(If you don’t know what Loubies/Louboutins are, scroll down to the end for a pic.)
We are officially at Tugboat Man Minus Two.
In other words, two more shopping days ’til I drive to the airport and pick up a man.
That’s funny, but it’s true.
I go from SASSY single girl to a coupled MARRIED woman at the whim of a flying machine.
Well, after a good amount of time ‘scaping and scraping and all that jazz.
Got a totes adorbs dress at the Banana Republic @Carlsbad Outlet today.
I’ll pair it with skinny jeans or black tights.
And those LOUBOUTINS I’m about to receive as soon as hub comes home and catches up on his lost sleep.
Sleep loss is a real health hazard of the professional mariner.
But enough about him.
Here’s why I deserve those scandalous, over-the-top, uber extravagant and gorgeous shoes.
Settle in, this is a good story, albeit a tad convoluted, but not if you follow my way of thinking about things. If you’re like me, you’ll soon nod your head in agreement.
Remember a few weeks ago I shared with you that hub got a new surfboard? Do you also recall how i was the ultra supportive wife who encouraged him to buy it (and that I figured it behooved me to be “all in” so that I could expect the same reaction when I suggested a trip to Chanel for that iconic pearl necklace?)
OK. That’s the first part.
What you don’t know is that after my 50+ year-old tugboat man acquired his new toy, there was a slight swell (that’s surfer talk), a bump in the surf — and he became OBSESSED with surfing. Surfing in the morning, surfing in the afternoon, surfing until the sun went down. Normally, I’m pretty cool with that — he loves to surf, he’s gone a lot — when he’s home, he deserves to follow his bliss, right?
Now it’s time for you to understand that I’m the type of person who thinks if I don’t hear from you, you’re dead.
A to Z, black and white, dead or alive. No gray area.
was am that way with my son, too. If he does’t call or text or email, I get so worried that I believe the WORST POSSIBLE THING HAS HAPPENED.
At any given time, I’m THAT close to calling the police, hospitals, FBI, State Department, and boarding a plane to wherever.
With my son, it’s not as if there isn’t some history…for example, one year he rode his bicycle alone from Carlsbad to Utah and had a pretty bad accident in Moab; more recently there was his life threatening illness and life-saving surgery — oh and let’s not forget that time he was riding his bicycle home from school at Johns Hopkins (where he received one of his two Masters) and a carjacking took place RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM and the car RAN HIM DOWN and mangled his bike. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt at all. LUCKILY.
AND that one occasion DIL and I were together while Angel Boy was hiking in some godforsaken remote location. I’ll never forget and neither will she…we were eating fish tacos at Rubios prior to her flight back home (she travels more than anyone I know) and we were waiting for a CALL from Angel Boy to let us know he was off the mountain. No call; she power called him until her fingers were sore, but it went straight to voicemail. Finally, she called one of the guys he was hiking with and we learned that the rest of the group had met up at the arranged time, but not our Angel Boy. In fact, the rest of the group was becoming worried and had contacted the rangers, and there was talk about forming a search party. Can you imagine how worried we were? We’re in the car, on the way to the airport, very upset as you can imagine, when he finally called. As thankful as we both were that he was OK and now I can’t really remember the reason for his delay, we were SO MAD AT HIM. And now it’s kinda ruined Rubios for us, because it brings us right back to that place of panic.
Now’s the time you should be nodding your head in agreement that there’s some justifiable basis for the way I am. RIGHT?
Back to my tugboat man. His job is a very dangerous one, no matter that he’s the captain and is inside the wheelhouse mostly driving the boat; it’s inherently rife with danger. At any moment, I could receive a call from the company with some bad news. AT ANY TIME. So much to worry about.
And surfing is dangerous too, right? My son’s childhood friend disappeared while surfing in Hawaii, and there are always horrible surfing accidents on the news that further support my crazy. In fact, a few years ago, through no fault of his own, hub was involved in a freak accident out in the water where he was stabbed in the lower calf by the tip of someone’s board – he drove himself home — I took one look at the injury, which was open all the way to the bone (MAJOR GROSS), and we made a trip to the ER where they sutured it.
End of story?
Nope, just the beginning. Suturing was a bad idea. The wound became horribly infected because of FILTHY OCEAN WATER; he had a fever of 105 degrees, contracted an antibiotic resistant staph infection, was in incredible pain, but LUCKILY recovered with no limbs lost — just a small divot in his calf and an ugly scar.
As you can see, I’m not ALL that crazy. Sorta cray, but not ALL the way cray.
OK, back to the present (literally). Hub’s been taking Spanish lessons when he’s home, I think mostly so that we can go to Costa Rica (to surf, duh).
Anyway, here’s where it gets hinky.
He loaded his new surfboard in the back of his truck, and said he’d MAYBE go surfing after the class was over.
Class was over at 6:00 p.m. No phone call. 6:15. No call. 6:30. No call. I started power calling his cell. No answer. 7:00 p.m.-7:30 p.m.
He NEVER doesn’t call.My almost-always-perfect hub UNDERSTANDS the importance of a two-second courtesy call or text.
On this particular day, one of the hottest in history, a call would have been especially nice if he had asked if I wanted to meet him at the beach to cool off and take pics or video of the big surf.
7:45 p.m. No call.
One by one the ingredients I had prepped for dinner were put away.
What ifs were peppering my brain.
What if he got hit with a board again? What if he cut himself on glass?
WHAT IF HE’S AN INCONSIDERATE JERK?
He rolled in a few minutes before 8:00 p.m., happy and hungry.
Me, not so much.
I proceeded to explain to him the thousands and thousands of ways he failed me as a loving husband by selfishly not caring enough to make that phone call. It’s worse ‘cos he KNOWS how crazy I get. He said he was sorry, that he thought I understood he was planning to surf…blah, blah, blah.
I tossed a couple lettuce leaves in his direction, telling him to enjoy his dinner, while I flounced off to not speak to him for the rest of his life.
The next morning I went to the gym while he went surfing AGAIN.
When I got home and pulled into the garage, there was a handwritten huge banner staring at me; “I’m very, very, very SORRY, how can I make it up to you?”
Louboutins, my friends.
And don’t EVER do that again. ‘Cos I’m crazy,
And when I’m cray, YOU pay.