My wife always knows just what to say.
We stepped out today with the goal of dropping the kids off at their various institutions and then running a couple of separate errands. Because I’m a very mature, sophisticated and functioning adult, I was meeting up with our newly elected federal member, who I used to work with when I first came to G-town, to congratulate him on his win but also to see where he sits on a few issues close to my heart. Tracey was doing something….else. I don’t know. I was catching Pokemon when she told me.
I was attired in my standard geeky tee and jeans, and Tracey was, as usual, dressed like she could do so much better than me. By her own admission as we left the house, she was feeling good about herself: especially now the skin graft and stoma bags are gone. Even with the hernias still in play, it looks like she’s had a massive tummy tuck.
Suffice to say, we had it going on.
For Tracey, this wonderful feeling of ‘I’m so clever and I’ve got my shit together’ lasted a mere 400m down the road. Mine hung around for roughly the same distance, but I enjoyed it for maybe two minutes longer before it started to lose its integrity.
“Out you pop,” Tracey said over her shoulder to our two primary school girls when we pulled up at their drop off point.
Everything went as unsmoothly as ever as the girls undid their belts, climbed over from the back seats, remembered their bags, climbed back over the seats in a tangle of arms and legs, returned again to the middle row dragging their bags behind them just devil-may-care enough to give Miss4 a whack on the noggin, and exited the car.
The door was slid shut and Tracey waved at Miss6 and then Miss9, and prepared to back out so we could drive off.
Only Miss9 had frozen mid-wave.
She tapped on Tracey’s window.
“Are you wearing foundation?” she wanted to know.
“Yes,” Tracey assured her.
I made a mental note to tell my wife she looked extra beautiful.
“Oh, it’s just…..” said Miss9, inserting here an Octomum-channelling pregnant pause while giving Tracey’s face a good hard look, “…I see freckles.” And in case Tracey was unsure about the validity of this claim, “There. There. There and there.”
“Thank you,” said Tracey. “You can go to school now.”
“What do you make of that?” Tracey asked as we drove off.
“I’m assuming funny is the wrong answer, so I’m going to go with shocked by her audacity and keen eyesight?”
“I was feeling good about myself this morning too,” chuckled Tracey. She lifted a hand to her right cheek where Miss9 had been pointing. Multiple times.
“That’s not the worst of it,” I said – I propose playfully, but it turns out unwisely would work just as well here. Certainly, no one would be inclined to say cleverly. There was a real risk my shit was about to become as un-togethered as my wife’s. “She missed a heap more on this side of your face,” I grinned.
“What was that?” said Tracey, looking over her glasses in that sexxy-school-ma’am/sexxy-secretary/sex-is-off-the-table way she has of pulling me into line.
“I said,” I said, with no intention of repeating what I said because I might be unwise but I’m not completely dim-witted, “you look beautiful.”
“That’s right,” said Tracey, turning the car to drive back towards our home.
“I know,” I agreed with her. “And for the record, I love your freckles.”
“Stick with the script,” suggested Tracey.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of pleasuring,” I assured her. “Even without makeup.”
“Stop improvising.”
“Beautiful,” I grinned at her before turning my attention back to catching Pokemon. “You are beautiful.”
She really is.
I think you’ll agree, though, odd taste in fellas.
Raising a family on little more than laughs.
