Happy Anniversary, Baby!

Since Bill Dear tells me that today is our anniversary, and because we’ve agreed not to buy any gifts, I thought I’d better take several seconds to reflect on the highlights of our years together. And since I’m worse off than a redneck without a rear-window gunrack when it comes to poetry, I’ve decided to create something that leans a little more toward my area of expertise: a list. So here is my Top Ten List of Adventures From Our Eleven Years Together.

In the first months of married life, you totaled both the new car and my new husband. Insurance covered them both, but it turned out that replacement parts for theToyota were easier and cheaper to come by than parts for your knee. I expected to do a little redecorating when we got married, but it would have been less expensive just to buy you a nice recliner. And if you pop me with that cane one more time, so help me you’ll be using it as a designer toothpick.

A few years later we totaled the Toyota again – this time together, which explains why the Toyota dealer turns off the lights, draws the blinds, and puts out a sign that says VOLKSWAGEN whenever we drive by.

We survived the Great Rice Krispie Treat Incident. The year I was going to make homemade goodies for Christmas gifts, you left me alone while you went for a grocery store run to stock up on provisions. When you left, I was measuring cereal into a cup. When you returned, I was covered in a marshmallow and Rice Krispie coating, my hands were cemented together like mortared bricks, and the telephone receiver was attached to my hair like a possum baby clinging to its mama. You took the blame for leaving me unsupervised, a random act of kindness I could appreciate more if every Christmas you wouldn’t bellow, “If you’re making cookies, I’m calling 911!”

We bought a Queen-sized sleigh bed. Otherwise how would we fit two boys, three cats, a Dachshund with a diva complex, and the front half of a Labrador in one place to watch Who’s Smarter Than a Fifth Grader on Thursday nights?

You joined the Baptist Church. Who else would forsake the energy and excitement of the Pentecostals and the quiet dignity of the Lutherans to spend eternity singing the first, second, and last verses of every hymn?

I lost my job. I went from a liability to an expense faster than Batman can double park the Batmobile when my office downsized, an event that affected our bank account much like the Grand Canyon influenced the terrain in Arizona. You suggested clever cost-cutting measures such as selling the children to gypsies. The gypsies brought them back, demanded a full refund, and refused to pay a restocking fee.

You introduced me to cultural events to broaden my horizons. Now that I’ve heard him sing in person, I still think Leon Redbone is missing some teeth.

We merged closets. I didn’t know that when he's angry a man’s jaw muscle really jumps like a Jack Russell terrier like the romance novels described until I suggested you put all your belongings in the coat closet in the front room.

You got a dog. For someone that lived quite successfully in a pet-free bachelor pad for eight years and the quiet company of cats before that, bringing home a big, black dog was like inviting Godzilla home to sleep on the couch--and walking him through the streets of Tokyo every night at seven for exercise.

You became a GPS for my entire family. When my sisters and I got lost trying to get home from an amusement park an hour away from home and called you, giggling hysterically, from a restaurant where we stopped to consider our plight over plates of sugary snacks, you successfully directed us home by phone. Any other man would have hung up and changed phone numbers.

Cat-astrophe

While I was waiting for Celebrity Gossip to load over my dial-up Internet connection, I whiled away the time by licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper. It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats. This idea is known locally as Stupid.

Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Texas Longhorns.

I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before. They say experience is the best teacher, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.

At the time, a light bulb came on in my head, and I had one of those epiphanies you read about in the life stories of people who make a fortune selling their ex-wife’s wedding gown on e-Bay.

I would use Lucy’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s a Dachshund. Her puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have? Little did I know the wattage in my light bulb was way too low. Justin put out my little light with a power surge.

“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”

“Just one?”

“Well, make it a big one.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any spare Type O?”

After all I’ve done for that kid, he wouldn’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.

I also discovered that it violates the Feline Bill of Rights to give Kitty a bath or even, thoughtful as it may seem, to baptize him in the toilet. (Don’t ask. Remember I have kids.) I have so many scars, the doctor thought I had striped skin.

“Say, how many children do you have?” he asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Two. Why do you ask?”

“Either you delivered 137 children by C-Section or your obstetrician starts drinking very early in the day.”

After my adventures, it’s not odd that I’m taking a stand against trying to tame cats. If the good Lord wanted them to be domesticated, catnip would grow wild in my yard instead of ragweed and sticks.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the efforts of the City Council to rain down order and justice on an unsuspecting population. But it occurred to me that if we’ve advanced as far as cat confinement, it’s time to move on to more important things, like extending high speed Internet capability out to my house.

I’ve checked with the authorities about that Internet thing. I talked with a smug young man who speaks English as a fourteenth language and probably greases his eyebrows with olive oil.

“When do you think DSL will make it out to my house?” I asked chummily.

He laughed cruelly. Guys like this weed out the stragglers in the herd like a cheetah in its prime.

“About the time they tame cats.”

“Well, put me on the list. They’re about to vote it into law.”