My Husband is a liar. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. What is the word for when someone honestly believes they are telling the truth but they don’t have all the facts? That is what he is: unintentionally devoid of facts. An U.D.O.F.’er.
Let me explain. My husband has, on more than one occasion, been moved to tell me, with total sincerity, that I am so beautiful I, “Don’t even need to wear makeup.” The problem? He has never said this while I was actually makeup-less.
In fairness, he hasn’t said it while I was wearing a lot of makeup, either. It’s not like I walk around looking like a pageant contestant. This leads me to believe he just thinks I have naturally dark, thick lashes, rosy cheeks and flawless, porcelain skin. Oh that that were true!
This is what I like to look like when I do light housework.
What’s worse; when I really am without makeup, he becomes concerned and says things like, “Are you coming down with something?” or, “Did you get enough sleep last night. You look tired.” I haven’t the heart (or stomach) to tell him that’s how I look naturally.
Brad can be a little clueless about these things. One time I was watching Top Chef when Brad entered the room. After a couple of minutes of scrutiny he said, “She’s kind of pretty.”
Me: “Who? Padma Lakshmi? The Supermodel? Yeah, she’s 'kind of' pretty.”
Brad: “She’s a Supermodel?”
He did the same thing on Project Runway a few months later. I firmly instructed him not to comment about other women’s looks again. I mean, that’s the standard of beauty I have to meet? Really? There isn’t anything between Heidi Klum and Quasimodo?
Brad: “She’s not bad looking.”
The truth is, I wish I looked like that. Well, maybe not Heidi Klum. I love my brunetteness too much. Plus I haven’t got any of what Victoria is (or is not) keeping Secret.
I have a love/hate relationship with this woman.
But I wish I were that girl. You know, the one who rolls out of bed, runs her fingers through her perfect, “dirty” hair before tying it into a chic, tussled knot, throws on a pair of eco-friendly espadrilles and a French peasant blouse and rides her charming, vintage bicycle to the Farmer’s Market before meeting a friend for a cafe’ ole’ and a baguette. I want to have an herb garden and fresh cut tulips in my super organized, casually elegant home every day. I was to enroll my children in summer art classes. I want to look good in hats. I want to “holiday” in Florence. I want everything I touch to be beautiful and pleasant and effortless. And then I wake up.
The thing is, that girl never rinses out soiled diapers. She never has to make dinner with only tortillas, frozen peas and raspberry preserves because she hasn't had time to go grocery shopping. She never gets split ends. She never has to plunge her kitchen sink because the disposal has stopped working… again.
This is not reality. Mine, anyway.
And Brad didn’t marry that girl, either. He married me, split-ends and all. It was a good decision. I am a lot more fun than that girl. And we made a fantastically cute, probably genius baby.
But I’d still like an herb garden.
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