I was downstairs last night when the husband and HandyBoy were sanding baseboards. The husband had spent the day sitting in a chair in the computer room watching HandyBoy paint and ever so helpfully pointing out spots that he might have missed. I can see why HandyBoy might be getting a bit perturbed with the husband.
I was in the other room from HB when I hear the husband come downstairs and say something to him. HB replies, “Do I look like your n*****?”
HB: (loudly) I’m not prejudiced, man.
Then the husband appears in the room I’m in and smiles. For a brief shining moment I think that my evil conservative husband who I berated this weekend on using “gay” as a synomyn for “stupid” (that conversation actually required a trip to dictionary.com before he believed that it wasn’t proper use of the English language), actually admonished HB for using a slur. Then he whispers to me, “I told him not to say things like that. I said, ‘Hey, man, watch saying things like that. Heather’s grandma was black.'”
We were so close to the truth and light and it slipped right through his fingers. I imagined my very racist grandfather spinning in his grave at the thought that his beloved was anything other than white as the driven snow. Then I remembered my friend’s Save The Date magnet on my refrigerator with pictures of the African American groom to be. If HB asked, I could claim he was a cousin.
Then the husband laughingly says to me, “I mean look at your butt. Any black woman would be proud.”
I’m not sure why he is still alive.
By the way, I did inherit my butt from both my grandmothers. They were some big women.