimsical mystery of a typical date night. Not much room for smoke and mirrors when you are having barium shot up your ass with a caulk gun.
So now that the poop dust from the surgery has begun to settle, we have been struggling to find our groove as a “normal” married couple (although I am not sure that we will EVER fit into that category, if there even IS such a category). This week, in an attempt to shake things up a bit, we landed a last minute babysitter and headed to Chesnut Hill for an outdoor concert at Pastorious Park, per Phil’s suggestion. He has been traveling for work, so I was primed for a break from the kiddies and some Strawberry Shortcake style magic. After a long week of sippy cups and swimmy diapers, some fresh air and some music NOT on the Yo Gabba Gabba soundtrack sounded enticing.
“I could go for a glass of wine,” I say, picturing a cold Chardonnay at the Chesnut Hill Hotel, which incidentally, has a nice bathroom. Just in case.
“Ok, but I know a place that’s closer,” he responds.
We walk. And walk. And walk.
“I could have sworn it was right around this corner….” (When wrong about directions, Phil would prefer to believe that entire city blocks have been uprooted and relocated than admit defeat). It’s getting late at this point – the concert is starting and we are headed in the wrong direction.
“Wait, I have a better idea, wait here!” He runs off into a store that says “Cigars.” Hmmm. My confidence in his Master Plan is dwindling, and pretty much shits the bed when he returns 10 minutes later with a warm bottle of wine and a cup that may or may not have been stolen off a bottle of Children’s Tylenol:
Ok, so in the end we had fun, despite the Drinking (Warm) Wine from a Thimble incident. I mean, you can’t fault a guy for trying, and I could tell he was bummed about being off his game. Then it dawned on me that maybe he was feeling as depleted as I was. The endless stream of invasive tests, the 4.5 hour surgery, the looooong, not-so-sexy recovery…all focused exclusively on MY needs. Had I ever really stopped to ask myself what HE needed? Of course I couldn’t be 100% sure what would put the pep back in his step, but going on past experience, I can typically count on tequila and a slutty short dress as a winning combination.
My cousin Cindy’s wedding on Saturday gave me the perfect opportunity to help Phil get his mojo back: The libido. The lifeforce. The essence. What the French call…I don’t know what.
So, short dress: Check.
Tequila: Check, check, and ummm, CHECK.
When it comes to finding your mojo, sometimes it takes two to tango.
