We’re spanning time

Sometimes, the Southerner brings me home flowers. He also randomly gives me presents, not just because it’s my birthday or a holiday, but because I might be the luckiest wife on earth.  Either that or he feels tremendously guilty about something– all the time.  I’m pretty sure it’s just because I’m the luckiest wife on earth.

In an effort to think of something that guys like as much as some girls (me) enjoy getting flowers, I texted the Southerner’s brother: “What do guys like to get randomly like girls enjoy randomly getting flowers?– and don’t say blowjobs.” After admitting that he would have in fact said ‘blowjobs’, the Southerner’s brother texted me a list of items that included fancy beer.  So, I went out and bought the Southerner a really fancy beer and stuck it in our fridge.  Then, around 4:00 that same afternoon, I accidentally drank it.  I couldn’t handle the thought of that beer all by itself in our fridge just waiting for me to savor its unflitered, wheaty goodness.  Oops.

Some of you feminists out there are probably thinking that the Southerner might like getting flowers too, and why assume that he’d want something so achetypically manly like beer?  First, I have it on
pretty good authority that the Southerner does not enjoy receiving flowers because on Valentine’s when the maitre-D came by our table to give me a rose and I asked where the Southerner’s rose was, pointing out the ridiculousness of a holiday intended to celebrate lovers that had somehow been twisted into a celebration of only one faction of that love, and surely the Southerner deserved a rose too since he was in fact the most wonderful partner on the face of the earth??? Well, it turns out the Southerner did not actually want a rose, or a partner willing to enter into such a rousing defense on behalf of men everywhere and their need to receive flowers too.   He just wanted a blow-job.

One night during the first year we started dating, the Southerner and I stayed up late watching Buffalo 66.  We’ve both seen it several times, and agree that the movie gets funnier and more poignant each time.  Our favorite scene is the one where Vincent Gallo and Cristina Ricci get in the photobooth and he tells her to act serious, like they’re married, like they span time together.

It’s become an inside joke: we’re spanning time.  We span time together.  We’re married and we’re spanning time because we love one another.  There’s no one I’d rather span time with. Spanning time together is better than flowers or fancy beer.  Although, I still want the flowers, of course, and next time I’ll try to exercise more willpower where the beer is concerned.  I promise.

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