Nearly a quarter of a century in a relationship with a Quaker boy has certainly had its interesting moments. I grew up with a strict religious background, but not as strict as his. For example, I was allowed to watch “Happy Days,” but I had to turn down the volume during the theme song due to the heathenish worldview presented in the line, “feels so right, it can’t be wrong.”
Hubby, however, was not allowed to watch television. They didn’t even own one. He has never known the joy of waking up early for Saturday morning cartoons; and many pop culture references are completely lost on him.
If I give a thumbs up and say, “Ayyyyy!” he fears I am slowly dropping into a vegetative state.
He doesn’t know, by heart, the ingredients of a Big Mac.
No matter how many times I explain it, he can’t understand Mr. Whipple’s obsession with Charmin. Although, he did finally realize that Charmin is not a woman.
He has no desire to be a Pepper, he doesn’t know who the heck Mikey is, and he thinks I’ve lost my mind when I tell our children that my bologna has a first name.
The joy of his childhood was summer camp. Quaker camp where boys wear pants, not shorts, and sleeves are not to be rolled past the elbow. Girls wear long, full skirts, and regardless of age, pull their hair neatly into a bun.
Over the years, weird little facts about him have surfaced. Pantyhose worn with running shoes turn him on.
Great-granny’s rose-scented powder reminds him of his childhood crush. And when it came time for the class program, he was the only kid in second grade who didn’t know the Laverne and Shirley theme song. His teacher sent the sheet music home, and his mom pumped away at the organ, while the sweet tow-haired boy sitting next to her belted out, “Schlemiel Schlimazel!”