“You’re a thief and a rogue.”
“I’m a people person!”
It’s kind of a glass half full discussion between species. The guys are playing Dungeons and Dragons with Bill Dear, a Dragon from way back.
One has lost an arm, one has been tenderized with a meat cleaver, and one has suffered a paper cut while filling out his character form. It doesn’t look good for propagation of the species. If Darwin’s theory is accurate, this planet is going to be populated by broadsword-wielding elves before I have grandchildren. Of course, if they look anything like Orlando Bloom’s Legolas in Lord of the Rings, I don’t have a problem with this plan.
So far it’s taken an hour to decide who’s who. The same thing happens every day with Hollywood royalty. If everybody there is two degrees from Kevin Bacon, these guys are all related to Mr. Ed, the talking horse. Here in the kitchen, I haven’t noticed anybody that’s liable to end up with a star on the Adventurer’s Walk of Fame.
One player gathers up all the dice and rolls. They hit the table and there’s more numbers scattered across the imitation woodgrain than on all the tombstones in a country graveyard. Everyone groans. Apparently the luck of the roll left our rogue out of the gene pool when it comes to strength. What we have is a tough guy that would lose in a street fight with Richard Simmons.
Another roll of the dice and the character has approximately the same IQ as a cabbage. I think the same thing happened with my Aunt Edna. She was always terribly sweet, but let’s just say the needle on her compass never pointed True North.
The characters are gathered around the table, eagerly poised on the edge of a great adventure.
I just hope they have a better compass than Aunt Edna or they'll never get out of the kitchen.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Bill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bill. Show all posts
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Lap of Luxury
“What’s this?” Bill Dear asked as I set a cup of coffee crumbs in front of him one morning.
“That’s your coffee,” I answered as I handed him an orange. “Here’s your juice.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I have prunes if you’d rather have that.”
“What’s that white stuff sprinkled on my toast?”
“That’s your grits. I thought they’d be easier to eat that way.”
“Did I leave the lid up in the bathroom again?” he asked as he peered at the coffee dust in his cup.
“There’s a drought on, in case you haven’t bothered to read something besides News of the Weird. This is just like the astronauts eat. Except you can’t have Tang unless you mix it with milk.”
“Can I have an egg?”
“That takes too much water to clean up. You can have an egg on Sunday. That’s our day to sprinkle.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already broken that rule. Am I allowed to brush my teeth?”
“Is it Sunday?”
“No.”
“Here’s some Dentyne. Knock yourself out.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“You should know that it’s our civic duty to conserve water during times of drought. We’re in a desperate situation.”
“Meaning. . . .” Suddenly his face lit up with understanding. “We’re not supposed to flush.”
“Only on Sundays.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean.”
“It says in the paper that you’re allowed luxury water usage, like loading up your Super Soaker so you can wipe out Mr. Zachary when he edges your tomatoes with his weed eater, every other day depending on your address. If you have an even house number, you get Saturdays. We’re odd.”
“I’d say so.”
“Count your blessings. Old Mrs. Finburne won’t let Ed take his Viagra.”
“Because it's a luxury?
“No. She says it’s a clear case of nonessential water usage.”
“That’s your coffee,” I answered as I handed him an orange. “Here’s your juice.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I have prunes if you’d rather have that.”
“What’s that white stuff sprinkled on my toast?”
“That’s your grits. I thought they’d be easier to eat that way.”
“Did I leave the lid up in the bathroom again?” he asked as he peered at the coffee dust in his cup.
“There’s a drought on, in case you haven’t bothered to read something besides News of the Weird. This is just like the astronauts eat. Except you can’t have Tang unless you mix it with milk.”
“Can I have an egg?”
“That takes too much water to clean up. You can have an egg on Sunday. That’s our day to sprinkle.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already broken that rule. Am I allowed to brush my teeth?”
“Is it Sunday?”
“No.”
“Here’s some Dentyne. Knock yourself out.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“You should know that it’s our civic duty to conserve water during times of drought. We’re in a desperate situation.”
“Meaning. . . .” Suddenly his face lit up with understanding. “We’re not supposed to flush.”
“Only on Sundays.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean.”
“It says in the paper that you’re allowed luxury water usage, like loading up your Super Soaker so you can wipe out Mr. Zachary when he edges your tomatoes with his weed eater, every other day depending on your address. If you have an even house number, you get Saturdays. We’re odd.”
“I’d say so.”
“Count your blessings. Old Mrs. Finburne won’t let Ed take his Viagra.”
“Because it's a luxury?
“No. She says it’s a clear case of nonessential water usage.”
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Naughty is Nice
I’ve found a flaw in this whole Santa thing. Not Santa himself, mind you. He’s all right, living it up at the top of the world, drinking hot chocolate and refereeing reindeer games. It’s the whole being good theory. Quite by accident I found an inconsistency. Kind of like the state of Illinois found in the Governor's office recently, but on a much grander scale. I didn’t want to say anything until I performed conclusive scientific testing in an environment where the integrity of my research could not be skewed by scientists or other cult members, but after several years of receiving actual gifts from Santa, I could hold my silence no longer. See conclusive test results below:
Year One (2006)
I forgot to pay the pastor’s water bill resulting in an untimely discontinuance of water service at the parsonage (although flushing privileges did resume shortly thereafter), I wore dirty socks several days in a row, and I faked a serious bout of semi-consciousness so that Bill would bring Lo Mein for supper.
I should have been sentenced to at least six months of intensive labor as Class Mom in Charge of Cupcakes, but I evaded charges and never even preheated the oven. This course of events could be due to the fact that the teacher was previously acquainted with my cupcake making skills and had a preparedness plan already in place, but for Christmas I received a generous amount of musical CD’s, clothes, and assorted goodies. This incident smacks of loopholes in Santa’s operating procceses.
Year Two (2007)
I bought tickets to the circus with the grocery money, forced my son, “Undeclared Major” to take a job, and ate all the candy that well-wishers brought for the office staff to share. Santa rewarded this display with a foot spa and an attendant elf to refill the water when it got chilled. (Bill Dear still refuses to wear the green elf-support tights, but you can’t beat him as a water bearer. I’m convinced he was born under the wrong sign.) Looks like Santa has a bug in his software, or he’s slipping. What is the mandatory retirement age at the North Pole?
Year 3 (2008)
It was a banner year for naughty at my house. I sideswiped hubby’s car and laid the blame on his lack of parking skills, I tried to pass fried liver off as sirloin on at least one occasion, and I took in another stray dog, thereby breaking the “one more animal in this house and we have to give up a child” dictate.
Santa outdid himself. Such piles of chocolates and treasures surrounded me on Christmas morning, I thought the Jolly Old Man had gone completely off his sleigh bells. He even brought me new pajamas dotted all over with clever pictures of smiling puppies with pink collars. Clearly something has to be done.
I suggest we give Santa a raise.
Year One (2006)
I forgot to pay the pastor’s water bill resulting in an untimely discontinuance of water service at the parsonage (although flushing privileges did resume shortly thereafter), I wore dirty socks several days in a row, and I faked a serious bout of semi-consciousness so that Bill would bring Lo Mein for supper.
I should have been sentenced to at least six months of intensive labor as Class Mom in Charge of Cupcakes, but I evaded charges and never even preheated the oven. This course of events could be due to the fact that the teacher was previously acquainted with my cupcake making skills and had a preparedness plan already in place, but for Christmas I received a generous amount of musical CD’s, clothes, and assorted goodies. This incident smacks of loopholes in Santa’s operating procceses.
Year Two (2007)
I bought tickets to the circus with the grocery money, forced my son, “Undeclared Major” to take a job, and ate all the candy that well-wishers brought for the office staff to share. Santa rewarded this display with a foot spa and an attendant elf to refill the water when it got chilled. (Bill Dear still refuses to wear the green elf-support tights, but you can’t beat him as a water bearer. I’m convinced he was born under the wrong sign.) Looks like Santa has a bug in his software, or he’s slipping. What is the mandatory retirement age at the North Pole?
Year 3 (2008)
It was a banner year for naughty at my house. I sideswiped hubby’s car and laid the blame on his lack of parking skills, I tried to pass fried liver off as sirloin on at least one occasion, and I took in another stray dog, thereby breaking the “one more animal in this house and we have to give up a child” dictate.
Santa outdid himself. Such piles of chocolates and treasures surrounded me on Christmas morning, I thought the Jolly Old Man had gone completely off his sleigh bells. He even brought me new pajamas dotted all over with clever pictures of smiling puppies with pink collars. Clearly something has to be done.
I suggest we give Santa a raise.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
As happens in many crumbling marriages, a factor in the divorce of Madonna and her husband, Mr. Madonna (she’s the one with the killer abs and fishnet hose, he’s the one planning a peaceful existence of solitude in an ivy-covered 250 room cottage in the English countryside) is their 500 million dollar net worth. I can’t help but compare their battle to the one Bill Dear and I would have if we ever called it quits. Contentious points in our settlement would include:
Custody of the dictionaries. We’re word people. This makes for a tough battle. The air will be thick with nouns, and adjectives will cover the walls.
Responsibility for cleaning the kitty box corner of the marital duplex before the security deposit can be recovered. I’d rather take out fire insurance and torch the place.
Subscription to Mental Floss magazine. This one is in Bill’s name. It doesn’t look good for Albert Einstein finding a place in my new pad.
Access to the recipe for Apple Bread. Bill makes bread Sunbeam would open a new division for, so I wouldn’t demand physical possession of the recipe. I just want visitation of the results.
Responsibility of the marital computer tech to repair and update all estranged computers for free. Because the blue screen of death makes me sad.
Ownership of the Disney videos. I brought 101 Dalmatians into the marriage and I’m not leaving with less.
Continued relationship with the extended marital family. Bill has fixed my family’s computers, arranged for repairs on everything from telephone lines to plumbing, and, initiated emergency garbage runs to the dump during the great fruit fly outbreak of 2001. My sisters would pack my belongings in a steamer trunk and set me adrift off the coast of Charleston with a bucket of shark bait before they would let him get away.
Proprietorship of the family fortune--a three liter plastic jar once bursting with cheese popcorn, now awash in pennies collected painstakingly over an eighteen month period. There would be more, but we keep digging into the stash for important life-enhancing substances like candy corn and Easter peeps.
Three McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces, two of which were good for a free order of medium fries in 1998.
The cast iron frying pan. Seasoned by years of campfire cooking and bacon grease massages, it makes the best gravy in the continental United States, outlying territories, and Arctic ice floes. In the Southern United States, the family’s cast iron frying pan is passed from generation to generation with the same care as the family Tupperware. I’d sooner part with the children than the frying pan. The frying pan requires less maintenance and never asks for allowance.
Unlike Madonna’s breakup, media coverage might not whip the ordeal into a frenzy of transatlantic proportions. But the SugarTit News and World Report might give us a call to see if somebody’s going to extend the subscription when we split. In our tiny, kudzu-covered corner of the world, our cancellation could put that paper to bed for good. For the future of freedom of the press and media in America, I guess we’d better stay together.
Besides, neither one of us is willing to take custody of the cats.
Custody of the dictionaries. We’re word people. This makes for a tough battle. The air will be thick with nouns, and adjectives will cover the walls.
Responsibility for cleaning the kitty box corner of the marital duplex before the security deposit can be recovered. I’d rather take out fire insurance and torch the place.
Subscription to Mental Floss magazine. This one is in Bill’s name. It doesn’t look good for Albert Einstein finding a place in my new pad.
Access to the recipe for Apple Bread. Bill makes bread Sunbeam would open a new division for, so I wouldn’t demand physical possession of the recipe. I just want visitation of the results.
Responsibility of the marital computer tech to repair and update all estranged computers for free. Because the blue screen of death makes me sad.
Ownership of the Disney videos. I brought 101 Dalmatians into the marriage and I’m not leaving with less.
Continued relationship with the extended marital family. Bill has fixed my family’s computers, arranged for repairs on everything from telephone lines to plumbing, and, initiated emergency garbage runs to the dump during the great fruit fly outbreak of 2001. My sisters would pack my belongings in a steamer trunk and set me adrift off the coast of Charleston with a bucket of shark bait before they would let him get away.
Proprietorship of the family fortune--a three liter plastic jar once bursting with cheese popcorn, now awash in pennies collected painstakingly over an eighteen month period. There would be more, but we keep digging into the stash for important life-enhancing substances like candy corn and Easter peeps.
Three McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces, two of which were good for a free order of medium fries in 1998.
The cast iron frying pan. Seasoned by years of campfire cooking and bacon grease massages, it makes the best gravy in the continental United States, outlying territories, and Arctic ice floes. In the Southern United States, the family’s cast iron frying pan is passed from generation to generation with the same care as the family Tupperware. I’d sooner part with the children than the frying pan. The frying pan requires less maintenance and never asks for allowance.
Unlike Madonna’s breakup, media coverage might not whip the ordeal into a frenzy of transatlantic proportions. But the SugarTit News and World Report might give us a call to see if somebody’s going to extend the subscription when we split. In our tiny, kudzu-covered corner of the world, our cancellation could put that paper to bed for good. For the future of freedom of the press and media in America, I guess we’d better stay together.
Besides, neither one of us is willing to take custody of the cats.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Fixer Upper
“Buying a house is like choosing which dog in the pack you want to bite you. You can choose between a big one that takes one big hunk of meat at wallet level or a little one that grabs hold of anything that dangles and hangs on. Either way, you’re broke.”
“So you’re not in favor of the idea.” I sighed. Low interest should apply to the mortgage, not the man.
“Well, we’re dangerously close to having extra money this month. I was afraid we might do something rash, like buying a bond or putting it in savings.”
I’m trying to persuade Bill to buy a house. A cozy little home of our own where we can raise kittens and cucumbers and drill holes in the wall any time we like. Actually it’s not buying a house that he’s against. It’s the description of the particular house I’ve discovered on my latest foray. “Handyman’s Dream” it said in the guide book. When I called, the realtor sounded giddy.
“I’d rather cover my seats with Viennese lace.” Bill didn’t really say that, but his actual comment, although rich in imagery, had the same odds.
“Think of the money we’ll save,” I said, ducking down and to the left as I turned on the faucet. An icy blast of water shot out of the sprayer attachment and nailed Precious, the cat, with pinpoint accuracy. I saw Precious make a mental note to poop on my pillowcase later in the evening. He’s held a grudge ever since the surgery, anyway.
“You mean in plumber’s bills?” he asked, phoning the landlord.
“In rent.” We could be making payments on a house we owned so we could retire.” I reached under the sink and turned on the hot water. A gush of steam erupted from the faucet like Old Faithful. Bill pushed the landlord’s speed dial button on his cell phone.
“We’ll need to save money so we can pay for our own repairs.”
“We’ll do everything ourselves.”
“You mean like when you hung that doily over the hole in the living room wall?”
“That was short term. You’re a great repairman.”
“I fix computers. There’s a big difference between replacing a sound card and snaking a toilet. Computer maintenance doesn’t require the use of a wrench big enough to wrap your upper plate around your tonsils.”
“No, but you have to deal with people who think a user’s manual is a book that teaches you how to take drugs. With this project, you’d be totally in charge. It would be exhilarating.”
“It would be exhausting.”
“You can go to the hardware store any time you like.” If there’s one thing men crave more than quiet at fourth down and goal to go, it’s sifting through tenpenny nails without a reason. That, and strolling through automotive departments to sniff the tires, but you have to draw the line somewhere.
"Good. I'll go look for riding lawn mower."
"Okay, dear," I twinkled, making a mental note to add a pantry and half bath to the new house.
When it comes to real estate, it's important to remember a few important terms. Negotiation is the most important one of all.
Now if I can just work something out with Precious to save my linens.
“So you’re not in favor of the idea.” I sighed. Low interest should apply to the mortgage, not the man.
“Well, we’re dangerously close to having extra money this month. I was afraid we might do something rash, like buying a bond or putting it in savings.”
I’m trying to persuade Bill to buy a house. A cozy little home of our own where we can raise kittens and cucumbers and drill holes in the wall any time we like. Actually it’s not buying a house that he’s against. It’s the description of the particular house I’ve discovered on my latest foray. “Handyman’s Dream” it said in the guide book. When I called, the realtor sounded giddy.
“I’d rather cover my seats with Viennese lace.” Bill didn’t really say that, but his actual comment, although rich in imagery, had the same odds.
“Think of the money we’ll save,” I said, ducking down and to the left as I turned on the faucet. An icy blast of water shot out of the sprayer attachment and nailed Precious, the cat, with pinpoint accuracy. I saw Precious make a mental note to poop on my pillowcase later in the evening. He’s held a grudge ever since the surgery, anyway.
“You mean in plumber’s bills?” he asked, phoning the landlord.
“In rent.” We could be making payments on a house we owned so we could retire.” I reached under the sink and turned on the hot water. A gush of steam erupted from the faucet like Old Faithful. Bill pushed the landlord’s speed dial button on his cell phone.
“We’ll need to save money so we can pay for our own repairs.”
“We’ll do everything ourselves.”
“You mean like when you hung that doily over the hole in the living room wall?”
“That was short term. You’re a great repairman.”
“I fix computers. There’s a big difference between replacing a sound card and snaking a toilet. Computer maintenance doesn’t require the use of a wrench big enough to wrap your upper plate around your tonsils.”
“No, but you have to deal with people who think a user’s manual is a book that teaches you how to take drugs. With this project, you’d be totally in charge. It would be exhilarating.”
“It would be exhausting.”
“You can go to the hardware store any time you like.” If there’s one thing men crave more than quiet at fourth down and goal to go, it’s sifting through tenpenny nails without a reason. That, and strolling through automotive departments to sniff the tires, but you have to draw the line somewhere.
"Good. I'll go look for riding lawn mower."
"Okay, dear," I twinkled, making a mental note to add a pantry and half bath to the new house.
When it comes to real estate, it's important to remember a few important terms. Negotiation is the most important one of all.
Now if I can just work something out with Precious to save my linens.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Taxing Times
Bill usually handles the Income Tax filing around our house. I’m not exactly sure why, except for the fact that when I was a single mom filing my own taxes it took three years, a letter to my State Representative, and a notarized document from the daycare to receive my refund. I can’t prove it, but I think the IRS secretly penalized me for correcting the grammar on their form. I personally think the word “short” is misused on that form, but they proved to be a little touchy about their paperwork.
Some years, depending how test comments are received, I offer to help Bill with the taxes. I probably won’t this year because I’m a recovering flu victim and I’m not up to the task of reprimanding the Sheriff for driving up on the rose bushes the way he does when he’s in a hurry. I only have the one live rose bush left, anyway. I’m almost as talented with plants as I am with taxes, except plants don’t give me any money back, even tomatoes which would save on my grocery bill if they didn’t attract unappealing insects, turn black, and die.
So, in the spirit of helpfulness and teamwork, I have devised a plan to help Bill out with the tax task without actually having to speak to him at all. I don’t like to converse with him directly during tax time because I feel responsible for the resulting medical bills. And hair loss. Besides, he has the Sheriff on speed dial.
I often compose lists for Bill to help him organize his household tasks. I know he is thankful because he immediately bows his head to pray when I hand him my latest composition. He is either thanking God for having such a helpful wife or trying to call Emergency Services on the sly.
This year, I have prepared a list of how not to get audited by the Internal Revenue Service. That should keep Bill on the straight and narrow and head off any trouble the IRS might be having in processing my refund. We’ve already seen how they can drag their feet over an extra dependent or two.
Anyway, the following is my helpful advice for avoiding an audit from the Internal Revenue Service:
1. Don’t tell the government if you make any money. That way they won’t keep trying to steal away with your meager paycheck. Honestly, it’s like two guys fighting over a muscle car with a bad head gasket. It looks good, but won’t get you very far.
2. Throw away all your receipts. The government can’t tax what they can’t find. Get rid of that pesky paper trail. Fire ants can’t bite your ankle if they can’t scale your foot.
3. Pretend to give money to charity. You have the best of intentions, right? Pledge a big ole number with a comma in it. You’ll get around to sending it someday. And when you do, be sure to remind the big guys about your gift of giving.
4. Send “Thinking of You” cards to the IRS every day during tax season. They're working hard. These folks need some recognition, too, right? It’s like a random act of kindness, only you get a check.
5. Send them an itemized bill for your refund. Keep all figures clear and concise. If there are important items that you don’t want them to miss, mark them in red ink to avoid confusion. These folks handle a lot of returns. Make yours easy!
And if you happen to see my husband wandering around the drug store with a fistful of BC Powders and a tub of Pepto Bismol, just send him back home. I have a list of things for him to do.
Some years, depending how test comments are received, I offer to help Bill with the taxes. I probably won’t this year because I’m a recovering flu victim and I’m not up to the task of reprimanding the Sheriff for driving up on the rose bushes the way he does when he’s in a hurry. I only have the one live rose bush left, anyway. I’m almost as talented with plants as I am with taxes, except plants don’t give me any money back, even tomatoes which would save on my grocery bill if they didn’t attract unappealing insects, turn black, and die.
So, in the spirit of helpfulness and teamwork, I have devised a plan to help Bill out with the tax task without actually having to speak to him at all. I don’t like to converse with him directly during tax time because I feel responsible for the resulting medical bills. And hair loss. Besides, he has the Sheriff on speed dial.
I often compose lists for Bill to help him organize his household tasks. I know he is thankful because he immediately bows his head to pray when I hand him my latest composition. He is either thanking God for having such a helpful wife or trying to call Emergency Services on the sly.
This year, I have prepared a list of how not to get audited by the Internal Revenue Service. That should keep Bill on the straight and narrow and head off any trouble the IRS might be having in processing my refund. We’ve already seen how they can drag their feet over an extra dependent or two.
Anyway, the following is my helpful advice for avoiding an audit from the Internal Revenue Service:
1. Don’t tell the government if you make any money. That way they won’t keep trying to steal away with your meager paycheck. Honestly, it’s like two guys fighting over a muscle car with a bad head gasket. It looks good, but won’t get you very far.
2. Throw away all your receipts. The government can’t tax what they can’t find. Get rid of that pesky paper trail. Fire ants can’t bite your ankle if they can’t scale your foot.
3. Pretend to give money to charity. You have the best of intentions, right? Pledge a big ole number with a comma in it. You’ll get around to sending it someday. And when you do, be sure to remind the big guys about your gift of giving.
4. Send “Thinking of You” cards to the IRS every day during tax season. They're working hard. These folks need some recognition, too, right? It’s like a random act of kindness, only you get a check.
5. Send them an itemized bill for your refund. Keep all figures clear and concise. If there are important items that you don’t want them to miss, mark them in red ink to avoid confusion. These folks handle a lot of returns. Make yours easy!
And if you happen to see my husband wandering around the drug store with a fistful of BC Powders and a tub of Pepto Bismol, just send him back home. I have a list of things for him to do.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Camping's Out
Several years ago, Bill and I agreed to take our two boys on a camping trip. The boys, who owned more electronic equipment by the age of two than I have in my entire life, felt that they had been rudely neglected and possibly abused because they had never been camping. They’ve never skinned a chicken either, but that’s beside the point.
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
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