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This year, I decided to carve one, too, and it came out pretty well, if I do say so myself. I mean…I have to say so myself. My family wasn’t exactly encouraging about it.
Danny, my husband and supposedly the love of my life, offered a vague mmpgf noise when I proudly showed him my work. Then he hesitantly asked if that was my practice pumpkin when he damn well knew it wasn’t.
Last on my Halloween “must do” list was singing “Thriller” while doing the dance—the parts I knew, anyway. Yes, I did the entire speaking part at the end. And the maniacal laugh, my hands upraised in claws, while my husband talked about divorce statistics loudly.
I’d married someone with no concept of the Hollywood-esque, “we absolutely must get together sometime.” Like the time he said we should clean the garage on the weekend and actually woke me up on Sunday with gloves and garbage bags. I mean, really.
“Rick and I talked about it at length, and I’d like to offer my uterus to the two of you,” she’d said grandly. “As a gift.” “Well, you can stuff it right back in your body where it belongs,” I informed my troublemaking twin. “We like cash.”
He gave my laptop screen a curious look. “Since when do you use TikTok?” “Since when do you actually get the name right and not call it TipTop, Oldy McOld?” “That was once. Years ago.” “And I’m never going to let you forget it,” I promised. “It was so fucking shocking, I almost signed you up for Life Alert. I need to know if you fall when I’m not home, Daniel.”
“You’re so annoying.” “And you, dear husband, are getting angry-face carrots from now on.” Figures it would take the threat of losing them to realize how much I enjoyed my happy fucking lunch. It always made me feel things to think of my husband working that tiny press with those big hands just to brighten my day. Of course, I loved it when he did other things with those big hands, too. But those carrots certainly made the list.
He sent me one of those special little smiles of his reserved just for me. “You’re safe in my hands, Rainstorm. Always. Precious cargo doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Urgh. “I wish you’d leave my heart alone,” I complained. “It’s a freaking holiday, for fuck’s sake.”
