The Febreeze Incident

            I did have one small role in cheering up the little lady in these tumultuous times of change.  I had a little incident with the Febreeze.  Every once in awhile I like to spray down the clothes I’m wearing ‘cause I enjoy my cigarettes and I like to smell good.  So… 

            Liz doesn’t like Febreeze for reasons I have yet to make any sense of.  But even so, it’s never caused any problems.  Or potentially poisoned anyone. 

            I had just finished blanketing myself in a lovely fragrance, Hawaiian Aloha, and no, I don’t think it’s gay to blanket myself in a feminine scent when the cigarettes tame it right down.  I had set the can down on the endtable, few minutes later picked it up to take it back to the kitchen only I had picked it up backward, didn’t realize it was pointing right at me. 

I had gotten up from the desk too fast and got dizzy, lost my balance (mild side effect of meds) and as I tried to correct myself I accidentally squeezed the trigger and sprayed myself in the face.  And then, in my startled shock, turned my head away and accidentally did it again, lost my balance completely and fell back toward the desk chair and instinct tightened my grasp on the can.  And trigger.  Sprayed myself with a full cloud of mist as I fell awkwardly into the chair.

On the one hand, it made everything taste funny for a couple hours.  Even my cigarettes.  They set up camp on my tongue and made it tingle.  But, then, my beard smelled frikkin’ great.  I got all cozy with Liz and though she claims that she doesn’t like the fragrance, she got a laugh out of it anyway.  My beard had never smelled so delightful.  And hasn’t since.

                       

            It took her mind off the kids moving out and being all alone with me in this empty and quiet apartment and her struggle to accept all this semi-unwelcomed change in our lives and embrace an uncertain future.  We can only hope it is a future that smells this delightful.

Hysterical Blindness

            Today Julie and Chris moved out.  Meaning—for the first time in the four years we have been seeing each other, Liz and I now officially live alone.  Just the two of us.  She and I.  It’s kinda weird. 

            Our first night alone in the apartment, and how do we choose to spend it?  We went out to eat with mom and the fam for her birthday, came home, she got on the computer, I laid down on the couch and fell asleep.  This was our evening.  Yes, we are getting old.  I can’t say that I mind all that much, though. 

            I was supposed to be spending the evening with Cody, the other daugher’s boyfriend.  He was supposed to be coming over and working on my dreadlocks.  He didn’t show up and I happened to catch a peek at myself in the mirror as I passed it by, took a long look at my hair, decided I kind of like it just the way it is.  So, there’s really no loss here.

                       

            I have to admit, Liz is handling it better than I thought she would.  She was scared heading into it.  We have seen this coming for at least a couple weeks.  No kids.  When school started this year and she realized that for the first time in twenty years or so she wasn’t going to have any kids to wake up in the morning and get off to school, she broke down and cried a little. 

            I kind of expected her to break down and cry a lot with the last two (of four) moving out.  And she’s done quite well.  Not a single tear yet.  And as much as I try to help and to cheer her up, I don’t think this newfound strength has much to do with me.  I’ve been insanely busy working marathons on the computer, haven’t been much company.

            The girls and I have had our differences, but for the most part we have gotten along famously in the time I’ve been around.  I’ve tried to be a positive role in their lives, they leave me alone on the many issues they rightfully could have griped about, and I don’t tell them what to do.  Ever. 

            The only time I ever tried to play stepdad was a couple of years ago, they were juniors, and they had missed Friday afternoon, came home from school at lunch and didn’t go back.  Sunday night they needed a written excuse to get back into school, so I wrote them this little ditty:

            “Please excuse Julianna and Jonalyn Emmons from school on Friday afternoon.  They were both stricken with a case of hysterical blindness.  Please let them back into school, as they are fine now, they can see again.” 

            And I begged and pleaded with Liz to sign it.  But, to no avail.  

Battle of Mountain Wits

            Liz got online today and read through the list of symptoms of Alzheimers, just to be safe. 

She’s appears okay with it, ‘cause she doesn’t have that one symptom yet. 

(I kid.) 

            I went storming into the living room shouting, “Google has now canceled my account twice for no good reason at all!”

            And what did she say to this? 

What did my lovely lady take from this and fire back? 

“What for?” she asked.

            So rather than get mad, I took a lesson learned from the Naked Truth incident, fight back with humor, I answered, “Mountaineering.”

            “What?”

            “Yeah.  I was mountaineering without a license.  You can’t do that in Germany.” 

            It wasn’t an overnight deal, it took a tremendous and concentrated effort on our part, but this is how we try to fight.  When we get mad at each other.

            She was irritated with me for being a smart ass.  So, she played along.  Pretended like she wasn’t interested.  Casually flipping through a magazine.  “When did you go to Germany?” 

            “Last week.  I was doing some secret recognizance work for Yahoo.”

            “On a mountain?”

            “Yeah.  Well, sort of.  It was a hidden lair within the mountain.  The Google agents picked me up on my way back down.”

            She set her magazine aside for this one.  Must’ve been important, I could tell already. 

            “I never understood that,” she said.  “Why do secret lairs always have to be so obsolete?”

            “Pardon?”

            “What?”

            I shook my head, motioned for her to carry on.  It’s quicker that way. 

            “What was I saying?”

            “Secret lairs.”

            “Yeah!  I mean, seems like they spend a lot of time and money going all the way out to a mountain in Germany just to conduct business.  They want remote, tell ‘em to bring their gear to Olney.  It’s gotta be cheaper.  Doesn’t it?  They could use one of the empty stores at the mall.  Ya know, for their headquarters.”

            “You just don’t understand the world of industrial espionage, hun.  And neither do I.  And that’s why we’re safe.  Big Brother is listening right now, and he’s bored stupid.  That’s how we will beat him.”

            “What?”

            “This conversation is senseless,” I said.  And then she had the audacity, the unmitigated gull, to say, “This conversation became senseless whenever you joined in.”  It was a right hook to the jaw.  She snuck it in. 

            My mouth flopped open, eyes wide and brow curled, I forgot to breathe there for a stint. 

I stormed off. 

She won this battle. 

But, the war rages on.  

The Naked Truth

             I think it’s pretty obvious at this point that I at least try to be entertaining around the house.  I try to make sure whenever Liz says, “I’m so bored!” it is followed by some kind of spike in the electricity in the air.  Sometimes she regrets saying it.  Oft times, though, she is glad she did.

           

It’s become routine for either one of us to fly off the handle for no good reason at all and do something senseless.  Just to make the other one laugh.  It’s gotten so bad, though, she ticked me off the other day and I went to say something aggressive and maybe a little hateful, just ‘cause I was mad at her and was about to leave the room and wanted to punctuate my departure. 

            But I screwed up, I made it to the doorway and turned back and pointed my finger at her and I said, “Fine!  I’m gonna go to the bedroom, I’m gonna get naked and spend some time alone!”  And I stormed off.  Which isn’t easy to do with any real effect on a concrete floor.  There’s carpeting, sure.  But still.

As soon as I stepped into the hallway I was shakin’ my head, rolling my eyes back and forth and anywhere else they would roll, ‘Wonder where that came from?  Hmmn?  Thought I was supposed to be mad.’  Wasn’t the kind of impression I was aiming to leave. 

Ya know, that would be really great therapy, if you think about it.  I hadn’t until just now.  But for marriage counseling… the couple comes in, the counselor listens to them bitch about each other for awhile, then stops them and tells them, “Take off your clothes, and swap undergarments with each other.  You put on her bra and panties, you put on his boxer-briefs, and if you can keep a straight face long enough to stay mad, you have deep-seeded issues that have nothing to do with one another and you need to work on those before you can hope to sustain a marriage.  Now… go ahead.  Take off your clothes.”

They look at him dumbfounded.  Jaws agape.  Eyes wide.  They don’t know what to think.

He tells them, “I won’t look.  I promise.  Here, I’ll cover my eyes.”  He covers them.  He waits.  He waits.  He need wait no longer.  The husband fires back, “Are you frikkin’ serious, you, you creepy weirdo!”

He uncovers his eyes.  He forces a laugh.  “Of course not, silly man.  Do it at home.  Put on her bra and panties and try to sit on the bed and have a serious conversation.  Put her in a jockstrap if you have to.  You won’t be able to hold onto this tension between you two, and for once you’ll be able to talk.”

He makes his point.  Then sighs and stares off in the distance.  Evidently, disappointed.     

Appleonia Revisited

           I got a big frikkin’ knife and two bags of apples, if you wanna party.  Seriously.  We could do some damage.  Slice their skin off.  Cut ‘em down to the core.  We could carve ‘em into funny shapes and put them in compromising positions.  Take photographs.

            I’m trying to think up a few good uses for apples.  In a gross oversight of mismanaged shopping lists, we somehow ended up with thirty-seven apples sitting in our kitchen.  (Somebody went shopping without looking around the house first to see what we already had.)  Thirty-seven apples in our kitchen.  Just chillin’.  Hangin’.  Aging. 

            So far the only thing I’ve discovered about my old fruity friend the apple is that when you carve ‘em up and let ‘em sit on the desk they start looking like driftwood after a few hours.  In the right light.  Particularly when you cut around the core and you leave the right bits.

            Past that, I have no idea what she expects me to do with so many apples. 

Maybe I could build a house for ‘em.  Or an apartment complex.  Give ‘em all names, and a place to stay.  You ever tried to name an apple?  Give it a nice background story?  With heart? 

            I mean, if it was thirty-seven cats, now that would be something I could work with.  Or puppies.  Sweet Mary Crumbcake, how I could work with thirty-seven puppies in the apartment looking for direction and substance.  It would be disastrous good fun.

            But no.  I’m still struggling with apples.  I don’t know if she expects me to be mixing up seventeen barrels of hard cider.  Or enough apple pie for the next gathering of continental congress. 

            It’s terribly tempting to throw them at stuff. 

            I know.  I won’t.

  

            

Liar's Club

            I recently found out there is such a thing as a Liar’s Club and to be totally honest, I’m a little terked off I wasn’t invited.  I’m not normally like that, but a Liar’s Club standoff?  Of all sporting events?! 

            I can lie with the best of ‘em.  It just depends on the content and the nature of the lie.  Take Liz, for example.  I lie to her all the time.  I come back to the bedroom after a five minute sojourn to the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hand and she asks me, “Where’d you go?”  I tell her.  “Wyoming.  You ever been there?  Lovely place.”

            Or she knocks on the bathroom door and asks me what I’m doing.

            “I’m wraaanglin’ a sea monster!”

            (I pick on her a lot because, yeah, it’s fun, and it makes her laugh, most of the time, but she’s also the one I spend almost all of my time with, so she gets it by default.)

            Lieing is a virtue and an artform.  And it isn’t always for nice guys.  I admit, when I first found out about this I threw a little tantrum ‘cause I wasn’t invited. 

“What is this Liar’s Club?” 

            “I don’t know.  I guess a bunch of liars get together.”

            “And do what?”

            “Tell stories, I guess.”

            “What kind of stories?  Stupid liar stories?  That’s stupid!”  …  “Why wasn’t I invited?” 

            Sometimes the greatest lies aren’t even lies.  They are subtle, simple truths, surrounded by fiction.  The other day, I talked Liz into doing a little experiment with me.  Sort of.  I told her I wanted to take a funny picture.  So, she put on my boxers and my gold bermuda shirt and the lighting kinda sucks in our bedroom, so I had her stand on the bed, to catch the best light off the lamp. 

            She obliged.  Dutifully. 

            She was already in the mindset of making some kind of funny face.  She wasn’t too surprised when I told her to put her hands in the air like she just don’t care.  She obliged. 

She didn’t expect me to have a glass of water at the ready, but, for one thing, the glass was empty, it was just a ruse to get her going, but even so, it wouldn’t have been the first time I tossed a glass of water on her for effect (it was just the once, the effect was utter failure, and I won’t do it again) so overall this time, with all things considered, the effect was pure gold.  And nobody got wet.  Or hurt.  Or pissed.

            She looked like a scared linebacker on crack on Halloween night with a field full of monster brats coming at him.  Her.  The photo turned out lovely.  But I didn’t put it on the web.  That wasn’t my purpose.

            We tease Liz about just how severely unique she is, and it’s just a joke, but it’s a running joke that’s been going for years and shows no signs of tiring, that one day she’s gonna lose her mind.  Flip her lid.  She’s going to snap.

            I waited for her BFF to come over, to make her daily visit.  I let her and Liz go for awhile.  Talking about this that or the other.  I waited for Liz to say or do something unintentionally funny, as she is sooo good at doing. 

            Teresa told her something and they began a conversation and half way through, Liz got lost, then redirected and caught up, shortly thereafter she forgot what they were talking about, Teresa reminded her, Liz got confused, she backtracked and found her way right on her own accord, Liz then told Teresa that she was the one that was wrong, tried telling her what was right, then got confused, lost interest, and started talking about something else on an unrelated topic.

            That’s when I struck.

            I told Teresa, “It’s happened.  It happened earlier.  She finally snapped.  She’s gone.  Liz is gone.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Liz.  Liz – is – gone.  She’s not here no more.  Liz went away.  She was in my underwear earlier standing on the bed freaking out and screaming.  Threatening violence.  I was scared.  I almost called the cops.  I tried to call you but she took the phone from me and busted it on the floor.”

            Liz shrieked, “I did not!”

            With a straight face and a bit of a whimper, I shouted back, “You did too!  Don’t deny it!”

            I showed her the photo.  I had her going for awhile.  Had her thinking Liz had finally done it.  Lost it.  Went nuts.  Teresa that is.  Had her going.  Though, I don’t know.  Liz looked like she might’ve been second guessing there for a minute.  Never know with her.  God bless her.  I do love her.  She’s such a good sport. 

           

            Sometimes the lies are more subtle.  All those nice, reassuring folks telling me, “What are you talking about?  You’re not getting fat!”  Uh huh.  You start believing them and you eventually realize, ‘I haven’t worn a belt in six months.  These pants used to fall to my ankles without a belt.’ …pause, wait on it, eventually… ‘Heeeyyy!  They lied to me!’  

             

Satellites and Milemarkers

            All night Liz had been periodically checking news reports and the RSS on the NASA website, keeping tabs on where and when the UARS satellite was going to fall, and how many people would be killed.  She wasn’t secretly pulling for catastrophe or anything, she was just sure that it was going to be bad and the Powers That Be were deliberately downplaying it to avoid mass hysteria…

            I admit, I didn’t help matters any.  She blows stuff out of proportion and it’s just funny to me, and maybe this is one I should have left alone, it just happened so fast, over a long period of time, she just talks so fast when she gets worked up. 

            She was going to bed and she made me check nine times over a period of five minutes for a new update from NASA, which we did not receive.  So she laid down and went to sleep.  Woke up an hour later to pee and made me check five times in a matter of three minutes for an update we did not receive. 

            Finally, I woke her up around three thirty and told her, “It fell somewhere in the Pacific outside California.”

            She immediately rolled back over and mumbled, “That’s nice.”

            I waited. 

            “It caused massive earthquakes and tsunamis and stirred up a dust cloud through which the sun will no longer be able to penetrate, we’re all doomed.”

            I waited.

            She rolled back over and looked up at me and slowly said, “Wwwhhaaaaaatt?”

            “Just making sure you’re awake.  Listen.  Hun.  Hey, hun!”

            “What?!”

            “I fixed that cabinet door in the kitchen.  The wobbly one?  I fixed it.”

            She eyed me.  Didn’t say anything.  She rolled back over and went to sleep.

            I thought the cabinet door was way more important.  As a news item, anyway.  I wasn’t expecting doom and catastrophe, and I don’t fix stuff very often.  Turned out to be a simple enough project.  Just had to tighten a screw.  Didn’t even have to look very long for the screwdriver. 

            It’s important to plant these milemarkers in the sand every once in awhile.  Me?  Fixing a wobbly cabinet door?  I’m growing up.  Taking responsibility.  Next thing you know I’ll have three kids and a mortgage and an ulcer to beat the band. 

            I kid.  It’s late.  I’m wide awake, I’m bored… so bored I resorted to household repairs to entertain myself. 

Small Furry Animals

            I am starting to think that my infatuation will small furry animals is just foolish.  I mean, really—I’ve been peed on, pooped on, hissed at, clawed, bitten, bloodied up bitten, e-room bitten, nibbled on, gnawed on, chased, all by small furry animals that I got a little too familiar with because I thought they were cute.

            If a human did any of those things to me--it would take only once.  I’d walk away.  And the little critters may be cute, but humans are far more interesting.  Even the bad ones.  They’re more complicated.  Their highs and lows are in a whole world apart.  You get a lot more done with humans.

            Sometimes you just gotta ask yourself: what is it going to take?

Procrastination

            I think procrastination is in the blood. 

            The overall bedlam from which our individual personality traits are derived… blah blah blah.  It’s no different than whatever it is that makes a person mean, or flighty, or spectacular in bed.  You can train it to an extent one way or the other.  But all in all, you’re born with it.

           

            I grew up listening to the old folks complaining about, “It’s gonna rain, I can feel it in my knees.” 

            I’ve been arthritic since I was twelve.  Growing pains just about had me bedridden.  But I’ve never been able to predict the weather.  Instead, I can feel it all over in my joints the day after a big storm.  Or, if it’s a few days of bad weather, for the first couple/few days after.

            I’m late all the time.  I’m never ready to go when everyone else is.  I have a true warrior’s work ethic (when it comes to the writing) and I still don’t get that much done. 

            I gave up apologizing for it a long time ago.  What can I say? 

It’s in my blood.  It’s in my bones.

Write to the End

             I’m afraid the life of a writer (especially an unpublished one) involves a lot of sitting around thinking, and when that proves to be too much, sitting around typing.  I am fond of my lifestyle, I’m not complaining, it’s just that whenever people ask me, “Whatchya been up to?” I don’t have much of a comeback. 

            “Eeegh, thinking a lot.  And writing that down.  And thinking about what I wrote.  And changing it.  And thinking more.  It’s a cycle.”

            “Yeah, what else you been up to?”

            “Not much.”

            “It’s been five years since I last saw you.”

            “I know.”

            “Sounds hideously boring.”

            “As a topic of conversation, it is.  But, boy, you strap yourself into that desk chair and stare at that monitor for thirteen hours, ya know, and you get that twitch in the eye, and that snear, and things really happen.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Sometimes!”

            I know, it isn’t for everyone. 

Sweet Blissful Oblivion

(had to start the new blog out with a classic ditty about my lovely lady)

            Admittedly, Liz and I have somewhat of an unusual relationship.  Yes, she is nineteen years my senior.  Yes, in many ways we are exact opposites.  I never used to agree with the philosophy of opposites attracting, but then, her very presence is soothing in a way that can only be explained using reverse psychology.  So, who knows.

           

            I like the peace and quiet.  I once went six days without seeing or speaking a word outloud to anyone.  It was great.  Whereas Liz… well, Liz talks a lot.  She likes to talk.  She loves it, in fact.  One might go so far as to say that talking is her favorite.

            She doesn’t necessarily need anyone to listen, she will talk away regardless, and while she prefers an audience with which to interact, I think she pretty much covers the same staggering array of topics whether anyone is listening or not.

            God bless her, she knows I love her dearly, but the truth is: she has the attention span of a hamster.  I know this to be true because we have a hamster and sometimes when I am in the same room with the two of them I keep a seasoned eye on each one and compare.  After many weeks of close study, I am convinced that the two are on an exact parallel.  She will change subject at the same exact moment that the hamster changes direction.  It’s spooky, sometimes.

            She also has one of the worst memories I have ever had the dumbfounded experience of negotitating in conversation.  A lot of the time it doesn’t matter if you are paying attention or not ‘cause she is bound to repeat herself within a few minutes.  And she is sober.  Sometimes I think if the poor woman ever got Alzheimer’s I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference for awhile.  Not until it got really bad.  Frowny face.

            Sometimes I try really hard to pay attention just for the challenge.  She is nineteen years my senior and I still have to break out the baseball cleats and do some warmup stretches beforehand if I want to keep up with her.  Trying to follow along with Liz in a conversation is kind of like trying to gauge distance in the desert. 

            You strap on the cleats and the first couple of miles you’re thinking you got a good thing going, but it isn’t long before you start looking around and searching for familiar landmarks and wondering to yourself, “What in the wide world of sports did I get myself into?”

            You start digging your cleats in the sand, you’re practically running in place, the sun is beating down, your breathing becomes labored, you’re pouring sweat, as the hamster (seemingly without effort) scampers away and disappears in the heat waves in the distance.

            Through triumph and failure alike (trial and error) I have accepted the foregone conclusion that it is better for my health and longevity if I do not try to follow along.  Which may sound mean, but at least I’m honest about it.  She’ll be talking away and I’ll throw in a quick, “You know I’m not listening, right?” and she knows it.  She makes sure to clap her hands or throw a brick or something if it is important.  To make sure I’m listening.

            I know, I know.  It may sound mean, but these are the reasons we get along as well as we do.  Honestly.  As a writer and a big fan of stream-of-thought narratives, it’s almost like Liz and my writing have more in common than Liz and the writer. 

            They meander in tandem stride, they are selectively productive, they are both repetitive, they both seem kind of lost but content with that (for the most part).  She has an absolute flagrant disregard for the boundaries of a “normal” conversation.  She goes wherever she wants.  Or wherever she feels herself led.  I have a profound respect for that. 

            Don’t get me wrong, we have some fantastic conversations.  We spend a great deal of our time together going, “Huh?” and “What did you say?” and “I don’t understand what you are talking about!”  But then, so do most couples, I think.  We’re just more literal and immediate about it.

            Men and women were never meant to understand each other completely.  If women understood men completely they would invent machines to make the babies and spare themselves the hassle of putting up with us, and all they would ever need us for is to move heavy stuff and kill spiders.  I don’t want that.  I kind of like having ol’ Lizzie Lou around.  She does make me laugh.

            There’s nothing wrong with living in sweet blissful oblivion. 

            Here’s to all the sparkling conversation it provides.

Drawing the Line

             I think it’s important to do something completely unnecessary every once in awhile.  If only to break up the monotony.  Or, in its finer forms, to cheer somebody up. 

            The other day Liz was upset about something, I don’t honestly remember what it was, and she probably wouldn’t want me saying if I did, but I got something to eat, retired to the bedroom, rooted through her drawers and found a nice pink bra and a black spaghetti-strap camisole and put them on, went out to the kitchen and stood next to her at the table and put my arm around her and told how her pretty she looked. 

           

I admit, it isn’t the first time I have dressed in her undergarments.  Every once in awhile she needs cheered up, and struttin’ around the apartment in a bra and a black lacy top (when I am the one wearing them) is kind of like daring her to stay in a bad mood.  Daring her not to laugh.  It’s a challenge where she has yet to triumph. 

            Liz is, shall we say, full.  About the features.  So I don’t even have to stuff the bra.  It’s ready to carry lead, if need be.  It’s sturdy.  And it’s shapely without anything in it. 

I must say, I have it pretty easy.  Some guys have to yell at the tv, or chase a dog, or bark at trees, to break up the monotony.  All I gotta do is throw on her bra and a silky top and it gets her every time.  She’s mine.

So, I make the sacrifice every once in awhile. 

Though I do draw the line at wearing her underwear. 

That’s too much. 

That’s just offensive.  

Lizzie Lou at Her Finest

            I have said it before, that Liz is funniest when she isn’t trying.  Well, it’s true.  But there’s more to it than that.  She is at her absolute funniest when she isn’t trying at all, when she is asleep.

            Some people have night terrors.  Some people whisper awful secrets in the night.  Not my honey.  She makes sandwiches in her sleep.  And she conducts an orchestra.  And she plans parties.  “I’m gonna have a potato party.”  (eyes closed, big ol’ smile on her face)  “Everybody at the party gets a potato chip.”

            And sometimes she abuses me.  She punches me.  Slaps me.  She spits in my face.  My mouth, actually.  I couldn’t get mad.  It was frikkin’ hilarious.  I was laying there watching her, and she was chewing, though thank heavens she wasn’t clanging or grinding her teeth together, just softly going through the motions of chewing, and it was clearly something she didn’t like. 

            This horrid look of disgust crept across her face and I was already tensed up fighting back the laughter ‘cause I didn’t want to wake her up, she was too entertaining, but she finally decided to spit out the dreamland food and she spit right into my mouth.  I like to lay next to her and watch her dream.  It’s cutesy, I admit.  Romantic.  Occasionally magical. 

            Thing is, she’s never spat at me for it.  Much less a direct shot in the mouth. 

            There’s this Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner that’s been in our freezer for about nine months.  That’s right.  All over this planet, thousands of babies, millions, were conceived, carried, and delivered, bringing new life to this world, and we still got this Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner in our freezer.  It’s starting to get on my nerves.

            Clearly nobody wants it.  Everybody that lives here has had ample opportunity and nine months later has not yet made their move.  And even then, we’ve had all manner of hungry travelers pass through here, some of them daring souls.  And nobody has yet worked up the gumption to pick a fight with that Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner.  They know where it’s at. 

            And yet, nobody… if you think about it, nine months is approximately two hundred and seventy days.  For the sake of argument, let’s say the freezer door is opened ten times in one day.  Which is a screwball of a modest figure for this household, but, for the sake of argument.  Ten times.

            That means this freezer door has been opened no less than two thousand seven hundred times and that Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner has been rejected no less than two thousand seven hundred times and it has not yet developed a conscience and planned its own escape.  It just sits there. 

           

She was dreaming that she had finally broken down and nuked the Mexican Enchilada.  Once again shouldering the motherly, sacrificial role, she would suffice on what the others had tossed aside.  Only, even in the dream it was disgusting.  She took the first bite in her dream and I could see her face cringing and her tongue darting out between bites.  Clear sign I should have taken cover. 

            Instead, I laid there captivated. 

            And I paid for it.

Nightmare Therapy

            The other night Liz woke up from a creepy nightmare and moaned this weird guttural moan as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.  I was sitting at my desk a few feet away.  I didn’t know what was going on.  All I knew was she made this awful noise, sounded like an Exorcist version of “Ooooooh!” 

I asked her, “So the sixties weren’t good to you, huh?”

            She knows me.  She doesn’t mind such talk.  She ignored me.

            The last year and a half to two years I have had some reasonably serious issues with anxiety.  Panic attacks and whatnot.  For the longest time, I would have one of my moments and Liz would ask me what was wrong and I would answer, “Ooooh, just me.” 

            One night at the gas station I was standing outside the car and Liz was on her way in to pay and I asked her not to leave just yet and she said, “Having a moment?  Okay.  I’m here.”  So that became the lingo.  Having a moment replaced Just me. 

            Over the last few months I’ve gotten my meds straightened out with the doc, mild stuff, nothing serious, and I don’t really have panic attacks anymore.  I’m not sure you’d even call ‘em stress attacks.  It’s more like I’m all of a sudden a teenager in love for a few minutes at a time.  Heart starts racing.  My knees go funny.  Everything’s really important. 

            Is that what we’ve come to?  Teenagers get to fall in love, whereas we middle agers get a chemical imbalance but it’s alright they can treat that?  Makes me want to lash out and have a moment on purpose and make a mess and break something small and insignificant. 

            I wouldn’t, of course.  I’m not like that.  I’d just have to clean it up afterward. 

            You wouldn’t believe it, but this is how my mother single handedly destroyed my future in rock n’ roll.  I tried to be a rock guy.  I had the hair, the clothes, I learned the music, I learned to say things you don’t mean or generally haven’t thought out, I learned to avoid any assimilation with groups and productive members of society, I learned the power slide, I had it nearly perfected. 

            But when it came to trashing a hotel room, I just couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t bring myself to do it.  And it’s my mother’s fault.  “You made the mess, you clean it up!”  She still denies any blatant or specific campaign to thwart my rock n’ roll career, she says it’s just common sense.  “You made the mess, you clean it up!” 

            I’m old enough now, I can tell her, “Mom, I live with two teenagers, and that is not so common a philosophy.  These things that you keep carrying on about, common sense, manners, respect for those elders you mentioned…”  (I kid.)

            Anyway, this has become the new lingo.  Instead of, “What’s wrong, honey?  Just you?  Having a moment?  Are you in love with something?  Do I need to fetch yer medication?”  Now she asks me as she nods her head with a sort of pained but empathetic look on her face, “So the sixties weren’t good to you, huh?”

            I shake my head slowly to and fro.  “No they were not.” 

Nice Mellow Sunday Night

            Nice mellow Sunday night.  Watched a movie.  Liz is kicked back in bed reading a magazine.  Finally shut the air off and opened the windows.  We have a treeline right outside our window, so the nightlife is always a little rowdy with the critters.  A little Elton in the background.

            It was my idea, actually.  In all the time Liz and I have been together, she has chosen the music we listen to on something like five occasions.  And not because I insist.  She is just perfectly content with letting me handle that business.  One less thing she has to oversee. 

            So, just for the hey of it, I asked her to put in her Elton John cd.  Something different.  I was regretting the move during the first couple songs.  And I told her so.  She started singing along.  I told her, “Oh, that’s better.  Thanks for that, hun.” 

            But it picked up after the first couple songs.  Leveled out.  Good stuff.

            Took us about three years to have this time.  To establish this as part of our routine.  Taking an hour or so at the end of the day to hang out in the bedroom, just the two of us, talking. 

            We’re kind of like an old married couple in a handful of ways.  So far, just the good ones. 

            I was playing football and my team started suckin’ it up all of a sudden and I was cussing up a colorul storm, I admit, and calling them rude, presumptuous names, and offering commentary on the game for anyone interested.  After awhile of this, I told Liz, “It’s good to have someone to talk to.”

            I don’t normally talk to my computer.  Usually if I’m sitting at the desk playing football, it’s the middle of the night and she’s asleep.  So I don’t get to school her on the world of Tecmo Super Bowl. 

The last time I talked to her about football it was the middle of the night and I scored a touchdown after a hard-fought battle down the field.  I threw my hands in the air and forgot she was laying there asleep and I sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a big ol’ rumbling, “Woo-hooooooo!” 

She leapt out of bed, sort of.  She caught air.  Flopped around like a beached carp, flung her head my way and asked, “What in jimminy rickets?!” (one of our little pet phrases, so to speak) 

I pointed at the monitor and said, “Look, hun.  I scored!” 

She didn’t talk to me the rest of the night and when she finally opened up the next day, it wasn’t altogether friendly.  Evidently, my woo-hooing gave her a scare.  Well, I get excited about my football.  Sorry.

Money Troubles Never Looked So Good

            Naturally, Liz and I are having money troubles.  It seems to be a fundamental part of our life together.  It’s part of “our way.”  But it’s been a long and ugly year, and with everything else behind us, I am frikkin’ excited to get back to something as simple as money troubles.  Seriously.  I’m pumped.  I’m jacked up.

            Having been unable to work for six months, Liz is recovering nicely from her knee surgery and decided she was ready to go back to work and after six months she practically got out of bed with her choice of jobs.  From nothing to “Hmmn, let’s see, here.” 

            What can you do?  When it rains it pours.  When it pains, it roars.  And all the colored girls go, “Do do-do, do, do do-do…”

           

            So Liz goes back to work, the twins will be moving out soon and for the first time since we’ve been together it will just be Liz and I, the weather is frikkin’ gorgeous… I don’t normally get emotionally involved with weather, but this here lately has been enough to bring a grown man to tears of joy and triumph. 

            Particularly grown men that don’t like summer.  And with things turning hesitantly for the better, I had a crazy whim and decided to gradually replace my coffee with a decafinated and highly sugared cappucino mix.

            Just a few days of this and I’m already feeling like a teenager.  Literally, I feel better than I’ve felt since I was a teenager.  I didn’t think there was a wishing well out there man enough to grant me such a wish.  I figured the chance of ever saying, “…not since I was a teenager” had long since passed by forever. 

            Unfortunately, my sudden rejuvenation hasn’t done much for ol’ Lizzie Lou.  She’s doing a lot better, but she isn’t feeling like a teenager, exactly.  Not quite in her twenties, either.  Maybe a hard knock thirties.  Instead of dog years, them’s orphan Annie years.  Orphans got it rough, man. 

            Anyway, she’s glad to hear of my continued progress, but she doesn’t really want to hear it.  Which is perfectly understandable.  Besides that, it’s perdy dern easy to get into trouble saying, “Ya know, I feel great!” 

            “Oh yeah?  That’s good to hear.  I got a job for ya.  Come here.  Get over here.  No, don’t go that way, come this way.”  And the chase is on.  

            I had all this stuff I was going to get done tonight, but unexpectedly wound up babysitting.  It was only for about an hour, but an hour with Allie is something else.  You don’t just walk away and shrug it off. 

I don’t, anyway. 

I spend an hour with that beautiful baby and afterward I walk around light on my feet singing Beatles’ songs to myself and making sentimental phone calls and funny faces in the mirror.  And I get hungry for carrot cake for no good reason at all.  It’s awful.  I’m shameless.

           

Labor Day Weekend

            It’s been speculated that spring and fall are a little shorter every year.  This year fall lasted about five hours.  We didn’t get much to work with, but it was nice while it lasted.

            I swear, it was just a few hours ago that people were complaining about the heat.  I’m already hearing complaints about the cold.  It’s time like this that take me back to the day my uncle Lou slammed his own head in the bedroom door repeatedly and I wonder if it really was a freak accident, or if he was trying to make a statement of some sort.

            I had all these plans for today.  All of these piddly little things I had been meaning to get done all week.  But really it’s just too windy.  It’s too danged beautiful out there to bother oneself with unnecessary toil and labor.  I know it’s Monday and the Sabbath is done and over, but it’s also Labor Day.  An extended day of rest.  A nice weekend of rest.

            I know Labor Day is no Fourth of July, I just couldn’t help but to indulge a little holiday spirit today.  A little bit of patriotic fervor.  I even donned my bright blue socks for the occasion.  I’m not sure why.

            I guess because I’m proud to live in a country where a man can wear shorts and bright blue socks nearly up to his knees without excessive public ridicule.  Sure, they might point their fingers and laugh.  But nobody gets hurt or attacked over the deal.  Not over socks.

            Today is what Liz and I like to call one of them Psycho Days. 

            Awhile back, we were entertaining and Liz finished somebody’s thought for them, she blurted it out before they could spit it out, and Liz clearly then meant to say, “I should be a psychic.”  But, she didn’t.  Instead, she smiled real big and her eyes got wide and she yelled, “I should be a psycho!” 

            Indeed. 

            Naturally, everybody got a big laugh, including Liz.  Who wasn’t laughing at the same thing everyone else was laughing at.  We went on for awhile with Liz looking only at the possible benefits of being psycho and none of the disadvantages.  She finally caught on when I said, “Right!  ‘Cause everything would be cherries and rosebuds!  If you were a psycho?!”

            I could see in her eyes that she got it, but instead of acknowledging her mistake, she just went with it, and for the rest of the night, she was all, “Honey, if you’re going to the kitchen anyway, could you get me a glass of water, please?  I am frikkin’ psycho.  There’s no telling what I might do if I don’t get that glass of water.  You have to sleep at some point.”

Liz and I decided that day, sometimes it’s just best to leave well enough alone.  You don’t know how you wound up a psycho, or sleeping next to one, it just happens.  Might as well go with it.  Have a little fun.  Enjoy yourself.  The woman wants a water.

           

Meth and Soccer

             I’ve recently been going through some hard times.  Addiction.  Yeah.  Coffee.  I’ve got it under control.  I mean, I’m not performing unspeakable acts in dark alleys for coffee cash.  It’s not like that. 

            It’s just… I’ve been trying to quit. 

            It’s hard. 

            I’ve been going to meetings.  I’m not sure they’re doing any good. 

            I’ve been thinking about meth a lot lately.  And not in a flattering way.  I’ve been thinking about how I can’t handle coffee anymore—how is it meth fiends manage to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests in anger and starting a revolution?  I can’t say that I understand the appeal to meth.  But then, I don’t understand the appeal to soccer, either, and soccer’s huge.  Worldwide. 

            I say that jokingly, but there’s some strange similarities between the two. 

            Meth and soccer. 

            I mean, soccer for kids is one thing.  It’s fine entertainment for ‘em.  Grown adults taking it seriously, on the other hand?  That’s a whole ‘nother monster. 

            I know if a friend came to me out of the blue and I asked him why he was all sweaty and winded and he said, “I just ran thirty-two miles chasing a little checkered ball around,” my first reaction would presumably be drug-related.

            “I don’t understand.  Were the cops after you?”

            “No.”

            “You ran thirty-two miles and the police were not after you?”

            “No.”

            “You ran thirty-two miles chasing a little checkered ball around and the police were in no way involved?”

            “Correct.”

            I would just naturally assume he had to be on drugs. 

            I just don’t get it.  The only part of the game I feel like I can really understand is the rioting.  And not because I agree with violence or riots.  It’s just that, by the time something actually happens, people are so tense with anticipation they explode.  They’re ready to bring the house down. 

            “They scored!!!”

            “I know!!!  They scored!!!  Something actually haaappeeeeened!  Woooooooooooooh!”

            “This is aaawwesooooome!”

            “Let’s start a frikkin’ riiiooooot!  Wooooooooooooooh!”

             This is why I don’t like really suspenseful movies.  Never cared for the rioting.