I’m a mommy blogger. Naturally, my main subject is my main man, Max Murphy.
But marriage is so intimately tied to motherhood – you know, if you manage to survive the turbulent toddler years without killing each other – that my husband often creeps up in my writing. Not unlike the way he crept up into my bootyliciousness some eight years ago at a club downtown.
In spite of inevitable marital disputes, I try to respectfully hold back on the husband bashing. But I reckon after two consecutive long weekends of fishing, golfing and drinking, followed by a night out with his friends that delivered his hairy ass home at 4:30am reeking of George Street sausage dogs and whores – he’s fair game.
See, some husbands must endure the wrath of the wife who nags, yells, throws things, and generally freaks her freak.
And some husbands are subject to the wife who gently types. La la la, I’m typing, I love to type, typing in my favourite.
He needn’t know that with every key softly pecked I’m stabbing someone with a rusty butter knife and a smile.
Not that he even reads this thing. He probably just scans it for the words “husband” and “Andrew.” Maybe he should also start scanning for “douchebag” and “tit head,” starting right now.
See, I found some photos on his camera. Photos of him and his fishing buddies spooning in a tent, lovingly feeding each other beans from a can, and getting jiggy under the light of the moon.
Just kidding.
It was actually much, much worse. Brace yourself. The photos were… NOT. OF. ME. Gasp!
I mean obviously he didn’t take any photos of me on his fishing trip. Because I was not there on the bloody fishing trip. I have bigger fish to fry, thank you very much.
My point is – he never takes pictures of me. Ever. Not pictures of me. Not pictures of myself and Max together. According to the camera roll on his iPhone, we don’t exist. Not even the George Street pirate hookers get to see how cute we are.
I mean, God forbid he acknowledge my classic ginger beauty with an art form that does not include slapping my ass and yelling “giddy-up!”
Maybe if I had three months to live, he might consider immortalizing my image with a camera. I mean maybe. Possibly. If he didn’t have anything better to do. As long as it’s not fishing season.
But it’s not that he doesn’t take any photos. Oh, he takes photos. Of fish. And fish next to beer bottles to show how big (and photogenic) said fish are. Now that’s something special right there.
I’m always the one behind the lens. (What – producing an heir wasn’t enough? Now I am also the sole photobiographer of our lives?) There are so many snapshots of Andrew and Max, I was able to make an epic slideshow for him for Father’s Day.
Number of pics of me and Max? Four. And all four of them were taken during this scene:
There’s nothing sexier than a cow right after she calfs. I’m surprised I wasn’t the one snapping the pictures here – newborn in one arm, Nikon in the other, knob in an armchair across the room eating a popsicle.
Let’s go upload this sweet-ass birthing suite snap to my Facebook and watch as the number of would-be suitors pours in like afterbirth into a bowl.
I’m being a dramatic sloptart. Obviously Andrew has taken more than four photos of me in our time together.
He has taken five.
And here’s the kicker – all five of them I had to ask him to take.
There are few things in life I love more than begging someone to take my picture. I mean, it just makes me feel so humble and modest and not at all obsessed with my own face. He sighs, giving in. Now that’s a sound that really makes a girl feel beautiful; just let me take my clothes off right now. And my smile as he carelessly snaps the picture – it just doesn’t get any more genuine. And look at the sparkle in my eye…
That’s not a sparkle, honey. That’s a volt of electric rage. I made you a fucking slideshow!
After he takes the shot, he hands the camera back or pockets the phone immediately. That’s it, one shot. No need to see how the ol’ cow turned out. I could have had my eyes closed, my tit hanging out, anything. It doesn’t matter. He exerted so much energy, depleted every ounce of creative juice with this one act of photographic genius, he couldn’t possibly take one more for good luck.
And just to clarify so all you bushpigs out there don’t come at me with comments like “get over yourself,” I’m not asking him to take my picture because I think I’m hot as balls. I’m asking him to take it so that, in the event of my untimely death, Max will know I bloody well existed! Is that so much to ask? How much do you remember from age three? Exactly. If I die tomorrow, all Max will have to remember me by is a mop of red hair, this silly blog, and a handful of crappy photos.
But I’m not going to give up on my other main man just yet.
Next time our little family finds itself someplace magical, with the salty Atlantic breeze tossing our ginger manes to and fro, the setting sun casting the perfect golden light on our freckled faces, I will give him the opportunity to make his move. I will give him the chance – about 45 seconds – to stop taking pictures of his balls and emailing them to his friends, and start taking pictures of something bigger. Something beautiful that, sadly, just won’t last.
Enough with the tadpoles, honey. It’s time to take a picture of allllllladis. The catch of your freaking life.
Douchebag.
Tit head.
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neal
July 14, 2012 at 5:34 pm (9 years ago)Appreciated this. I’ma start stalkering my wife. If you’re married to the woman, does it make it creepy to take sneaky photos of her? Obviously I’m not talking about dirty ones. Just ones where she doesn’t know you’re there.
Mother Blogger
July 16, 2012 at 2:02 pm (9 years ago)First comment by a male who said he was gonna change his ways – HIGH FIVES MY BRUTHA. This may pay off for you in more ways than you think. 😉
neal
July 16, 2012 at 4:48 pm (9 years ago)I sure hope so. We’ll see if it gets to a point where she’s like, “Why are you always following me? And what’s that behind your back? If you try to put ice down my shirt again I’m gonna knee you in the balls.”
My reputation for romance is probably not the highest in this house, but I’m willing to make some changes.
Izzy
July 14, 2012 at 8:25 pm (9 years ago)Totally THERE on this one, you make sure you get some snaps taken!! Today at brunch I thought my hubby was taking a pic of me, got all posed up… then realised Dada had reversed the view so he was getting ANOTHER sweet photo of himself and our daughter. Damn iPhone!
Mother Blogger
July 16, 2012 at 2:01 pm (9 years ago)Isn’t it hilarious that men are supposed to be visual creatures? Maybe we need to dress sluttier.
Jennifer
July 14, 2012 at 10:26 pm (9 years ago)Sweet fuck….you are hilarious. And since you didn’t say it, I will: you are obviously gorgeous and should be in front of the camera more often.
Excuse the language, but I kinda suck at filtering myself. Like, ever.
Mother Blogger
July 16, 2012 at 1:59 pm (9 years ago)The best compliments are the ones steeped in profanity. Rock on, Jennifer.
Peter
July 16, 2012 at 5:32 pm (9 years ago)Ms. Ginger,
Could you ask your husband where he caught those trout? (on the Island for sure with the short neck Coors Light) Maybe even give him a pat on the bum with a “good job pal!” from me. Please and thanks!
Good luck with your blog and electric rage issues. It’s a saucy read with a good dash of deafening truth.
Pete
Mother Blogger
July 18, 2012 at 4:00 pm (9 years ago)Speaking of saucy… I will give my husband your message. I’m actually a big proponent of his fishing, in case that was unclear. (I’m sure it was.) We have quite the partnership. He catches the fish – and I eat them.
Call Me Jo
July 17, 2012 at 5:00 pm (9 years ago)Too true. My husband is addicted to his phone; he’s always snapping shots of trees, mountains, our dogs, his car. When I mentioned that he has 200+ photos on there and none of me, he was quick to correct me. He has two photos of me. Two. I guess I’ve got to call that a win. *sigh*
Mother Blogger
July 18, 2012 at 3:58 pm (9 years ago)As long as you know you’re beautiful, who gives a fuck.
Cousin Beth
July 19, 2012 at 12:58 pm (9 years ago)Neal
Call me when your divorce is finalized.
Cous girl..I will send you a copy of my fourth book, “How to Pose Nude in Front of Yourself” It will br published as soon as the first three are finished.
Kole
July 30, 2012 at 6:05 pm (9 years ago)Aww yes, even us guys feel the same thing sometimes. One of my exes used to have tons of photos of her with her friends and zero of me, was a tad annoying.