I Perish The Thought Of Ever Hearing My Papi Whistling, "Man! I Feel Like A Woman!"

I've known my sexy-Mexi husband, Papi, since I was still a bright-eyed teenager brimming with equal parts vim, vigor, and stupidity. Fine, it wasn't really equal parts. The stupidity/naivete portion comprised at least half of my teen-aged being on any given day. Occasionally, I'd hit that full 100 percent stupidity mark.

Yay for being 100 percent perfect at something!

Papi-a recently-immigrated Mexican National and recent return missionary-decided that he wanted to find that special someone who believed in the idea that marriage should comprise teamwork and partnership. (Apparently his dating history involved a lot of spoiled Mexican-American Princesses)

Not to worry, this story isn't going to turn into a third-rate romance novel cover that reads something like....."He was a bronzed, uptight immigrant-with a chest like a hairless chihuahua-out looking for love, adventure, and authentic chimichangas in a foreign land. She was a flaxen-haired Goofball Goddess in overalls whose proudest moment in life was finally realized when she mastered the hand motions to M.C. Hammer's, '2 Legit To 2 Quit.' Through a series of hilarity and hijinks plus one positive pregnancy test, fate will conspire to bond them through the eternities....."

Basically, Papi confided that he chose me as his betrothed because I was the only white chick he had ever met who didn't mind working 2 manual labor jobs while attending school at the same time. He also said something about me being a hard worker "just like a burro." I've tried to make his sweet words sweeter by blocking out that uncalled for donkey comparison.

To that point I hadn't found anyone willing to laugh at the myriad of weird things I frequently blurted out. When Papi acted as my own personal Comedy Club audience, I knew he was the one for me. Nevermind the fact that while Papi did speak perfect English, he didn't quite understand the nuances of American humor- he was only chuckling because he reasoned it was the polite thing to do instead of saying, "Huh? I don't get it. Are you on crack or something?" I really thought that "Pull My Finger!" transcended all languages and cultures. Sad.

It turns out that no matter how hard-working or astoundingly fertile or personable I am, I'm still lacking in the domestic skills category. If Papi had made a Perfect Wife Checklist prior to getting married, I wouldn't have fared too well:
Cook- Ummm, well, that is my mom's maiden name...soooooo....I guess, technically, yes?
Clean- I mastered the art of wiping and that's about it.
Iron- Heck Yes! I take 2 tablets every day!
Vacuum- Only for emergency liposuction, roach carcass disposal, and finding lost earrings.
Sew- A needle-pulling thread? La....a note to follow sew?
Knit- No, I'm lice-free and nit-free, thanks.
Scrapbooking- Well, I once did that Slam Book thing in Junior High. It made a girl cry inconsolably. Does that count?

Luckily, Papi excels in all the areas where I'm deficient. He's my personal Iron Man. For reals, y'all. He's as delicate with my silks as he is steamy with my cotton-blends.

Sometimes, Papi's long-hidden talents rises to the surface after lying dormant for so many years.

Our daughter, Caterpillar, recently attended a Church Activity with other girls and they learned how to knit. Yeah, they be turning my daughter into a knitta. Maybe she can one day join Knittas, Please!, H-Town's premiere knitting gang.

Anyway, I didn't have a clue as to how to help Caterpillar finish her knitting project at home. I suffer from acute Yarnophobia- so I have a legitimate excuse. Naturally, Papi stepped in and wowed us all with his nimble fingers and knitty know-how. *le sigh* Is there nothing that man of mine can't do?

Whenever I think about our future together I get this vision in my mind of a stark role reversal. In it, I'm sitting around on our front porch swing in my dungarees, smoking a (bubble) pipe and scratching at the wiry old people-hairs on my chin. My grand-children will all congregate at my feet, begging for me to tell them another story about when I was a young whippersnapper. I'll instead take out my false teeth and wave them about as an instrument of terror while chasing my screaming progeny. Papi will look resplendent in his calico apron. He'll content himself with silently watching us from his rocking chair-a bemused smile etched upon his weathered face as he lovingly knits me a pair of legwarmers so I can show our grand-kids how to shake it like that chick in Flashdance.

I have seen the future. And it is good.