I’m kind of in love with Pitbull. I think. I’m pretty sure. Admittedly, I don’t know much about the guy since my infatuation is based almost completely on the single time I saw him perform, which was at the most recent MTV VMA show. The weird thing is, I felt this way in spite of the fact he was wearing a white blazer and red pants. Am I going into menopause or something?
I was able to totally get past his pimp suit and bald head and his penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors and love him anyway. Maybe I was listening to Ne-Yo’s sweet voice when they were showing him or something, so that swayed me, but I was all, “Damn, Pitbull. I think I loooove you.” (The way little Michael Jackson says it in ‘ABC’) Really, Love? Really?
His voice is kind of low and gravelly and…I don’t know, this thirty-something, suburban working mom of three found herself oddly and mercilessly attracted to the guy. For very good reasons, I try not to think about mojo because the world cannot afford to have me become a mother again, but as I watched the VMAs I thought I might consider having Pitbull’s love child. I thought this was odd, and so I felt the logical next step was to inform my husband of my new attraction to this Pitbull character.
Now, you should be aware before we go further that a full 90% of the things I say to my husband on any given day get exactly the same response. Statements like, “I think I have a brain tumor”, “Our neighbor’s kid stole our ladder”, “For a second today I thought I had misplaced my Josh Groban Noel CD”, and “Do you think that brown thing in the kid’s shower is poop, or a candy bar?” all garner the exact same, very quiet….noise. It kind of sounds like “ugh” but without the negative emotion most of us say it with. It’s a totally neutral response devoid of any emotion or judgment – just enough to acknowledge I said something, but not enough for me to gauge any sort of meaningful response to the statement. I’d wager the other 9% of the stuff I say does not even warrant the noise –that is met with silence — and then the last 1% of my musings may get a full sentence response, but he saves that for emergencies, mostly to tell me what he wants me to pick up for lunch or (I suppose) if one of our children suddenly began to seize. I think my husband conserves words because I have such a high propensity of wasting them. And we get along fabulously this way.
So I expected that when I announced to BD one afternoon that “I really like that Pitbull guy” it would be met with the customary “ugh” or perhaps silence. I mean, like most things I tell him, there was a 99% chance I would get one of these two reactions, so no biggie.
It was not to be.
To my utter amazement, when I made the announcement my husband actually turned his eyes away from ESPN, looked at me, and proceeded to freak out. “Are you kidding me?! You’re kidding, right? Pitbull?!” Whoa. WHOA. I haven’t seen an emotional outburst of such magnitude from him since 2005, the year he found out that I had thrown away the hair gel he bought in 1997 that was sitting in our shared medicine cabinet, untouched for 5 years.
“Um….yeah, I think.” I stammered, the shock and awe of his response only beginning to sink in. A millisecond later, when I noticed he did not turn back to ESPN, my fight or flight response was triggered. My senses became sharp and keenly aware. Time slowed down. My husband had somehow just become emotionally invested in my statement about Pitbull and he was engaging me in a conversation about it.
My brain went into overdrive: “Wait? Whaaa? Is this really happening? BD knows who Pitbull is? I didn’t even know who he was until I saw the VMAs a week ago. Oh my god! Maybe my husband is the one with the brain tumor! Oh my god! He may have only weeks to live!”
“You do not like Pitbull.” he tried to say with certainty, trying to regain his composure. “What on earth could you possibly find attractive about that guy?”
“I don’t know. He’s just…cool. Maybe I’m suddenly interested in younger men who don’t appear to be very intelligent, may have an accent, dress like pimps, say “Hey Baby” a lot and surround themselves with scantily clad cokeheads. What is so weird about that?”
“Who are you?” he demanded. I’m pretty sure he wanted to follow up with “and where have you taken my wife?” but he was a little flustered. At that moment I realized that he was also in fight or flight mode and his brain was saying: “Oh my god. She actually does have that brain tumor she’s been talking about since our first date. Oh my god! And she is going to die and leave me with all of these damn kids. This is the worst day of my life!” Simultaneously, we were both thinking the other had gone all Charlie Sheen and that we’re about to lose each other forever. All because of Pitbull’s irresistible sex appeal.
We probably should have hugged and kissed and been supportive of the other person’s brain tumor, but instead I said, “Whatever. You liked Christina Aguilera when she was at her skankiest! I married you in spite of that! That should count for something.”
“I was young then. That was years ago!”
Fortunately, before things got way out of control and my husband missed more than five minutes of the game, our seven year old son, aware for the first time in his life that his parents were engaging in an emotional conversation with each other that wasn’t about the true nutritional value of frozen pizza or the absurdity of this year’s college football uniforms, stepped in to end the madness.
“Pitbull sucks, Mom.”
And that was that. BD nodded solemnly. I reminded our son that “sucks” is not an appropriate word to use in our house, and then I left the scene, devastated.
Not only because one or both of us clearly has a brain tumor, but now my chances of getting tickets to the Pitbull show for Christmas are pretty much nil. Damn.