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My wife hates movie plot holes and inconsistencies. Cynthia has come downstairs to yammer taking a pause from the movie 12 Monkeys. She goes back up grumbling. "I'm going up to watch the movie about monkeys that has no monkeys in it."
We're out for morning coffee. It's raining hard and we're getting wet. As we're leaving Cynthia drawls, "I either need a bigger umbrella or a smaller butt." The guy having his morning coffee at the donut store cracks up laughing.
Cynthia is peppering me with emails about what she's doing. Then, "I feel like half my body is missing. I realized why. You're not here."
It's cold out. A lady is walking her dog who just pooped, wisps of steam rise. "You can tell it's cold out here, the dog's butt is smokin."
"Oh look." That's code for me to bend down and pick up the mittens the wife dropped.
People often ask me what it's like being married to a "psychic." A few weeks ago my unusually talented wife Cynthia Chauvin walked into the bedroom and said, "Jon, I want to close our B-of-A account. Something's not right there." I just said, "okay." I've long since become accustomed to going with the flow of her intuition. These type of psychic edicts are just a part of my daily life. "Don't go that way to work - We should check on the cats - Call your mom." My favorite example was one morning when I was commuting to NYC from DC. The tone of her voice changed slightly and she said, "Don't rush, just take the 8:30am shuttle." That 30 minute decision put me safely on the ground in DC as opposed to New York airspace on September 11th. It took her a few days to get over to B-of-A, but we have since closed our account. Now I know why.
It's our anniversary. Cynthia looks at me, "I'd marry you again tomorrow knowing everything I know." Now THAT'S love.
Cynthia eyes me as I'm washing my hair. "You have a piece of conditioner on the top of your head that looks like a booger."
I'm a little distracted. Cynthia looks at me across the couch, "Pay attention, you're being loved."
"Look! You bought me a fur for Christmas!" Cynthia exclaims as she points to our cat Fred who just returned from a pricey trip to the vet.
We're at the xmas tree farm. "It's too cold to cut a tree and ride in the wagon. Besides, I'll need my wagoneer outfit."
I'm awakened at 4am. Cynthia and Corie are talking boy strategy. Cynthia rolls over, "It's girl stuff, you know girls can't wait."
Cynthia called singing a Song of her own invention. Popcorn, a hotdog, nachos and a all nefariously woven in.
We are watching "The Town." Cynthia has Million Dollar Baby sad ending heebie-jeebies. "If this has a sad ending I'm going to hit you."
"Our book is in a church!" Cynthia called. Apparently a client showed The 10 Ways to the Pastoral Counselor at her Church and he wanted a copy. Too fun.
As we round the bend there are two squirrels in the road kibitzing. I slow down veering to one side expecting them to follow proper rodent etiquette. Suddenly they go wild eyed and dart in opposite directions giving us little option but to stop. Cynthia pipes up at their antics, "Squirrels gone wild!"
I'm acting a bit the neaderthanl. "Why in the world do you love me?" I ask. "I don't know...it's magic!" she replies.
"I'm not buying anymore fruit from Costco." Cynthia and I are bemoaning the Costco fruit lifecycle. She does a robot voice. "Not ripe. Not ripe. Ripe for a nanosecond. Rotten."
The Bunny just emailed me. "Buying a pair of shoes is a gateway drug. It leads to a new outfit and then dinner."
"I had a dream you and I started playing tennis." I say. The Bunny has never played tennis. "I started hiking, I guess i can play tennis." she replies. "Do they have outfits?' she continues. "Yep." "Then I can play tennis."
We've just had dinner at Mokomandy a new local eatery who's tag line "Modern. Korean. Cajun." scared us a bit. We were afraid to like it because everything we like tends to suddenly close or literally burn down. It turns out the meal was stellar (I suggest the fried pickles to start) and as we're driving back to our home I'm over the moon yammering about finally getting good food into the neighborhood. Suddenly Cynthia says under breath, "Jon!...Be quiet." I pause and reply slowly, "Oh...you're afraid that we'll burn it down?" She holds her index finger over her mouth. "Ssssshhhhhhh..."
Cynthia and I are eating dinner at Bazins in old town Vienna, she's had her vodka, dirty with olives. She's relating to me that one of her clients has lived all over the world. She really likes that. My wife is truly a giving women, tending to sacrifice her wants for the good of the whole. Then she blurts it out, "If I don't get to live in Europe for an extended period of time this life I'm sending Jesus my resignation letter."
The Bunny just had a recent psychic reading client call her with an update.
"Hi Cynthia, I don't know if you remember me but I came in to see you several months ago. When I saw you you told me I was going to get a big promotion in August, and I thought you were nuts."
She replied, "Well there are a lot of people that think that."
He laughs, and says, "I was one of them but I just had to tell you I got a big promotion today and I just had to share it with you."
This is life with my wife.
The Bunny is railing at Donald Trump. We live next to Donald Trump's Country Club and Golf Couse and they were blowing their leaves into our garden. She got so excited she called the GM and let him know her thoughts.
As I'm leaving she says, "Don't mess with the Cajun! Donald's goin' down!"
Update: The Bunny just called. The General Manager came by and gave her a tour in a golf cart of the entire course, complete with waterfalls. Smart man.
Meet the wife
We're talking about New Orleans. Cynthia loves her home town, but for different reasons than most would think. She sips her coffee briefly, "It's just like drive thru daquiris, they're practical."
"For the love of God Bunny, please be quiet." Cynthia has woken up chipper, chipper beyond compare. I'm dragging my butt from the car to Dunkin Donuts. She's prancing along side of me. I'm in my cave. She doesn't care in the least, "I'm like a washing machine....on agitate!"
Cynthia is railing about "The Wolfman" which we've just seen on pay per view.
"Somebody must have stayed up at night and come up with ways to make that movie bad. With all those good actors and actresses, they had to go out of their way to make that movie bad."
I had barley paid attention to it. "You didn't even look up from typing on the computer, that's how bad it was."
The Bunny has just used some earthy language in our conversation.
She looks at me and drawls, "I'm from the south. Cussing is like iambic pentameter to us."
My wife and I are eating at Virginia Kitchen in Herndon. It's a favorite hangout that serves breakfast and lunch only. Cynthia notes one of the booths has a piece of it's covering coming off. It's a homey kind of place and the people are all characters. She finishes a bite and laughs, "They didn't waste a penny on ambience here."
"That movie should have sub-titles" says my wife. "You can't understand a thing he says." When she makes this comment, I know it's code for me to speak more loudly and clearly.
My wife and I, like all couples, have developed some serious shorthand in communicating. We have a running joke about Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain, and the quasi-guttaral mumble that qualified as dialogue throughout the movie. We call him, the "hashusmsheumsshumssshmm" man.
