I was sudsing my jacksons when she pulled the shower curtain back with the neck of a Corona.
How about "My Woman?" she queried. It sounded a little neo-anderthal to me but one thing I knew for sure: That was the last beer in the house.
The blogosphere is full of happy couples. Rachel has her Rupert. Insty has the Instawife and Instadaughter. Kim has the Mrs. Sayuncle has another Mrs. (Surely not the same) Breda, (Beowulfs friend?) has Mike. From Mike-istan. and Tam seem partner-free, though I have the suspicion that many who washed ashore in their kingdom have been cooked and eaten. I can't imagine that eco-niche staying empty too long. Snowflakes in Hell?
The Redhead and I run a happy household in a happy neighborhood. With, like...neighbors and all. We know the neighborhood and are known. We can walk to our businesses. Clockwise from the South we have White Trash, Doc, Billions, Yellow Cat People, God, Nat, A.C., A.C.'s wife. Genius Dan and the Gay Policemen. Debbie-lebbie (emmatree) is downstairs. I can walk into Taco Wacko, (Actually named: Los Guerros, after the plumbers that own it), a couple blocks over, stand at the counter without speaking and they will prepare my order perfectly. At Brady's Coffeeshop, I stroll in with paper under arm, pump my own coffee and make a handsign at Megan the countergirl. The handsign means: Cinnamon-raisin bagel, heavily toasted with cream cheese and double peach preserves. She gets it. If it's busy when I leave I just walk out and we settle up later.
Red and I communicate in our own language of nicknames, baby names, pet names, abbreviations, gestures, hand signs, clicks, eye rolls, pidgin-redneck, ebonics and Tarzan Spanish. It's not like we can't think up a name. Jar-jar and the Jerk, (lawyers) at the coffee shop. Pathetic Bill. Ten Jaguar. The Other Genius. Big Tipper. I can say "Do you want lunch at Bluh or bluh-bluh?" and she'll wrinkle her brow and then say: " Bluh. We ate at Bluh-Bluh last week and the quacamole was salty."
Full disclosure: We could be convicted of hate crimes three times a day for our ruthless parodying of people in modern life. The secret is, we speak our private language as impenatrable as Bushman.
Upin neyar. Ova Deah. Whey Ova Deah.
So, a name. I get to be Blackfork. She gets to be....
The Redhead. (using it now.)
Li-Li. (sounds like a captive Panda.)
Big K. Special K. The K. KK. Li-K.
My Woman. (please.)
The She. The Her. The Fabulous. (too gay)
SIGOT. (Significant Other, from Always-lovable Michael, Emma Tree. Too tactical.)
The One. (Obama already has it.)
The Chick. The Girl. The Girlfriend. The Fiance. Podner.
It's a struggling, name-that-partner Monday!