This is Why....




November, 2008


Six months of marriage is now behind us. Each day I live and love with the Southern Gentleman brings a new revelation.


Having covered the New York Jets football team as a beat reporter for three seasons, I felt well prepared as to the inner-sanctum of MEN. I had heard the off-color conversations, I had smelled the odors after a game, I had seen the nude-pin-ups in many of their lockers......I was a chick with inside-the-locker-room experience.


Surely daily life with the Southern Gentleman wouldn't bring any new surprises.....would it? I'd seen it all, I'd heard it all.....right?


Ah, the naivety of a blushing bride....


The Gent can be a sassy little boy one minute followed by long bouts of Fraternity- Chapter- President. Prior to my arrival, there was a bear rug on the man-cave floor. And, I mean BEAR rug - full head with teeth and outstretched paws with nails. UGH! Empty Corona beer cases lined an entire wall of the second bedroom. His version of Andy Warhol modern art....I guess.


The black leather furniture and the black painted pressed-board TV cabinet the size of Delaware, were the first things to be loaded onto the Salvation Army truck. Followed by the life size black panther figure-statue...thing. The bear rug? Well, that got packed into a box and given back to the cousin who had handed it off to the Southern Gent in the first place. The cousin's wife had 'vetoed' the bear years ago - Aha! - Enter the tornado from the North (that's me) and now, the bear is their problem again! Victory!


From what I understand, I'm luckier than most ladies. My mate can cook and is actually a stellar house-keeper (for a guy). He'll wipe up the counter top. At times I have to look away, as he wipes the counter dry with his UNDERSHIRT - but, his attempt at housekeeping is what I try and focus on.

He unloads the dishwasher. (the chore I DETEST the most). He does laundry and has gotten better at folding my underpants rather than dancing around with them on his head. The bras, still land on his head as he wraps the straps under his chin and stands with his hands on hips and his chest bloated out. He resembles an odd-version of a Benny Hill meets Tim Conway -type character.


The Gent has no sisters and this becomes painfully clear as he discovers all the female nuances that I bring to the relationship. The plucking, poking and picking that I perform as part of my pre-bedtime routine....remains a mystery to him. The hand lotion and lip gloss next to the bedside still garners comments when applied - he cannot comprehend why I need those accoutrement's at bedtime. God Forbid if he sees me in my weekly Mud-mask...his fits of giggles can be heard throughout the house.


Our conversations and back and forth banter - is the highpoint of our relationship though. His southern accent combined with his innate tendency to mis-pronounce words and phrases is legendary. We've argued exhaustively over the phrase, "Cup of Twa" vs. "Cup of Tea". He is convinced that "Cup of Twa" is the proper version because it's a combination of 'tea' and 'repertoire'. - "Sweetie, that makes even LESS sense," I insist.


Six months in, however, now I just roll my eyes and accept his version as I silently pray he never uses the term outside the four walls of our private home.


In addition to his mis-pronunciations are the even wittier made-up words he uses to describe the various ways I wear my hair. For example, when I wear a single pony tail in the back of my head - he calls it a PONIN (poe-nin) not to be confused with a NUBBIN, which was the pony tail before my hair grew out several inches. A bun on the top of my head is a GRANIN (gran-in) and God Forbid if I wear two ponytails - because then I have to hear him call out in a sing-song voice about my DULINS (dew-lins).


Our day to day life is a constant exploration of male/ female combined with North vs. South tendencies. I've said it before - we are like the North/South version of Lucille Ball and Ricky Ricardo. Who needs reality TV - I'm living it myself, for sure.


Prior to Halloween this year, I had commented several times about my desire to pick a pumpkin. "Let's go to a pumpkin patch," I proclaimed. "Ugh," he grunted "just get one at the Super-Store"


"No way!" I fired back. It just seemed WRONG to buy a pumpkin from a bin at Wally World. "I want to PICK a pumpkin!"


One night, only days before Halloween, we pulled into the parking lot of the local Super-Store. There, under a gi-normous spotlight was an equally gi-normous cardboard bin - loaded full of pumpkins with a smiley-faced embossed sign promoting PUMPKINS FOR SALE - $3.99.
We both saw the display (it was impossible not to). The Gent parked the car and as I was getting out - I heard him proclaim - "There you go baby, just PICK YOUR NOSE and buy a pumpkin here and call it a day."


Over the roof of the car our eyes locked and I asked, "What did you just say?"


"I said," he proudly repeated "just PICK your NOSE, buy a pumpkin here and call it a day - problem solved." His grin combined with a twinkle in his eye was followed by a bout of laughter that became contagious.


He reached for my hand and we walked towards the Wally World entrance - we chuckled together through several isles before I spoke, "This is why I married you."