Squeeze Me, Stomp Me, Hooray for Rex!

by Andrea Frazer

Strange things are brewing around these here parts. Michael and Farrah are dead. My favorite writer is divorcing, I'm elated to know I'm not the only person in the world suffering from bouts of anxiety, and Rex joined me for a last minute dinner on Friday night.

I mean, seriously, the meal wasn't planned.

My husband had worked ten hours a day for five days in a row.

It was fairly late in the evening - a guaranteed stamp of assurance that my children would fall into fetal positions of exhaustion before we left the parking structure.

I wasn't going with just our tired children, but instead with another mom and her wilting rug rats (a family Rex has met at least ten times but consistently inquires, "Who is this Kat? Have we met?")

Lest you think my husband is a complete hermit, let me reassure you that he does, indeed, enjoy a nice evening out. It's just not typically at the end of a soul crushing work week. It's never two days before we're scheduled to go camping.

* Note to self: It's almost Monday and I have no tent. Or food. Or firewood. Stop blogging and GO SHOPPING.

Rex rarely hangs with people he hasn't known since he flipped burgers at a fast food chain in his illustrious teen years. And it's never at overcrowded malls that reek of overpriced handbags, perfume or tweens with jeans hanging off their butt crack.

Only three things can explain such odd behavior from my trusty companion.

1. Rex was abducted by aliens. This means that the handsome man at Red Robin, casually munching fries and inserting photos of paper chickens from kid menus into my daughter's best friend's locket was none other than an imposter.

2. He is having a massive affair with some nineteen year old Hooter's waitress who he lured into his clutches with his vast knowledge of all things Star Trek, I-Pod, surround sound speaker or rotary engine.

3. We are simply getting along by some cosmic turn of fate... I mean... because we're listening to each other. This means I can take him at face value when he says via cell phone, "Just wait for me at home rather than take two cars, Love. I miss you and the kids and I really want to join you."

I'm going with #3.

But in the back of my mind, I just know Rex is being held captive at some space station in Mars while an alien life force is snoring upstairs in my bed. (I wonder if he's as fun in the sack as my imprisoned husband? I better do some investigating. You understand. Subsequent moans aren't necessarily bad.

Translation: Stay clear of my bedroom! I will retrieve samples and chat with you at my next post. That is, if I surive sex with the alien life form.)

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