Story Behind the Picture: Cooper Collage

I have a confession to make: there is another woman in my husband's life. How can I sit here and calmly type such a thing, you ask? Because I've known about it for two years and I realize there is really nothing I can do. He's in love. With a car.

Two and a half years ago, Marty decided he just had to have a blue Mini Cooper. The reason? His arduous and lengthy commute to work: the Mini is quite efficient and uses very little gas.

Me: "Of course it uses very little gas: it's a toy car!"
Marty: "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

So off we went to the Mini dealership for a test drive. Oh, did I mention that I was 8.99 months pregnant at the time of the aforementioned test drive?

Me: staring at impossibly tiny front seat "I'm not going to fit in that car."
Marty: "Of course you will! Just try it!"
Me: "Greenpeace just put me on their latest watch list - I look like Shamu in a dress - no way!"

I made it inside and was able to clear the dashboard with several relaxing nanometers to spare.

Marty: "Hey, if you fit in here now, then image how comfortable you'll be when you're not hu-"
Me: "Not what? Not HUGE?"
Marty: sensing the danger "I love you, honey!"

We bought the Mini. And every Saturday since, my husband disappears to the garage to undertake the same ritual: detailing the car.

Me: "Where have you been for the past three hours?"

Marty: "I noticed a speck of pollen and a fingerprint on the hood of the Mini, so I decided to wash, wax, and detail the entire car inside and out."

I only wish he was as attentive to the other aspects of domestic life as he is to his beloved Mini Cooper.

Marty: "Honey, where are my socks?
Me: "On your feet, darling."
Marty: "Oh - thanks!"

I don't mind sharing him with "the other woman," as I now call her. She's quite fun to drive and you can squeeze into impossibly tiny on-street parking spaces in Philly (Ha! Take that, overcrowded, overpriced parking garages!). She's also quite boxy and cute, perfect for the square format of the vintage viewfinder, so I immortalized her for my husband and boys to enjoy, long after Marty is too old to pull off the driving-a-tiny-blue-car look, and the boys are too tall to fit in the back seat without complaining that their knees are bumping into their chins. Until then, if anyone is looking for Marty on a Saturday, he's probably in the garage with the other woman.

Story Behind the Picture: "A Story of Lemons"

Date: Mother's Day, 2009

Location: Kitchen

Objective: To Determine Whether or Not My Husband Remembers His Mother's Day Plan to Cook Dinner for Me

Me: *surreptitiously glancing at clock* "Have you decided what you are making me for dinner? It's already four p.m."

Marty: *looks up from newspaper with panicked expression on face* "Er, you were serious about that?"

Me: "Yes dear. You asked what you and the boys could do for me today. I asked you to cook dinner."

Marty: "Or we could go out to eat!"

Me: "No."

Marty: "It would be fun!"

Me: "No. Dining out with a 2 and 5 year-old is not fun. Urban warfare, yes. Fun, No."

Marty: *grabbing wallet and keys* "I'll be back with ingredients!"

Me: "Great! Could you pick up some fresh fruit while you're out?"

Lemons. My husband comes back with lemons. Not one lemon. Not two lemons. No, a full-on 25-pound economy-size bag of lemons. No normal fruit such as, say, apples or other things that children and other humans enjoy eating.

Me: *staring at 50 pounds of lemons sitting on kitchen counter* "Seriously? Lemons?"

Marty: "They were on sale."

We are still drinking lemonade at our house. Lemonade that Marty makes fresh daily and will probably continue to do so for the next ten years, given the amount of lemons in our house. I couldn't resist taking a few pieces of the beautiful yellow fruit and grabbing my camera: I'm thinking of putting this over our fireplace so that even when we are old and senile, he will never forget the day he went to the grocery store unchaperoned and bought 100 pounds of inedible, sour fruit. Lemonade, anyone?