I know today’s post was supposed to be about raising children so they aren’t serial killers, but something happened last night that I feel like has to be addressed. My husband and I were deep into the most recent episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills(more on that later) and a commercial came on for the new season of the Rachel Zoe Project. Beau had just got up to grab something from the kitchen so he was walking back to the couch when it came on. After watching the commercial for about 10 seconds, I looked over at him and he was doing a weird excitable shimmy type dance. He looked at me and sheepishly asked, “What? Rachel Zoe is coming back.”
That’s who I’ve turned my husband into. A man who dances at the thought of Rachel Zoe.
He was not always like this. I take full blame for his change in behavior. Let’s rewind 4 years so you know what I started with and the Frankenstein I’ve created.
On our first date, I went to Beau’s house. ( I know, it’s how every episode of Dateline starts.) When I walked in I was stunned at how empty it was.
“Have you just moved in?” I asked.
“No, I’ve owned the house for 6 years. Why?” he replied.
“Um, no reason…”
I looked around. The man owned 4 pieces of furniture. FOR THE ENTIRE HOUSE. There was a 30-year-old loveseat in the den, the typical bachelor huge-sized flat screen television on the wall in front of it, a kitchen table, and a full size mattress on the floor in his bedroom. That’s it. What he lacked in furniture, he apparently tried to make up for it in picking paint colors. His bedroom was bright yellow, but where the mattress on the floor in the corner had rubbed up against the paint, there was red showing through. ” I painted over it one night after the bar. I didn’t think to use any primer.” he said sheepishly. The den with the lone loveseat was painted the blue color of Superman’s cape, the empty living room was painted in what I can only affectionately call Calamine Lotion, and the kitchen was neon green. Neon green with dark brown cabinets. Oh, and I forgot to add the best part. The entire house wall-to-wall was still the blue shag carpeting the previous elderly couple had installed. The man didn’t have a stylish bone in his body.
After dating a few weeks, I started on any girl’s favorite rite of passage in a new relationship.
I started dissecting his closet.
The man was 29, but his closet was that of a 74 year old retiree living in Del Boca Vista. Nothing but over sized Tommy Bahama button-down shirts and XL sized Ralph Lauren polo’s.
- Beau’s spirit animal.
“Are you in some kind of hobo costume contest I’m not aware of?” I asked politely.
“What? No. Why?” he replied a little too defensively
“Because all of these clothes are 3 sizes too large and about 50 years too old for you.”
“Is they were on sale a good enough answer?’
Here is where I made my first mistake, internet. I took him to Nordstrom Rack. He wandered around that place like a detainee experiencing fresh air for the first time. $500 worth of Faconnable later and my little monster was well on his way.
Months passed and we moved into together. He bought us a king sized bed with a proper frame. We re-painted every room in a neutral. (I acquiesced and let him keep the living room Calamine Lotion.) I toned it down with furnishings so it only looked vaguely peach colored. We ripped up all the carpet and replaced it with wood. I painted the cabinets white and he sprung for granite. The house was transformed top to bottom.The one place left was the garage. One day I started digging around in it. Taking up one whole wall were about 6 giant Rubbermaid bins.
“What are those honey?” I asked sweetly, silently sending a prayer that they were disposable since that space would be perfect to house my extensive holiday decoration stash.
“Oh, those? That’s my baseball card collection.”
If this were a book, this is what you would call “foreshadowing.” Because after that exchange I realized quickly I was living with the Rain Man of sports. Not only was ESPN basically the only channel on in the house those first few months, but I started realizing Beau could answer anything related to sports. He could tell you every player on the starting line-up of the 1983 NY Giants or who was the manager of the 1976 Padres. He could recite every major Tiger Woods has ever won. This was the summer of the World Cup and Beau casually decided to become a soccer fan. I started waking up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. I would pad downstairs and catch him yelling “GOAL!” enthusiastically at the TV while our geriatric dalmatian tried to sleep through the excitement.
Fall came, and every Sunday he started seeming to be really upset with me. After a few weekends of this I had finally had enough.
“Are you sick of me already? Did we move into together too soon?” I yelled at him
“What are you talking about? he asked incredulously
“Every Sunday you are in such a bad mood. Am I annoying you more now that we live together?”
“Oh, no baby. I just think I started the wrong guy on my Fantasy team.”
I started going crazy. Between two Fantasy football teams and the MLB playoffs, sports was taking over my life. While I played a lot of sports in my youth, watching them on TV was a kin to paint drying for me. I explained to Beau that when you move into together you have to start compromising on things. One of these was what we watched on TV. During the commercial breaks of the baseball games I started switching it over to Bravo.
“What is this crap?”
“It’s the Real Housewives of Orange County.”
“What are they fighting about?”
“Shh..honey, just watch. It’s only for a couple of minutes.”
You know how when watching the movie Titanic and the part comes on with the two iceberg lookout men and they are just kind of chilling while the boat heads right for the iceberg? You yell at the TV “Iceberg! ” about 10 seconds before those idiot’s catch on and you wonder if only had they been paying attention earlier, maybe disaster could have been averted?
It all started off so innocently.
Watching Housewives on commercial breaks turned into him letting me watch it through the whole inning. He started asking questions about the ladies and their backgrounds. When commercials for the Real Housewives of Atlanta came on, he started laughing. “I assume your going to make me watch this crap too?” he asked one day. “No we don’t have to, they can be pretty annoying.” I replied. “Well, I wouldn’t mind…” he trailed off.
This is the point where you spot the iceberg but it’s too late to steer the ship around it.
A year went by and I realized he was now watching every franchise of the Housewives with me. I would come home late and he would greet me at the door excitedly. “Don’t worry. I DVR’d it!” We got engaged and I guess in the spirit of marriage equality, or just the comfort that comes with the decision to spend the rest of your life with someone, he started leaving Bravo on basically all week. Sundays during the Football season were still off-limits but most nights after work he was getting sucked into the Bravo universe. It quickly progressed past the Housewives.
Flipping Out, Million Dollar Decorators, Most Eligible Dallas, The Millionaire Matchmaker, Bethenny Ever After, Gallery Girls, Million Dollar Listing, Pregnant in Heels, Tabatha Takes Over, It’s a Brad Brad World, and the aforementioned Rachel Zoe Project.
You guys. He’s seen every single episode of these shows. My Frankenstein loves them all.
I know usually when you think of a Metrosexual you think of a man with highly religious grooming habits. Beau couldn’t be further from that. I shave his head for him once every few weeks. He refuses to go to a salon. Getting him to let me tweeze his eyebrows is an art in negotiation with the number of plucks being set before I can even pick up the tweezers. He goes to the gym only a few days a week and if I didn’t buy him facial care products he would wash his entire body with shampoo. So yes, even though his clothes fit him and are age appropriate now, you would never know looking at him that he has these hidden viewing habits.
Well at least one person understands.
Over Christmas, on the flight back from Minneapolis, I could tell Beau was bored. He had finished his book and was fidgeting. “Would you like to watch Sex and the City with me on my iphone?” I asked. He scoffed at me and closed his eyes. As I made my way through Season Two, I could sense another set of eyes peaking over my shoulder. I handed him an ear bud. He tossed it back in my lap. “I’m not watching that horse face.” he said indignantly. “Babe, we’ve got two hours left on this flight. Shut up and watch.” I responded tersely. He took it reluctantly and put it in his ear. “This show is so stupid…” An hour passed and in the middle of watching Steve meet Miranda for the first time, the stewardess interrupted.
“Can I get you something to drink? Oh look how cute you both are sharing ear buds! What are you watching? I looked at Beau. I figured honesty was the best policy since we’d never see her again.
“Sex in the City.” I responded ashamedly.
“Oh really?” she replied, “My husband loves that show.”