Man Hands

I was lying stretched out on the couch, my back slightly propped up on the arm.  He jumped up on me and wiggled into place so he could lay his head on my chest and I could bury my face in his hair.  Every now and then, he'd take a break from watching TV and turn his big eyes up to my face to see if I'd fallen asleep and I'd kiss his forehead.  Looking down at the way his feet were level with mine only because my legs were bent, I thought about how good it felt to still be so big to him, the way his eyes light up when he sees me waiting for him after school, the way his body still fits perfectly on mine at the end of the day when he needs to cuddle. 
 
It doesn't matter that he's almost six and that he gets bigger with each day.  To him, I am a giant.  There's no one bigger than me.

No sooner did I smile with contentment at the thought than he reached up to scratch some annoyance behind his ear and I saw his hand that always feels so tiny in mine.  I held my own hand up as he gave up his scratching and he robotically placed his against mine and I saw the differences. 
 
His hands aren't slender like mine.  They're chunky and clumsy and they hint at manhood. 
 
It was the foreshadowing that threatened to contradict the contentment.

It made me close my eyes and hope that when his feet are at the same level as mine, even when my legs are straight, and I have to tilt my head up a bit to see his big eyes, that he still looks at me like I'm the biggest person in the world.

In Which Jesus Tries to Save the Bratz

In December, Sarajane went to Frankenmuth (where I was once documented kissing a camel) and purchased a Jesus action figure for me as a gift.
 

 
I couldn't decide if I he was worth more to me inside or outside the box and said so on my Facebook status.
 
According to my ex-sister-in-law/current friend Dawn: "You know you want to pose the arms!!!! It would be more fun out of the box!!!!"
 
According to my ex-Michigan/current Texas friend Joshua: "Dude...it couldn't possibly be worth more than the fun you would have if you made him hang out with all the skank-ho barbies and cast off their diseases."
 
They were both right, of course.
 

 
Up until my daughter turned 7, I didn't even know what a skank-ho barbie was.  Then she got a shit ton of them at her birthday party from her friends.  They're called Bratz:
 

 
Were Jesus to encounter the Bratz today, he'd likely be appalled.  Not at first, though, because if the Jesus action figure is to scale, he'd have other things on his mind.
 

 
But Jesus doesn't judge.  It says so right on the box:
 
"I did not come to judge the world but to save it." John 12:47
 
Jesus is diplomatic and would probably try to crack a few lame chicken jokes to put the Bratz at ease.  They'd wonder what the funny little man was up to and why he didn't want to make out with them.  They'd reach deep into their bag of resistance melting tricks and pull out the one thing no heterosexual male can turn away from.
 

 
Jesus would find a way to rise above and try to teach the Bratz all about the influence they have on young girls.  He'd tell them that their power lie within and the way they presented themselves was cheapening their inner strength.  He would explain that it wasn't too late!  He could save them!
 

 
No sooner would the Bratz begin to wonder if His words were true would Ken show up with his chiseled abs and white sparkly teeth.  The Bratz would become a giggly mess and ride off into the sunset with him in the barbie-mobile, probably to have a threesome, leaving Jesus to kick dirt.
 

 
Jesus-0, Toy Industry- 1,018,982

My Bromance with the Asian

Delilah wrote a blog damning the institution of the bromance, I'm here to tell you a little about my own bromance (yes, I know I'm not exactly a "bro" but no one has coined a term to define the same thing for chicks).

Meet Sarajane:

I love her.

Last Friday, she sent me a text:
"'Shut your face, Asian!' That was my favorite part of the night."

I had coerced her into attending my family's New Year's Eve euchre tournament.  I'd like to tell you I invited her to a place where she barely knew anyone because I didn't want her, a typically social creature, to spend that evening, of all evenings, home alone as she planned.  But that was just my excuse.  The truth is, everything is just better when she's there. 

And I wanted her to meet my family.

She liked us because we're a loud crowd and it's a good thing because we didn't end up at the same table once.  That's okay.  She was there and, as such, I had the opportunity to shout, "Shut your face, Asian!" across a crowded room.

Isn't life beautiful?

We developed a certain rapport when we met a year ago upon my return to the G-A-P.  I don't know how the "you're stupids" and "I hate yous" started, but unlike other friendships or romances, we skipped over all of the tap dancing that accompanies getting to know each other and sparks flew in the form of insults.

I'm happy to report that we've been able to maintain that level of intensity for a whole year.  *beams*

It's likely prudent for me to tell you that the verbal abuse and hate mail we exchange are code.  Even the people around us know it.  "I hate you" really means "I love you" and "you're stupid" usually means "you're smart, funny, and awesome."  Except sometimes it actually does mean "you're stupid."  People can stand there and listen to her tell me that she hopes I hit a tree on the way home and know it means, "I'll be really bummed if you don't show up for work tomorrow."  And she will be.  Whether it's because that means that she loves me or doesn't want to have to work my shift is neither here nor there.

While it isn't a sexual thing, there's plenty of sexually charged innuendo.  We even have our own song.  It's called "Magic Position."  I'm going to put her in the magic position.  That is, if she doesn't put me in it first.

Sorry, for showing a picture of your butt on my blog, SJ.

Should other people feel threatened by our magic?  No, because it's not the same as my other relationships.  No one can replace the history, the present, the future that I have with Lori, no one else will celebrate me for being a pervy old lady who drools over her 24-year-old male teachers like Maranda, no one else will be catty and share in private sessions of judgement over other people like my sister, and no one else knows every nuance of every sentence I write to sense how I'm feeling like Abbey.  Also, know one knows every song lyric in the world like Abbey.  FYI.

In the meantime, I will keep batting my eyelashes every time Sarajane enters a room, even as I'm trying to trip her.  And I won't tell her that I've noticed that we've replaced 25% of our "I hate yous"  with genuine "I love yous" and that I like it.  Except I just did tell her, kind of.

8<>8
(That's our text message code for "scissor!")