Something Fishy

No matter whom I have dated, kissed, or married, no matter what city, accent, denomination, color, or continent, circumcised or uncircumcised, messy or neat, artist or business man , or somewhere in-between, I have come to conclude that all men are the same.

Simple creatures.

I was recently reminded of this when helping my out-of-town boyfriend move to a new apartment. Our conversations before my arrival went something like this.

Me: “So….handsome man…are you starting to pack yet?”

BF: “Oh yeah…even took a few loads to the new place.”

Me: Swooning -falling deeper, with visions of his 6’3 scruffy self- sporting three day beard growth, his dark locks tousled as he neatly packs boxes with his impressive lawayer-ish books- wearing no shirt while R.E.M. plays in the background.

BF: "Yeah, I have some bins around here someplace - and I’ll get some boxes this week, take a few more car loads…I don’t really have that much stuff ya know?…I can toss most of this post-divorce shit and start new…ya know what I mean sweetheart?

Me: (Wondering what constitutes as post-divorce shit.)……. “Soooooo, what stuff did you move already?

BF: “Mostly art, books, the stuff I really wanted to be careful about…breakables.”

Me: “What about that fish plaque thingy?”

BF: “Oh yeah. He’s there.”

I shudder.

Now, I understand this fish means the world to him. I inquired about it the first time I stayed at his apartment, fully expected him to say it's from his mother who took ceramics.

No - it was something like ...a village man in Guam wanted him to have this sacred fish as his final dying wish because MY boyfriend single-handily saved the entire area's river basin through eco-bio-efforts and the 4.7 million dollars he and his small team raised by selling their bone marrow to help save cancer ridden premature Siamese twins born without spines.

I suddenly felt dumber than a box of hair.

I did however, note its position above the main window about 3 centimeters from the ceiling above the blinds. I let the location part go as a guy thing.

(Another guy I dated, had some sort of wooden pig mask with horns screwed to a pole in his loft that eerily resembled my ex mother-in-law.)

Moving day arrives, and we pull up to his place. This is where he opens the door. I stand in awe at an apartment that looks exactly like it did when I was there last month – save for a bit of a mess hovering around the sofa.

Me: “Ok…..um…what are we going to use to move all this?”

This is when hot stuff hands me a box of lawn and leaf bags and gives me that darling brown-eyes thing..... (and this is where his mouth gets really cute.)

I melt inside.

How can I be mad at a guy who bought me my own Christmas stocking for his place, buys me custom made soaps and suffers through Starbucks even though he would rather exhume his own liver with a plastic fork - before drinking even one sip.

A guy who calls me from Australia in the middle of his “night” in a jet-lag infused stupor to simply ask how my day was?

A guy who perfected the art of styling pomade – all because I said I liked it in an email even before we met .

A guy who calculates how many days it takes to grow a five-o-clock shadow before I return to visit (and gets asked if he is growing a beard every third week at work while itching like crazy...) all because he knows it drives me crazy.

A guy who puts decorative girlie pillows on his bed every morning - because I bought them.

A guy and runs a mile through his building complex to surprise me with a Diet Coke because I was bummed that he was out.

A guy who still kisses me on elevators.....unexpectedly.

A guy who drives five hours to have dinner with me, so I only have to drive one…

Garbage bags and fish plaques aren’t so bad after all…