As a professional writer of all things snark, satire, and humor, I’m the first to admit that I’m not an easy person to live with. My children and my husband, Ron, frequently have starring roles in our family stories and often become unwitting inspirations for various topics. Seriously, I’m forever thankful for their graciousness in allowing me to put our junk in print to share with the world.
BUT, I think there’s a slight misconception, because all too often I hear the words, “Poor Ron,” regarding the stories I tell. So please allow me to clear the air.
My husband is not completely innocent in this. I need to go back about 20 years ago, when he called into a radio talk show. He used his real name. And mine. He was in the car on his way home from work, and I was at home loading the dishwasher, completely unaware, listening to the radio talk show, when I heard them say, “Coming up next, ‘Ron from New Carlisle’ thinks his wife, Shari, is a nymphomaniac.”
Ron? Shari? New Carlisle? Nymphomaniac??? And if I was hearing this, who else happened to be listening to it? Our friends? Our family?! Our PASTOR?!?!
I fought off immediate diarrhea while I waited to see how this conversation would go when they came back from break. What’s Ron from New Carlisle going to say? “You guys, my wife loves sex. I mean, I get to have sex every day, but also night terrors. I love her, but call 911?”
And what words of wisdom could they possibly have to offer to Ron from New Carlisle, which, incidentally, was exactly what I planned on having his tombstone read after I was done with him: Here lies Ron from New Carlisle…husband of Shari, a nympho.
But for all the stressful humiliation I was feeling, the conversation itself was pleasantly anti-climactic. He told them I love sex. They told him to consider himself lucky and stop complaining.
And that’s when our family crap first began seeping out into the general public. Long before I had a blog, much less a career, in this industry.
Much to his surprise, I was waiting for him at the door when he got home. His attempt at consoling me was to explain that the only reason he did it was because they would send out a free sex toy to anyone who called in. So lame. And by ‘lame’ I mean it worked and I was consoled.
Oh, Ron from New Carlisle. You card.
Fast forward to the following week when we received our much anticipated thanks-for-calling-and-publicly-humiliating-yourself-gift in the mail. It was called the ‘Love Glove’ and it was lavender, covered in little nubs, and looked like a giant rubber oven mitt. Besides the least looking erotic thing I’ve ever seen, what the crap is this? Is it for me? Him? Is it a sex toy or does it remove unsightly dandruff?
I wasn’t even tempted to try to figure it out, because I don’t hate myself, so I threw the thing into the bottom of a drawer, left untouched, and never to be seen again.
That is, until the evening we were hosting a Bible study in our home and the class got interrupted when our son chased the other kids down the stairs and into the living room… wearing a giant purple, nubby, love glove on his hand…amidst horrified screams.
Oh. And the kids were screaming, too.
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