I hope I’m not alone after reading that headline and having the Talking Heads Psycho Killer running through my head. Love that song.
That said, this is just a “how weird is my husband” post. Yesterday, Mike and Ian spent the best part of the afternoon putting in a light in the back of the house for Mike to use when he insists on grilling in the dark (not to be confused with Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark – no psycho killers or grillers to be found there). It was supposed to be a quick and easy father/son project. It didn’t really work out that way. In the end, I think Ian was teaching Mike (aka Ward Cleaver) creative ways to swear. To that end, I think it was a positive experience.
When Ian came in to shut the power down to the entire house, I noticed my neighbor sitting outside supervising her five year old on his new Christmas bike. I also noticed she had her trademark plastic cup with a straw that signaled it was, in fact, happy hour. I grabbed some cheese and crackers, an adult beverage and a blanket and headed to saner territory. We snacked, talked books and were freezing our behinds off when another neighbor drove by, asked to drop one of her kids off while she picked up the other AND would we be be there when she got back? Well, of course we would.
About the same time, my first neighbor’s husband came out, as did Mike. It was a regular driveway party. For another hour, we all talked about crappy cars we’d all owned in the 80’s among other things. I distributed ugly hats I’ve knitted to keep us all warm (we looked like a meeting of the house elf society – especially funny since 3 of 5 of us had on shorts and flip flops). (Note: This is not my hat – this is what I found when I googled Dobby hat – my hats are not nearly as pretty or sturdy.) And, then we were invited in for dinner. Who knew? Neighbor #1’s husband had been watching football and making something called KILLER casserole.
All the kids and adults chowed down on this stuff – noodles, cheese, more cheese, onions and something else that was gooey – sour cream? I don’t know, but it was delicious and perfect for a bunch of cold people. When we came home, Mike and Andy sat down to watch Alton Brown while I puttered with the laundry. An hour later, Mike came out to tell me he was going to bed. But, he looked worried. I asked about it.
“Why, exactly, is it called KILLER casserole?” I told him I didn’t know, but I didn’t think it was a problem. “Are you sure?” Now, I’ve met Mike’s parents and I know how they cook. I guarantee you Mike grew up eating, if not the exact same thing something pretty dang close. I asked him how he felt and he assured me he was fine. I told him to go to bed and think of happy things. Mike did not look entirely convinced, but he went off to bed.
Later, when I went into bed, I slid in quietly – not because I don’t love Mike but because despite the fact that we upgraded to a king-sized bed about eight years ago, Mike thinks we are sharing a twin bed. Mike is a snuggler. If he senses me getting into bed, I’m in a loving head-lock before I can even get my pillows adjusted. After all our years together, I’ve mostly adjusted to this fact. I get my time to sleep face down, sprawled all over the place after he gets up in the morning.
But, even for us, last night was extra weird. I slid under the covers and was on my left side when suddenly, Mike’s hand was on the side of my hip and pressing it into the mattress. Nothing else, just the hand. Weird. I waited about 10 minutes and pushed him off of me. I thought he’d gone back to sleep when suddenly, the hand was on my hip and the other hand was holding my left arm straight up. Then I started to laugh – I was waiting for him to sing “I’m a Little Teapot.” I waited again – he was DEAD asleep. Again, I pushed him away and claimed an extra 6″ of bed for myself.
By this time, I was fully awake. I got a fresh glass of water and put on a Harry Potter cd and climbed back into bed. I wasn’t sure what was coming next (everyone sing Psycho Killer with me) but nothing happened for a while. I was just dozing off when I felt the lightest touch on my hip. It was Mike. He had just one finger, ever-so-lightly sitting on top of the side of my hip. His arm looked incredibly uncomfortable. I waited, without moving, a good 20 minutes. Finally, I fell asleep – Mike’s finger still on my hip.
I’m blaming the Killer casserole.
(I asked Mike this morning and he has no recollection of any of it. Oh, oh, oh ohhhhh . . . run, run, run, run run run away!)