February 25, 2013

My binder full of women

It's two minutes before we have to leave, and I'm scrambling to do something with my 52 pounds of hair. I've got seven bobby pins in my mouth, I'm trying to hold one piece of hair in place while pinning another, my arms have been raised long enough that they've actually atrophied, I am wiping upper lip sweat onto my already-slimy shoulder...and Rob walks by and gives me a side squeeze.

Rob's thinking: There is my wife. I must touch her.
My thinking: Oh no, there's Rob! No! Don't touch me don'ttouchme don'ttouchme - ah ha ha! That tickles. [Read with a raspy demon voice ->] WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. I HAVE TO START ALL OVER AGAIN, YOU JERKY TREAT.

(Revealing my internally-hurled insults is always a little embarrassing; they're always a bit of a letdown when I write them out. At times like these, I sometimes wish I were a swearing kind of a person - it would make this scene so much more vivid. Something edgy might be more effective. Like rapscallion. Or hooligan.)
When I post this with a "Channeling my inner Katniss" on FB, I'm not joking - Rob's slumped over in the corner with an arrow lodged in his gut.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Rob just doesn't get the what-he-can-touch-when thing. And once I got started on the whole chart thing in my last blog post, I realized charts might come in handy here as well. So I went and broke all copyright laws and found a naked woman (in the nerdiest, most non-X-rated way I could - thank you, WebMD symptom checker).
Fair warning if you hop over to get yourself some women: WebMD's woman does not come clothed in this hot black number. Or clothed in anything, really (other than unidentified rashes and weird skin tags). Because I'm just not going to go there, folks. Besides, showing Rob charts of nekked women isn't going to help my "What you can't touch" campaign.

So here, Rob, are some helpful illustrations to assist you in navigating the moody and emotionally sensitive minefield that is my body.

Don't touch the pink - I've got the boniest limbs known to humankind and a crotchety tickle temper.
My back is fair game. And my left hand is approved only when you are inserting a glass of wine into it.
Yes, all of it. Notice my fistful of bobby pins. If you even entertain the notion of a hug, caress, or finger poke, you may spontaneously start bleeding. Don't even talk to me. Don't look at me. I will hurt you.
Because when we're in front of your family, it's just weird. After a Corona or two? Still weird.
Can I get a high-five from all the ladies out there? Huzzah!

Rob, in case you're openly weeping at this point, here's one last one for you:
That's right. Don't say I never cut you a break.

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