One with the Sun

I’m of the opinion that if you don’t see the sun rise over the ocean at least once in your life, you can’t get into heaven. Don't risk taking the chance that St. Peter will send you back for a field trip. It might not be on your bucket list, but it deserves a place on your sand pail and shovel agenda.

The Captain says today’s sunset is tomorrow’s sunrise, just earlier, so there’s no need to launch yourself out of bed when dew is forming on the newspaper just to see one. If you’re upset about the direction look at it in a mirror.

Our priorities are different. His are wrong.

Vacationing at the beach, I undertook to secure him a spot on the scenic side of the Pearly Gates when he finally goes to the big place computer techs go when they die, and although I’m uncomfortable mentioning Gates and computer technology in the same breath for fear of a licensing agreement infringement, I don’t mean a big room with a high speed Internet connection and a billion users who know how to synch their own Blackberry.

It was 7:00 a.m. The sunlight streamed in the window like it was on a video loop. The Captain’s face was one with the pillow and held the relaxed, peaceful air of a summer breeze in a clover-filled meadow.

Time to get up.

But how to facilitate the waking process without also calling the enemy to battle? He doesn't so much get out of bed as he does launch a ground assault on the day. After the last unpleasantness, I decided not to use the car alarm ploy again. The resulting excitement cost me the chance to see the sun at all that day.

I sat in bed, resting against the wicker headboard, celebrity magazine in hand. I try to improve my mind, even when my body is on vacation. You can’t fight too hard in the fashion battle. Flipping pages like they were fan blades, I glanced over at the victim. I’ve patented a look that will freeze jalepeno peppers, but out of love I set my eyes to stun.

No response.

I cleared my throat meaningfully.

No response.

I repositioned myself repeatedly due to an uncomfortable wrinkle in the linens.

No response.

Inspired by the sheets, I succumbed to a previously undiscovered allergic reaction to thread count.

With a snort, he turned to face the other wall.

Somewhere on another street, possibly in another town, an unknown hand flipped a switch on a small countertop appliance, and a dark beverage began a slow drip into a pyrex pot. Nobody gives a wake up call like Mr. Coffee. If they could train Captain Caffeine to sniff out bombs like he can track down freshly brewed coffee, he would always have a job as an airport monitor.

He sat up, sniffing the air like Smokey the Bear on the trail of three matchbook packing Boy Scouts.

I padded to the kitchen and returned bearing a cup filled with the drink that never sleeps
.
He burst from the bedclothes like Superman in toddler-sized tights. “So, wanna go see the sunrise?”

“Sure, but you’d better gas up the car.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d have to travel three time zones toward the west to get a glimpse.”

He took a long drink from his mug. Some women go their whole lives without the type of caress that the Mickey Mouse on that cup was getting. Captain Serenity leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“That’s okay. We’ll catch the one tonight. Got a mirror?”

He took a draw of coffee that made Mickey’s ears stretch, and shot a boyish smile at me from across the room.

Just my luck. I have a plan to get to heaven and he finds a secret door to Paradise right here on Earth.

Apple of my Eyetooth

Today, the sun finally peeked through the storm clouds long enough to make the daffodils bloom before the next cold snap mows them down like a serial killer on Sunset Strip. Definitely a sign from heaven telling us spring cleaning is in order.

Spring cleaning is probably a good thing to do at least once a millineum. So I scrubbed the bathroom fixtures, reorganized the bookcases, and scraped the ooky stuff from around the burners on the stove.

Hubby took the dog to the dump. No, he didn’t leave him there. The weekly dump adventure is their version of a father and son backpacking trip with the Cub Scouts. Plenty of male bonding with the added bonus of disgusting smells.

Bo is a Labrador-Dalmatian cross. He is born to be outside and happy to be riding along at top speed in the name of emergency resolution, even if the crisis involves getting the turkey parts to the dumping grounds before fumes overwhelm us.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the importance of the chore. But why does it take two hours to ride six miles? I know for a fact as they pull out of the driveway I won’t see them again until I’m scooping macaroni shreds and broccoli bits out of the drain.

It’s not that I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t seem fair that the dog gets to ride in the front seat.

Sure enough, just as I’m wiping the slimy stuff off the top shelf in the refrigerator, they reappear grinning like a pair of superheroes who have saved the world from coffee grounds.

“Thought I’d take Bo for a romp so we wouldn’t have to worry about walking him later,” Bill says, stopping in the kitchen to empty leftover dog treats from his pockets. He drops enough kibble on our kitchen table to feed a team of Iditarod Huskies.

If that’s the leftovers, I can’t image how much he used for the main course. When we go out to eat, he gets me the children’s meals. I’ve got a nice collection of toy surprises and some neat Disney collector cups.

“I see Bo won’t need any breakfast.”

“No, we stopped at the drive-through. He worked up quite an appetite.”

“I understand driving past huge containers full of rotting refuse will do that.”

"We took the recyclables, too.”

Scrubbing around the knobs of the oven with a toothbrush, I had a little difficulty focusing on the bigger picture. At the moment, “going green” was just another reason to throw out the cheese.

Just about that time, Bill stopped and took a good look at the kitchen. The sink was spotless, the stove sparkled, and the KoolAid stains had been bleached from the countertops.

“Uh oh. What did I do? It’s the two hour dump trip isn’t it?”

This dog’s been hunting long enough to smell a trap long before he’s hanging upside down by his hind leg.

“What makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, scouring the finish off the microwave.

“You haven’t cleaned this much since I forgot to tell you that I volunteered to take six loaves of apple bread to the Thanksgiving dinner at work.”

“And what happened then?”

“I learned to make apple bread.”

“So, you took off for two hours with the dog, who rides in the front seat with his tongue cleaning the pine sap off the windows, and you don’t get home until all the cleaning is done. What do you think is wrong?”

“You want me to make apple bread?”

I ponder this logic for a moment. I want him to help me empty the refrigerator drippings from the grease pit under the ice box. On the other hand, his apple bread makes the angels sing. You don’t get this kind of food in a Happy Meal.

“That’s right, honey,” I said smiling.

“Well, Bo and I worked hard this morning and I’m worn out. Let me take a little nap and I’ll make you a double recipe.”

What can I say? Sometimes it’s best to let lying dogs sleep.