Mistakenly conceived in the back seat of a college Forensics team bus, raised by a gin-soaked olive loving mother to be an artist, pushed by an All-American sports loving father to be an athlete, I had no real choice but to be a balanced triumvirate of dorky, artsy, and sporty; and I value that same balance in my partner.
I want to lie in my living room on a barely functioning hand-built mid century modern sofa with my partner, sprawled out, arms flailing as though attempting to imprint an imaginary ganesha snow angel, binge-watching Battlestar Galactica while straddling a five pound bag of Starbursts impulsively purchased on sale at Menards. I am hushed occasionally as I gasp out in a voice reminiscent of Marlon Brando in 'Apocalypse Now', "I can't possibly eat another Stahhhburst," while simultaneously being drown out by the crinkling wrapper of just that. I roll my head to the side, sneaking a glance at the clock. Realizing we're gonna be late for mojokickball, I engulf my partner in my lanky arms and legs, roll us off the couch, pin her to the carpet, place my palm on her chest (as I once did to my poor siblings) and call out "Kali Mahhhh" ala Temple of Doom, inciting a scrunched up dichotomous face of amusement and competitive spirit, causing her to kick and squirm free laughing. We both let out the groan of interrupted gluttony, slide on our shorts and tshirts, lace up our tennis shoes, and head to mojo. (or broomball, tennis, etc.) If we're feeling particularly death-wishy, we take my motorcycle. Following a sweaty afternoon of base running, friendly hugs, and the requisite post-game tacos, we head back to the house to soak up some sun in the garden, playing one of my favorite seasonal games, "Taste That Weed," to see if the leafy greens in my clenched fist are actually basil or need to be yanked like Big Bang Theory. (That's right, faux-nerds; I just shit on your TV show!) Tarred and feathered agrarian style in dust-covered sweat and sunburn, we retreat indoors for some alone time with our various unfinished art projects. You wink at me as you head to the garage with your welding mask, and I volley your wink with a whistle that would make a stereotypical construction worker proud, adjusting my glasses to focus on the amaranth seeds that compose Mr T's face. (I enter crop art in the State Fair. Last year's piece was Star Trek themed -- Shatner in seeds!) After a few hours of my partner spewing toxic fumes (from welding!) and my spraying ant-inviting seeds all over the dining room carpet, we shower and get dressed up to see a show. (I have Guthrie season tickets, as I'm a sucker and can't say 'no' to the nice lady on the phone apparently. (Crimes of the Heart, anyone?)) After throwing back a few strong drinks, consuming a rousing Shakespearean tale of mistaken identity, my partner being yelled at by the usher for putting her feet up (again!? (be a lady!!)), enjoying a riverfront walk draped in my coat and shivering arms, and perhaps stopping in to catch the tail end of a friend's improv show, we head home. We pop the cork on a bottle of wine, construct a couch fort (if we bothered to dismantle the prior fort), get out the Scrabble or Agricola board, and play until someone wins or takes off their clothes. After a long night of vivid dreams in each others' arms, we wake up and do it all over again.