It’s Not All Mary Poppins

I’m not THAT Mary, after all…

“Who IS the one who drives the green Volvo?” My neighbour, my gay neighbour, is showing more interest than his curmudgeonly anti-socialness usually allows him.

(For the record: I really like him, and from time to time we get out for a laughter-filled evening of food and drink. But he’s not readily social, more inclined to sit out on his private back deck than the public front porch, and so it’s unusual for him to notice the comings and goings on the street, let alone my particular front door.)

“Is that one of YOURS?” he wants to know. “One of mine” as in a client, and yes, it would be. Why? He gazes at me, astonished I even have to ask.

“Be-caaaaaaause… he’s totally HOTT. You mean you haven’t noticed? How could you not notice that hotness coming into your house every day?”

I haven’t noticed. It’s a quirk of my character, one which has come with age. I’m quite, quite sure I couldn’t have managed it in my twenties, and probably not in my thirties. But I am in my forties. Hell, I am fast leaving my forties behind, and, no, I have not noticed the HOTTNESS of this gentleman because he’s a daycare dad. With very few exceptions, I don’t tend to notice the attractive qualities of the daycare dads. Daycare dads are… dads. They’re clients. They’re not, you know, men.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop snorting. It’s probably saved me no end of pointless lusting.

Only now it’s been pointed out to me, and next time I see him, I actually look, and… Oh, my lord. This man is GORGEOUS. I have two responses to this new-found awareness:

1. How could I not have noticed?
2. Thanks for NOTHING, gay neighbour.

It entertains me, though, to tell my hott-who-knew? client’s wife that my gay neighbour thinks her hubby is hot stuff. She just laughs.

“Oh, he used to be a model” (He used to be a MODEL? And I didn’t NOTICE? Okay, professional filters are one thing, but, good grief, I am now officially bordering on dead.) “He used to be a model, and gay guys often notice him.”

So I told you all that, which happened months and months ago, so I could tell you this:

So today Emily, while showing me the temporary tatoo on her tummy, tells me,

“Daddy has a tattoo, only his doesn’t go away. His will stay on forever and ever.”

Tattoo? Daddy has a tattoo. Must be from his early, wilder days. Hardly fits in with his mild-mannered professional cubicle-dweller manifestation. Tattoo… Not one I’ve ever seen…

You will forgive me, I am sure, if I confess that I spent a libidinous minute or two imagining just where on all that luscious manliness the tattoo might be hidden.

But just for a minute.


October 14, 2010 Posted by | Mischief, parents | , , | 4 Comments