September 07, 2006
My husband is hot. Steamy. McDreamy with much shorter hair — and I’m not just saying this because he’s my husband. I’m saying it because he recently started reading my blog. Oh, and it’s true. Even some slightly older women in my mother’s church congregation have apparently described him as beautiful; and we all know that with age comes wisdom, so it must be true.
He has that wonderfully muscular build that every man wants and every woman wants more (no, no, not the breastless she-man thing — slide a little further into the gutter . . . there . . . woman wants . . . right there . . . woman wants more . . . there! Got it?). In the event that a smidgen of flab should dare to make an appearance, about five sit ups and two pushups will chase it away and keep it away for the next six months. Now, don’t misunderstand, he doesn’t look like a steroid addict or a bodybuilder (is there a difference?), for which I am grateful. To me, bodybuilders with their humongous thighs look like pollen laden, fuzz-free bumblebees. He is just . . . perfection.
This of course puts a lot of pressure on me. I am four years older and have given birth to three of our four children, plus I do not have a genetic predisposition towards hotness. This was especially difficult for me after our second child was born and I weighed more than I had ever weighed in my life, and my body was much flabbier than I thought it could ever be. Here I was living in sweat pants, giving Santa a run for his money in the bowl full of jello contest, while Husband was still physically perfect and going to work everyday where other women wore nice clothes, and some even looked good in them.
But then I discovered his secret. One day at work, while eating a Three Musketeers Bar, his physical perfection came crashing down and he had to share the whole sordid truth with me. You see, he is not perfect. One of his front teeth is fake. Well, partially fake. It turns out he took a chair to the face as a youngster and broke off part of the tooth at a very nice, approximately 45 degree, angle. The dentist did quite the repair job, so I was clueless when I married him — until the day the candy bar broke off the patch job.
Now you’d think, being flabby and disheveled as I was, I would relish the idea of having a partner in imperfection — you know, misery loves company and all. But no, I sent him post haste to my dentist who specializes in cosmetic dentistry, and got the whole matter resolved. Funny, he was my dentist first, but I’ve never had any cosmetic procedures. Oh well.
Fast forward several years to just a few months ago, and the whole scenario repeats. Well, almost. I think the culprit was an apple this time. And I already knew the secret this time. And, this time, the dentist couldn’t get him in for about a week, so he had to go to work like that, go to church like that, and even go teach his beloved martial arts classes like that. The horror.
This time, with all the time I had to spend with the broken tooth, I began to see it in a new light, and I realized we had the opportunity for a career and lifesytle change. First there was CSI. Then there was CSI:Miami. Next came CSI: New York. With my husband’s good looks and broken tooth, I was just sure we could successfully pitch a new spinoff: CSI:Kentucky (my apologies to the many Kentuckians I have just offended — I know many of you have most of your teeth . . . .wait . . . I mean most of you have many of your teeth . . . no . . . wait. . . . I mean all of you have most of your teeth . . . no, no, no . . . most of you have all of your teeth . . . and CSI: Appalachia just didn’t have the same ring to it).
First I pitched the idea to my husband: he would be the main character — Cletus or Wilbur or something like that. We could hang out in my hometown of Cooterville, where about 90% of the population are transplants from Kentucky, so that he could pick up the accent and learn how to wear untucked flannel. His previous swat team experience means he already knows how to look good handling a gun. And the broken front tooth, well, that of course is the perfect place to put the Marlboro. Wardrobe could take care of providing jeans with the Skoal ring. The only real hard part, other than his abs, would be teaching him how to emote.
I think that is what killed my pitch before I could even get it to the network.
When Husband finally got to the dentist to get the tooth fixed, he told the good Dr. N about my idea for CSI: Kentucky. The good Dr., who has been my dentist since I was about 11, reportedly said I was mean. Me?????
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.