I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 3, 2006
>This column originally appeared in the Nashville Scene.
Although I’m a bit of a snoop when it comes to my husband, I’ve yet to find any clues that he’s up to no good.
The deepest recesses of his closet hold only lint balls. The messages on his cell phone are mundane. The credit card statement contains no mysterious charges (besides the revelation that Hubs eats far more barbeque for lunch than he admits).
And I’m not alone in my amateur sleuthing. Hubs likes to show up in the middle of the day sometimes, just to “see what I’m up to.” And one time when I took the kids to visit my parents, I returned home to discover that he’d gone through my dresser drawers, searching for God-knows-what.
Although I secretly find this kind of thing flattering, I’ve assured Hubs that I don’t ever want a boyfriend. But the truth is, I would love to have an admirer.
My Admirer would be quite handsome, but he’d also have a look-but-don’t-touch-ever-not-even-when-you’re-a-little-drunk-and-there’s-no-one-around kind of sensibility.
“I love that you love your husband,” he’d say, sadly and simply. “All I want is to worship you from afar.” And who am I to argue with that?
Instead, I’d reluctantly accept the deliveries of flowers (Casablanca lilies), boxes of candy (Godiva) and books of poems (Neruda), all with notes that say things like, When I saw you in carpool this morning with the sun in your hair, I realized I had never seen anyone or anything more beautiful.
Or, You fold a fitted sheet with a grace and perfection that others can only dream of. Thank you for being you.
Or even, You are the hottest soccer mom this side of the Mississippi. Ah-OOO-gah! I’m not particular. It’s the thought that counts.
My husband might not like all the attention My Admirer would give me, but he’d have to tolerate it because he has plenty of fans of his own. As a television reporter, people are constantly coming up to him and telling him how great he is. He loves to tell me these stories, which I counter with something like, “Oh, the same thing happened to me today. I was at the supermarket and this total stranger walked up and said, ‘I just love the way you save at least 25 percent on your grocery bill every time you shop!’ ” Hubs generally snorts derisively while I seethe. But My Admirer would put a stop to this kind of behavior.
“Hubs,” he’d say, taking my husband’s hand and shaking it heartily, “Beating the supermarket at its own game is tough work. I hope you know you’re a very lucky man.”
Hubs would look slightly uneasy as he noted the firm handshake and soulful eyes of My Admirer. That night, Hubs would turn up with a large bouquet of his own and an offer of dinner and dancing. Or dinner and drinking, which is more our style.
“Admirer,” I’d say as he called me on the phone for the fifth time in a week, just to hear the charming lilt of my voice, “I really can’t accept your gifts anymore. You’ve been simply wonderful, but between you and me, I think Hubs is getting a little jealous.”
“Lindsay,” he’d whisper with just the right blend of regret and compassion, “I will cease my attentions, if that’s what it takes to make your life easier. But I have devoted my life to adoring you and the evidence will be impossible to ignore.” I’d sigh deeply as I hung up the phone for a final time.
After weeks of not hearing from My Admirer, my husband would silently bring me a copy of the newspaper. “Local Artist Receives International Recognition for Lindsay Series,” the front cover would read. Pictured beside an oil painting—entitled Lindsay at a Yard Sale With the Sun in Her Hair—would be My Admirer, his searing, questioning eyes burning through the newsprint.
A short time later, I’d be named Parents magazine’s Mother of the Year, based on an anonymous submission. Hubs would try to pretend he’d mailed in the entry, but the editor’s admission that my “ability to artfully manage the lives of my husband and three children while radiating inner calm and stunning the locals with my otherworldly beauty” earned me the honor would make it obvious who was really responsible for the prize photo session and free trip to New York.
By the end of that year, Lindsay (Joy of My Life) would top the Adult Contemporary music chart. My resulting fame would leave Nicole and Keith forlorn and forgotten at Bread & Company as the Nashville paparazzi rushed to camp outside my house. In the tabloids, readers would note the winsomeness in my frown as I rushed the kids from our front door to our SUV, as well as the unexpected kickiness of my Target skirt paired with (deeply discounted, but still!) Prada mules.
Soon, I’d have admirers showing up at my door from all parts of the globe. I’m surprised more women aren’t taking up admirers, really. They’re way better than affairs, because who really wants to pay for a few rounds of furtive bonking with a lifetime of postcoital guilt? An admirer keeps you happy and your husband on his toes.
Of course, if my husband ever gets himself an admirer, well, I’ll bitch-slap her ass all the way to Murfreesboro.
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>Witty and charming indeed, bravo! And welcome back!
>Did you see Mel by chance in LA?
>Welcome home!We really need to hear the FIL story – it sounds like a doozy! I wish I had been a fly on the wall for that one!!LBC
>Welcome Home!Having gotten into my share of fights with my FIL, I NEED to hear the juicy deets on yours. We can compare notes.
>Congratulations, Lindsay! I just found you through Naomi from “Here in the Hills” and through “Petroville” and I am glad I did! Your text and issues is very interesting and witty! Really is a pleasure reading your blog.I am a Brazilian journalist but currently I am not working in newspaper or magazine. I am currently writing fiction stories about the elderly people.I would like if you drop in my blog “Leaves of Grass” and also in “Glance-Olhar” :http://glance-olhar.blogspot.com/Have a nice day! Regards from Sonia, São Paulo, Brazil.
>FIL fights really stink. I’ve had a doozy… but dancing a jig of fury?!?!? Wow, you are good.hope you get some good rest.
>welcome back. I’m heading your way this weekend (but not all the way. sigh.)I need a dream lover too! someone to pamper my ooverworked mom ass. oh wait, I have bear (check out el blog for the reasoning behind that, you’ll freak!)
>Welcome home! Your own bed is always better than anything else! I want to hear what the spat was about!
>Well, I know you just got back home but I am already looking forward to next year’s visit! 🙂 You get that nap, I’m going to check out the Scene!
>I always secretly worry that my in laws may stumble upon my site. And then decide to hate me! lol.
>Circulation of blog URL among extended family NOT recommended.My sister-in-law reads my blog. And reports to MIL, who recently phoned my Husband to ask the following question:”Did you know that your WIFE is talking about her period on the Internet? Shouldn’t you have editorial CONTROL?”Yep. Love her.
>Another Home Run! I want my own Admirer. No, I want a husband who I can make a wee bit jealous with an Admirer! First things first!Welcome Home!
>Ok, I have to de-lurk for this. I just caught up on your Nashville Scene columns. I had to go to your My Space page. Oh. My. God. You are the funniest woman alive. Your stepdaughters must be mortified, but they must also know you love them.Thanks for all the laughs and inspiration!
>You definately should tell the FIL story, for sure.
>A good fight is blog fodder and totally fairgame. Er…minus the expletives, if there were any. Tee-hee. Love the blog. Thanks for the laughs.
>Welcome Home!
>LOL, I loved your Scene column. I totally need an Admirer, too!”a jig of fury?” This we must hear more about. 😉
>welcome back!
>I’m guessing politics or religion on the jig of fury… but I’m kind of boring like that.My FIL is a psychologist. That’s really fun.
>LOVED the last line of Nashville Scene this week (the story too, of course – but wow, that last line…teehee!!) Welcome home…
>Public restrooms are fun, aren’t they? If you know where to look, you can find love there sometimes…
>Well, apparently, it started because I was talking while he was trying to count his cards during a game of Rummy. Yeah. Fun, huh?Anyway, on the topic I can say no more. I don’t argue and tell! ;)Plus, now that the entire family knows my web address, it probably wouldn’t be wise…
>FIL STORY! FIL STORY! (I’m chanting here) FIL STORY! FIL STORY!
>Oh….the in laws. My father in law and his wife have a vague recollection that I exist. It comes in handy. Like last week when they got to town and I just couldn’t make it over to say hi. I don’t think they missed me. Maybe just enough to tell their friends how rude it was of me NOT go see them.
>AAAA!! Resist the in-law blog reading! RESIST WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT! Before you know it you’ll be getting phone calls about what you’re writing – “what did you mean when you said such and such” or “what you said made me sad because X or Y”… AAAAAA!!!