I’ve married a feathered man—and I’m not talking about feathered as in trivial or unimportant, I mean the actual plumage kind of feathers.
Or so he’s convinced.
Some of you might take part in a nightly mirror-inspection ritual… you know, where you stare at your face in the bathroom mirror, tilting it this way and that, looking for new pimples or growths, discolorations, or wrinkles. I actually do this to myself in the in the morning before taking my shower. My husband’s more into scrutinizing himself at night, right before he crawls into bed.
So, I guess he was checking his face last night to make sure he was still the same guy he was that morning when he found an unusual discovery, which he promptly brought to me. So, he approached me where I’m sitting at the computer, typing away in my little fiction world, and held up his hand to show me what he had trapped between his thumb and index finger.
It looked like a splinter to me.
Fat lot I knew.
“It’s a feather,” he claimed, sounding amazed by the idea.
I blinked, clearly clueless. “A feather?”
He nodded, looking very sure of himself. “I pulled it out of my chin.”
It was exceptionally hard for me not to drop to the floor and roll around with a belly laugh here. But come on. A thirty-two year old, usually sane man is utterly certain he’s grown a feather out the side of his chin? I don’t think so. I blinked a couple more times like there was really something caught in my eye as he proceeded to prove his point, showing me the hollow unified base and numerous little strands sprouting out the top.
“That’s a split end,” I explained. The hairs on his goatee were growing split ends.
But my words of wisdom were obviously the wrong answer. I gained a dirty scowl for my response. “It’s not a split end,” he muttered. “It’s a feather.”
Oh, for the love of God, I wanted to throw up my hands and cry. When did my husband lose his mind? He seemed perfectly fine five minutes before.
But, hey, I decided to roll with it. “Sure,” I agreed dryly. “You’re growing feathers and molting.”
Now he looked at me as if I was the insane party. “I’m not molting,” he said. “I pulled it out.”
Oh, gee, sorry. My mistake.
I just nodded and smiled, though. But what else was there for me to do at this point? Check him into the nearest insane asylum? Deciding I’d be utterly bored if I actually shipped him off, I patted his shoulder and kissed his feathered cheek.
“Yes, dear,” I said. “You must be right. It's a feather.”
Hey, he might be a fruit loop, but he’s my entertaining fruit loop.
So, there was my evening last night. I discovered I was actually married to a weirdo. And here I thought the stories I made up were unusual. But fact can definitely be stranger than fiction.
Yep, I thought I’d tell you that story since my casino adventure wasn’t worth writing home about. We lost our hats… not literally. But we certainly didn’t come home with anything extra. At one point, I put a twenty-dollar bill into a slot machine and instantly won sixty bucks. But then I was so excited about such an easy score, I kept playing and ended up losing the entire eighty. Whoops. Guess gambling isn’t quite the life for me.
It was actually an okay experience, though. I thought the place smelled like a movie theatre. My husband (yeah, the weird guy) said it smelled like a bowling alley. I figured it must be a mixture of the type of carpet and the hoards of people that put off that distinct aroma. It was nice and warm inside the huge place, though, and there were cushioned swiveling seats in front of every single machine and at every black jack table. The mixed drinks were a bit pricy and too watered down, but the circular bar in the center of the room was beautiful with these colored lights shooting up toward the ceiling that changed their hue every few minutes . Amazing.
It was loud, sounded like an over-done video arcade, but I must say the valet parking was well worth the entire trip. Mmmm! Simply divine. My husband kept worrying the valet drivers would pull a Ferris Bueller on our car and take it for a little joy ride while we were inside. But the other couple riding with us convinced him no one was going to be too concerned about absconding with our bland ol’ Honda when there was a shiny, new Hummer waiting in line right behind us. And I did like the uniformed gentleman opening my car door for me and saying, “Have a nice evening.” I might have to go back just to feel like royalty again and drive through the complimentary valet line!!