I tease Dave about it, but he has to admit it’s true. My husband is perfectly content to let me sit in peace as long as I’m doing nothing at all. As soon as I start working on something, anything, Dave channels every ounce of his efforts into being annoying and distracting, even if if just means poking at me, coming up to me and making strange sounds, or repeatedly asking “questions.”
“Hey Sweet, I’ve got a question?”
“What is it?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I’ve got another question.” No reply. “Hey, Sweet, I’ve got another question. A question for my, Sweet. Don’t you want to hear the question?”
Sighing, I set down whatever I’m holding. “I love you, too.”
“Dang it! How did you know?”
Poke. Poke. My arm is under attack.
Setting work aside I turn to him, “What are you up to?”
“Do you want to hear about something really cool? I just read about it online and it’s going to blow your mind.”
“I’m not sure. DO I want to hear about it?” I joke.
“Probably not, but I’d really, REALLY like to tell you about it? Can I?”
“Nope.” I discovered once that Dave really must get permission before launching into his discussion. If he gets a “no,” he won’t stop asking until he gets a “yes” but it’s amusing to watch him laugh and beg for permission to share his newest thought or tidbit of information.
“Hmmm… I’m gonna go with ‘no.’”
“Oh, come on!”
“Alright, go ahead!”
With that, he will launch into a detailed description of whatever news article he’s last read or FB post or link he’s seen and has a deep seated opinion on. I do enjoy our conversations, so I can’t complain too much; most days we’ll sit for hours on end debating and discussing topics and perspectives, future plans and ideas, religion, politics, social issues, life, friends. I do love these times together, but sometimes, especially when I’m tinkering with words in my mind, the distractions can be a bit unwelcome.
This particular evening, I escaped to our room and sat down to write. Moments later, I heard footsteps on the stairs and Dave appeared.
“Sweet, you’re never gonna believe this—” he began.
“Would you mind going down and getting that second blanket?” I interrupted. “It’ll be cold tonight.” Earlier in the day he’d taken downstairs one of the blankets from our bed, and I thought the short trip to retrieve it may give me a moment to wrap up a sentence or two.
He held up the remaining blanket mischievously, clearly looking for a way to get out of the request. “We can share THIS blanket!”
Undeterred and a little annoyed as I tried to sort thoughts and dodge distractions, I snapped, “No. You never share.”
“Yes, I do. I share ALL the time. I’m sharing right now. Look.”
I looked up slowly, wearily.
He simply stood there for a second, making sure he had my full and undivided attention before he burst unexpectedly into song.
“Do you believe in life after love? I feel someth—“
“What!?!” I interrupted, exasperated. “That’s not sharing. That doesn’t even make any sense. WHY are you singing?”
“I am sharing. I’m sharing,” he continued to insist.
Utterly befuddled, I stared at him blankly. I had no response.
Apparently distracted by another thought, he picked up his iPad and clicked frantically at it. I turned back to the notebook in my lap, but soon the song was filling the room once again.
“Has he literally gone mad?” The thought crossed my weary mind along with a few other choice tidbits.
“See?” He held up the singing screen. The musical artist was none other than Cher. “I really was Cher-ing! I was Cher-ing that whole time!” He beamed proudly at his successful pun, swayed back and forth and raised his fists in his signature victory dance.
Annoyed or otherwise, I couldn’t hold back a smile. It led to a giggle. Then a full-fledged laugh barreled by unrestrained. I couldn’t exactly argue with that logic! He WAS Cher-ing.
(Originally posted on my old blog, Interim Arts, on May 24, 2014)