I found a great challenge online called the Half Drunk Challenge and thought it would be a great way to let go with my writing. I’ll admit I started this stone-cold sober at my clearest time, 5 a.m., but went back. So here goes.
I came home all dressed up after taking Brevitt to The Nutcracker last weekend. “Hummada hummada, you look beautiful,” Wade said admiringly, and we stared lustfully into each other’s eyes. When I stare into Wade’s beautiful green eyes, I’m transported home to my favorite climbing tree from when I was a little girl. I feel safe and secure and happy. But this time his eyes began to smolder and spark, and the signals we were sending each other to race upstairs and tear each other’s clothes off got tangled up with the noise of our three boys playing a game of hit-and-tackle in the living room. Once again, our lustful intentions fizzled into thin air.
“If I can’t have you, then I must get out of here,” Wade muttered breathlessly. After a day with his rambunctious little ones, he needed to let off some steam, so off he went into the freezing dark night to hike up the nearest mountain. “What about the mountain lions?” I asked as he walked off into the pitch-black night. “Don’t worry, my love, I’ll fight them all off with my Swiss Army knife,” he laughed.
An hour went by, and the boys got worried. Brevitt called Wade, and as he held the phone to his ear, I watched his face turn white. Apparently Wade had answered faking the sounds of being dragged into the sagebrush by a pride of mountain lions. “Help, help me, they got me!” he cried. Funny he was not.
My Husband the Alien
The truth is that Wade is not real. He is actually an alien sent down from outer space. Not an evil alien sent to examine my organs, but an inquisitive, mindful alien disguised in a perfectly alluring, ruggedly handsome physique.
When we were first married, I would occasionally wake up to find Wade raising his arms into the air in his sleep, performing a strange motion with his hands. There it is, I thought: confirmation that he’s not human. I’ll bet anything he was communicating with his mother ship as he supposedly slept, telling them how truly whacked the people here on Earth are.
When I called him on it, he laughed it off, explaining that he had a nerve thing in his arms from building.
I’m not convinced. Nobody but an alien would laugh and imitate an evil, flame-spitting dragon when roared at in the kitchen just because his big, hulking body got in the way of somebody vaguely resembling his wife before she could reach the coffee.
The truth is, I’m very happy being married to my alien, who indulges my spontaneous whims and keeps me on my toes. Even though he laughs hardest at the things I find most repulsive, and I think he overplays the male impersonation by blowing his nose too loudly in the morning and performing the mating dance more often than the average Joe, I love him, and I refuse to ever give him back.
