getting ready

Her brown eyes don’t blink.

They can’t.

Not now.

Jesus. Definitely not now.

Her usually steady hand trembles slightly.

She takes a deep breath.

She focuses.

A car alarm screeching awake somewhere in the distance rattles her.

She wipes her brow with the back of her free hand.

She locks in again.

Years of training have led to this moment.

She slowly moves her thumb and forefinger towards each other.

The merciless sharpened metal of the scissors do the same.

One chance. That’s all she has.

She closes her eyes. She can’t watch.

SNIP.

She exhales.

She looks down and sees some of her bangs in the white porcelain sink.

She looks up.

She shrugs.

She looks back over her shoulder.

“Babe, get up.”

“You get up,” he sleepymumbles.

“I’ve been up for hours.”

“I don’t like your tone,” he turns over, thinking that will hide him from her.

“Baaaabe.”

He is powerless against that.

He rolls over onto his back. He kicks the covers off. His knees are bent and his legs are in the air. He stretches and makes a funny noise. Like a kitty.

When no one comes over to rub his tummy, he finishes rolling out of bed.

He saunters into the bathroom and applies a kiss to her shoulder.

He notices she’s wearing his favourite black bra and black underwear with white polka dots.

He lets out an intrigued “Mmmmmmmmmmm.”

“No,” she replies.

He lets out a sad “Mmmmmmmmmmm.”

He dances out of his boxers and into the shower.

“Ack! Too hot! Too hot!”

She smiles.

He presumably gets the water temperature right and all is silent again. More or less.

“It… was… an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini,” he sings loudly.

She stops applying her make-up. She waits.

And waits.

“Thaaaaaat she wore for the first time today!” he sings even louder.

She goes back to her make-upping. (Making-upping?)

He hops out of the shower.

“Don’t cover too many of the nose freckles, please,” he requests.

She nods without listening.

He wanders off into the bedroom.

She puts her shirt on.

She scrunches her nose.

She has seven distinct nose scrunches.

They are:

#1 – I don’t like this.
#2 – I like this.
#3 – I am so ridiculously cute and I just can’t help it.
#4 – How long is too long to keep milk after the expiration date?
#5 – There is not nearly enough cheese in my cheese drawer.
#6 – Yes I have a drawer in my refrigerator just for cheese. Why do you ask?
#7 – You’re a dork, but I like you A LOT.

He returns completely dressed and ready to go.

She hates him.

“I got ready in two minutes,” he points out. Which doesn’t help.

“Not surprising.”

“Because I’m just naturally cute?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Because you don’t have a lot to work with,” she says, trying to hide a smile.

“Gasp! That is an outrage, madame. An outrage.”

“I’ll let you touch my butt.”

“Outrage.”

“Both hands.”

“I feel very strongly about the power of forgiveness.”

“Mmmmhmmmm.”

He squeezes her bum. He audibly swoons.

She shakes her head.

A wrinkle in the front of her shirt catches her eye.

She grabs her hair straightener and proceeds to iron it out.

He is amazed.

“You’re like MacGyver,” he tells her.

“Mac-what-er?”

“MacGyver! A TV show from the mid eighties?”

“I was born in 1984,” she enjoys reminding him.

“Sometimes you give my heart a tummy ache.”

She fakesighs and bends over a little.

He quickly bumsqueezes again.

“I’m cured!”

She fusses with her make-up.

He hops up on the counter.

He increases the volume on her nearby laptop, as Hanson’s “A Minute Without You” starts.

She dances.

He loves.

She gives him a quick kiss.

He’s smittenmittens.

She checks the time on her laptop. Her pretty eyes almost pop out.

“Babe! You let me run late!”

“Hmmm?”

She starts running around like a demon.

She holds up earrings.

“Left hand,” he tells her.

She holds up necklaces.

“The one I bought you,” he requests.

She runs off into the bedroom.

He slowly follows.

She’s hopping into jeans.

He passes her grey boots to her.

She slips into them.

She quickly runs into the bathroom. She returns from a cloud of hairspray.

He’s holding their Blackberrys.

She grabs hers from his hand.

He walks to the front door.

She follows moments later, as she takes stock of what’s in her purse.

He holds the door open.

She stops.

“You’re not happy with that shirt,” he says.

“I’m NOT happy with this shirt.”

“It’s going to bug you all night.”

“It’s going to bug me all night.”

“You’re going to change it.”

“I think I’m going to change it.”

“Baby,” he begins. “I know that it’s all about how you feel, but believe me when I tell you that you look absolutely stunning. Nobody on the planet does cutesexy like you. Nobody. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there tonight. It won’t even be close, you know. From your soft shiny hair, to your cute shoes, and every stop in between. You exude warmth. Class. Charm. And just a pure goodness that we should all aspire to. You are amazing. You star in my dreams. You fire my imagination. You take my breath away. You knock me on my ass. Every single day. You look beautiful because you are beautiful. On every level. In every way.”

She stares at him.

“I don’t like these pants either,” she says.

“Or we could just stay in and make-out?”

“I wouldn’t need to wear pants for that,” she hmmmms.

“You wouldn’t be allowed pants for that.”

“Deal.”

He closes the door.

She smiles and nods.

He stares.

She narrows her eyes.

“What?” she asks.

“Oh nothing. Just… POUNCEKISS!”

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9 Responses

  1. Arielle says:

    WHAT! I was born in 1983 and I am well aware of the awesomeness of MacGuyver. There are no excuses. Otherwise this post is adorable.

  2. Ashley says:

    I love that you show that love is all about the small stuff. You’re awesome for appreciating that and showing it through your cutesy words like smittenmittens.

  3. Kaci Johanna says:

    ALSO. I was born in ’86 and I know about MacGyver. For serious.

  4. Carla says:

    You write so beautifully!

  5. Kelly L says:

    LOVE. Love love love.

  6. lauryn says:

    That list of different nose scrunches? Priceless and adorable.

  7. Hilary says:

    ’89…and I married MacGyver.

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