Make Me Paint My Face And Dance. Please.

Mr. Moon is focused.

When I say focused, I mean the man has that unocular thingee (oh yeah, monocle) stuck in his eye like Sherlock Holmes on meth. He is researching the new business. He is online, checking out equipment to buy. He's down at the permitting offices. He's lying awake in bed at night, thinking about all of it. He's talking about it. He's NOT TALKING ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE.
This is what happens every time Mr. Moon decides to go into a new business venture. Every time.

Which is why he's been successful.
Which is why I love him.
But which also DRIVES ME INSANE!

"What do you want for supper, Mr. Moon?"

"I don't know. How small a kitchen do you think we can get away with down there and can we use the same refrigerator for kegs as for the kitchen?"

This is my life now.

Everything I say somehow leads to something about this new business. Everything.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking that if SOMEONE doesn't take me away for a romantic weekend (Hey! I'll take a night!) somewhere where no cooking, dogs, or laundry are involved, I think I might die.

My mascara is drying up in the tube. My shimmery eye shadows are languishing in their pots. My going-out clothes are as useless to me as an extra blind eyeball would be.

I have forgotten how to be a girl. I have forgotten how to flirt, dance or order from a menu.

I might as well be the head matron at an all-women prison.

Please honey- for one second- let it go. Remind me of the man I met who would stop on the side of the road to pick me wildflowers. Remind me of the man who used to dance with me in the kitchen.

I mean yes, I am happy to pull up sod. I am happy to cook, do laundry and scrub toilets in this house that I love. I am thrilled to see you excited about something again and to watch you go into action mode.

BUT- I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! I AM A GIRL!

I think.

Remind me.

And no, going down to Bradenton with you to pressure wash your sister's house is not a romantic weekend away.

Sorry.

And I need to quote a Lyle Lovett song here which I love in which he says, "If I were the man that you wanted, I would not be the man that I am."

Well. Mr. Moon is the man that I want. And he most definitely is the man that he is.

And no. I am not going to greet him at the door wearing Saran Wrap. So don't even suggest that.

That is not romance. That would be a darn waste of good Saran Wrap. And what if he was late getting home from work? What am I supposed to do while I'm waiting, all wrapped in Saran Wrap? What if a neighbor wanted to borrow a cup of sugar?
You see my point. You'd see a lot more than that if I dressed in Saran Wrap which possibly IS my point.

Sometimes I think that women need other women for romance. Not sex. Unless that's how you're wired. No, what I'm talking about is the hearts and flowers thing. Men start out all flowery and poetic but then, next thing you know, they're talking about one stall or two in the restrooms of the new business and also urinals. URINALS!
Women don't talk about urinals.
Women don't usually bring home dead animals for you to cook either, but that's another post and actually, I think men believe they ARE being romantic when they bring home dead animals for you to cook.

So perhaps it just all boils down to definition and semantics.

I don't know! I don't care! I just know I'm not getting any younger and I'm going to be a grandmother soon and dear God, just please- a cheap motel and a good dinner out.

WHERE WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT URINALS!

I'll even wear high heels.
Oh wait. I gave them all to Goodwill.
But I will shave my legs. I promise.

If I can remember how.