Metal Meredith

Phil and I made a deal this morning. I would take him and the kids to breakfast and he would come with me to get the free, drive through flu shots that the city was giving away.

One year, I had to trick Phil into thinking I was taking him to Costco to buy him beer when we turned the corner to a tiny, in store clinic and I made him get a flu shot, right there in the middle of Costco. I am pretty sure I am still in trouble for that one.

The next year, I took Vivienne to get her shot and the nice lab lady at the pediatrician’s office hooked me up with a shot for free. Phil got off easy that year because I had already got mine and Vivienne had hers and I figured if he got some awful flu, at least we would be ok and could point and laugh at him while he achy and feverish.

The following year I was pregnant and didn’t want to get one. Again, Phil was off the hook. So I figured he had it coming. Henry has had both of his, Vivienne is going this week and I wasn’t chancing it this year with a newborn and a four year old in preschool who’s favorite snack in one she picks out of her nose. That is a little too germy for me.

The Health Department was training for a mass inoculation, so shots were free to test the system. Vivienne was in the back seat the whole time asking questions about why we had to get shots and who had to get them and why all of the people were in their cars and what the people with the hats and clipboards were doing and why were we still in line and when were we going home. When I was finished, she asked when Phil was getting his. He was through before I even got mine, but she missed it. She then patted him on the arm and told him how brave he was not to cry.

Apparently, Vivienne thinks her dad is a weeny. Honestly, sometimes I do, too.

Phil emailed me this morning to ask me a question about paychecks. I, in turn, asked if the check would be deposited today. He came back with something about getting a ride with a co-worker to the bank.

This followed:

“I picked up a nail somewhere, so the Alero is at one of those shops down on the corner of Broad.”

When I first read it, it made perfect sense. I closed the email and moved on. Then, when I gave myself a chance to think about it, there were all sorts of unanswered questions and underlying text.

For instance, “I picked up a nail somewhere” surely means that he was at the site where he is building my dream home. for my birthday, right? Or perhaps that is where he is dumping the millions he has stashed away. Or the body...dun dun DUN!!!!

My second curious note is that he thought he would specify what kind of car he drives, “the Alero”. Oh, so you forgot your BMW today, Phil? Is the Mini Cooper in the shop?

Why my husband feels the need to talk in acquaintance speak when he emails me is beyond my comprehension. My theory is that he gets in to “Manager Mode” and forgets who is he talking to. We all know that in reality, I am the boss.

Phil and I have had the same queen sized bed for about 7 years now. Shortly before Henry was born, we were in bed one Sunday morning when Vivienne climbed in and proceeded to take up 50% of the space. We then realized that we would need to upgrade in order to fit 4 of us on those lazy Sunday mornings.

Before:

Our old bed became like a giant, crooked canoe. Phil, who snoring sometimes can sound like road repair, sleeps on the side and I sleep right next to him so he doesn’t roll over. Our poor bed paid the price for that. We found a super new bed frame and mattress on Craigslist for cheap cheap cheap!!

It only took us 30 minutes to set up the bed. However, it took us about an hour to get the mattress up the stairs. When it landed on the bed frame, we both collapsed and ‘ooohed’ and ‘ahhhhed’ at the comfort. I brought out my super, new, fancy sheets and my fluffier than fluffy new duvet and we slept like logs.

New Bed:

Last night, about 4am, nature called. When I was coming back into the room, I slammed my little toe into the corner of the bed frame at full force. I cussed, hopped a few times and collapsed into bed. I groaned, rolled back and forth and tried my best to ignore the throbbing. Except I noticed that my foot was wet. Super.

I hobbled into the bathroom where I bled all over the rug and floor. I grabbed a wash cloth and hopped back into the bedroom where I had to wake a dead-to-the-world Phil and ask him to dress my wounds. My husband is wonderful in the fact that there was not one moan, heavy sigh or bitchy comment to me waking him up at 4am. It felt like I had hit my toe with a hammer. But in reality, I only split my toenail about 3/4 of the way down.

Seriously, I love the bed to death. Why does it have to try and kill me? Phil suggested those lights found on airplane isles to help us see where the bed is. I think I need to wear steel toed shoes back and forth to the bathroom from now on.

Phil typically doesn’t pick out my clothes. In truth, he doesn’t pay much attention unless the neckline plunges down below a certain point. So when he saw this ad in Target this week, I paid attention.

Not only did he stop and tell me about it, but he held it up for me to see.

He said, “This dress is pretty.” I agreed. Then I came closer to look at it.

I just had to ask “Are you sure it is the dress and not just chick in the photo?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if you stood like that in it,” he grinned. I made a mental note.

To reward both of us for being so darn cute with each other, I went and bought every color they had. Now I have 4 of them and I am quite often finding myself standing like that just to feel sassy. Phil is pretty happy, too.