Mexico is considering instituting a two-year marriage contract. After two years if everything’s not peaceful in the Garden of Eden, everybody walks away free and clear.
I’ve had cell phone contracts that were tougher. And with them I could upgrade to a newer model.
Somehow I can’t see trying to trade the Captain for more advanced service.
“So it’s been almost two years. How ‘bout I get an Admiral with handyman functions?”
“You want to trade?”
“Yep. I’d like to request somebody that puts soiled laundry in the hamper instead of piling it up in the bedroom like the dirty underwear Eiffel Tower. Somebody who doesn’t go all white around the mouth when I kiss the dog on the lips. Somebody who doesn’t think the term “Balance the Checkbook” means the weight of the receipts he’s saved in his wallet matches the weight of the groceries.”
“That’s quite a list. Anything else?”
“Sure. I want somebody that can put things in the grocery cart without a three-point shot from half court.”
“But he always gets it in.”
“The problem is that he expects everyone in the store to applaud. When he hit the honeybun shot from frozen foods, he wanted me to retire his jersey.”
“Are you sure you want to trade? I’ve heard he cooks, does dishes, and folds towels like a champ.”
“Well, yes. But he’s slowing down. Before long I’ll have to spend a fortune in replacement parts. You can’t get spare knees on e-Bay, you know.”
“You still have ten days to go. We’ll see how you feel then.”
I put on my tri-focals and marked the calendar. My memory’s not what it used to be. It would be just my luck to lose track of time, get stuck with the original model, and realize the power supply is shot two days after the warranty expires.
Laugh
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Friday, June 12, 2009
Trash Talk
I lobbed a blackened cabbage toward the trash can and groaned as it bounced off the side and spun across the linoleum. It sounded like an eighteen wheeler losing a retread at ninety miles an hour.
“I need a vacation.”
“You need a free throw coach. That was a terrible shot.”
Bill Dear and I have discovered that teamwork activities are a cheap form of marriage counseling. Cleaning the refrigerator may not seem like an exercise in compromise, but we’ve found that many of life’s problems pale in comparison to a quicksand patch of Mrs. Butterworth’s that’s about to claim the life of a helpless pot roast.
We are presently in the kitchen seated side by side in wooden chairs, facing what he calls the Rottery: three shelves of timeworn tuna, meatloaf meltdown, and a swamp of sweet tea that could support a pontoon brigade.
The whole affair has the engaging scent of a garbage barge on an extended search for a home port.
I handed him a largish hunk of something that once resembled cheese. “Okay, Michael Jordan. Your shot.”
He banked the object off a handy Labrador napping nearby.
“Swoosh! That’s how you do it.”
“No fair. You had an assist.”
“And you had a vacation. Remember last month? You stayed home for a whole week.”
“Five days at home with two flu-ridden kids is not a vacation. It’s an internship.”
He attempted a three-point shot with a stray Brussels Sprout. The Lab intercepted the object with a snap on the downward arc, swallowed the thing in one gulp, and looked accusingly at his Pop. He hates Brussels Sprouts.
“Sorry, buddy.”
With a sigh, Bo settled his chin on the floor between his paws.
“That’s the trouble with dogs. They’ll forgive you for anything.”
“That’s why we take them on trips in the car instead of our wives. If you would act nice, I’d let you ride to the dump with your head out the window, too.”
I popped him with a wilted celery stalk.
He pulled a Tupperware bowl from the bottom shelf. The lid was puffed up like a chef’s hat, and a peculiar life form was clinging to the inside like a fruit bat.
“Have we ever had anything that color?”
“I don’t think they make food that color.”
“Well, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He lobbed the offending container toward the trashcan.
The bowl dropped to the bottom of the can like a laser-targeted depth charge. The lid spun for a minute before rocking back into place. We watched silently, ready to run if an explosion seemed imminent.
Bill Dear leaned back with the self-assured air of an NBA star at a post-game interview.
“But if it’s packed in Tupperware and the top is rising like a shot from center court, save yourself the painful learning experience and throw the whole thing away.”
We closed the refrigerator door and stood up.
“So now can I have a vacation?”
“Sure. Come with me.” He picked up the trash can and held it at arm’s length. I’ll take you to the dump.”
“Now that's foul.”
He loaded the car and I watched as he headed down the driveway with the big Lab perched happily in the passenger seat.
I dropped into the chair at my computer to Google exotic vacation destinations. The cat padded across the desk and nestled in my lap.
"Well, Kitty," I purred as I typed in a verification, “If life is a basketball game, I'm about to be charged with traveling."
“I need a vacation.”
“You need a free throw coach. That was a terrible shot.”
Bill Dear and I have discovered that teamwork activities are a cheap form of marriage counseling. Cleaning the refrigerator may not seem like an exercise in compromise, but we’ve found that many of life’s problems pale in comparison to a quicksand patch of Mrs. Butterworth’s that’s about to claim the life of a helpless pot roast.
We are presently in the kitchen seated side by side in wooden chairs, facing what he calls the Rottery: three shelves of timeworn tuna, meatloaf meltdown, and a swamp of sweet tea that could support a pontoon brigade.
The whole affair has the engaging scent of a garbage barge on an extended search for a home port.
I handed him a largish hunk of something that once resembled cheese. “Okay, Michael Jordan. Your shot.”
He banked the object off a handy Labrador napping nearby.
“Swoosh! That’s how you do it.”
“No fair. You had an assist.”
“And you had a vacation. Remember last month? You stayed home for a whole week.”
“Five days at home with two flu-ridden kids is not a vacation. It’s an internship.”
He attempted a three-point shot with a stray Brussels Sprout. The Lab intercepted the object with a snap on the downward arc, swallowed the thing in one gulp, and looked accusingly at his Pop. He hates Brussels Sprouts.
“Sorry, buddy.”
With a sigh, Bo settled his chin on the floor between his paws.
“That’s the trouble with dogs. They’ll forgive you for anything.”
“That’s why we take them on trips in the car instead of our wives. If you would act nice, I’d let you ride to the dump with your head out the window, too.”
I popped him with a wilted celery stalk.
He pulled a Tupperware bowl from the bottom shelf. The lid was puffed up like a chef’s hat, and a peculiar life form was clinging to the inside like a fruit bat.
“Have we ever had anything that color?”
“I don’t think they make food that color.”
“Well, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He lobbed the offending container toward the trashcan.
The bowl dropped to the bottom of the can like a laser-targeted depth charge. The lid spun for a minute before rocking back into place. We watched silently, ready to run if an explosion seemed imminent.
Bill Dear leaned back with the self-assured air of an NBA star at a post-game interview.
“But if it’s packed in Tupperware and the top is rising like a shot from center court, save yourself the painful learning experience and throw the whole thing away.”
We closed the refrigerator door and stood up.
“So now can I have a vacation?”
“Sure. Come with me.” He picked up the trash can and held it at arm’s length. I’ll take you to the dump.”
“Now that's foul.”
He loaded the car and I watched as he headed down the driveway with the big Lab perched happily in the passenger seat.
I dropped into the chair at my computer to Google exotic vacation destinations. The cat padded across the desk and nestled in my lap.
"Well, Kitty," I purred as I typed in a verification, “If life is a basketball game, I'm about to be charged with traveling."
Friday, February 15, 2008
Watertight
It’s not that I don’t get embarrassed. There’s a name for the special shade of red I turned when my youngest son jumped the communion rail at church. But after years of doling out sermons on the subject, I’ve done the unthinkable, and I have the decency to feel a bit bashful about my lapse.
But since I’m 48 years old, I feel that I have earned the privilege to balance my walker on the wild side. So when I was wheeling my buggy down the aisle of the local Super Duper Market, I grabbed a bottle of water that was on sale.
That’s right. I paid for water. If Jennifer Aniston can do it, so can I. We have a lot in common, after all. She shaves one leg at a time just like I do. Except that she can afford laser removal and will probably stay silky smooth all her life, and I’m at the age when random hairs shoot out of various body parts with alarming frequency, requiring a doctor wielding lasers like Jesse James with a pair of six shooters to keep up.
Later, as Bill and I unloaded the groceries together, a little bonding exercise I like to call Marital Freezer Burn, hubby dear took the opportunity to lighten the mood with witty commentary. I kept busy trying to hide the bottled water beneath the Brussels sprouts. He’s a good sport, but he’s listened to so many speeches about money wasted on water over the years, the man is afraid to throw a penny in a wishing well.
“You got liver.” He made accompanying facial gestures that either indicated disapproval or suggested he had his boxers on backwards.
“It’s good for you.”
“I don’t eat internal organs.”
“Oh, it’s not to eat. It’s for a possible donor situation.”
“Very funny. What’re you hiding under the vegetables?”
“I’m not hiding anything. There are no secrets in our marriage.”
“What about the Johnny Depp poster you’ve got stashed in your women’s magazine?”
Drat. I planned an undercover Depp relocation for later that evening. “That doesn’t count. Besides, you’ve got Penelope Cruz stuck in that National Geographic in the bathroom.” I started edging down the hall with the grocery bag.
“What’s in the bag? Did you get saturated fat?”
“Yes. I’ll show it to you later.” I gave him what I hoped was a come hither look. “After the kids are in bed.”
“Did you drop your contact in the cat food again? You’re making that scrunchy face.”
I sighed. The hall was inches away. Trying not to draw attention to the grocery bag, I turned to saunter nonchalantly away.
“So. Is it a member of the crunchy fried family?”
“Ummm, I’d say it’s more smooth.”
“So it’s not pork rinds? You never get me anything I like.”
“Last week I let you have turkey bacon.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
“I’m looking out for your health.”
Sensing junk food on the horizon, the kids appeared from their room, the land where video games go to die. Hearing the rattle of bags in the kitchen, the dogs rushed past the boys to get their shopping day surprise, knocking the bag holding my clandestine purchase out of my hand and sending the bottle of storebought water rolling across the floor.
“What’s this?” (Why is it that gleefulness can sometimes be more irritating than being swerved Scampi with shells still on the shrimp?) “You’re cheating on the grocery budget with. . .SmartWater?” He was happier than a Collie in a cow pasture with all day free to roll.
I had the decency to harbor a bit of embarrassment. “Okay, I’ve been drinking SmartWater. But so far, it hasn’t helped.”
But since I’m 48 years old, I feel that I have earned the privilege to balance my walker on the wild side. So when I was wheeling my buggy down the aisle of the local Super Duper Market, I grabbed a bottle of water that was on sale.
That’s right. I paid for water. If Jennifer Aniston can do it, so can I. We have a lot in common, after all. She shaves one leg at a time just like I do. Except that she can afford laser removal and will probably stay silky smooth all her life, and I’m at the age when random hairs shoot out of various body parts with alarming frequency, requiring a doctor wielding lasers like Jesse James with a pair of six shooters to keep up.
Later, as Bill and I unloaded the groceries together, a little bonding exercise I like to call Marital Freezer Burn, hubby dear took the opportunity to lighten the mood with witty commentary. I kept busy trying to hide the bottled water beneath the Brussels sprouts. He’s a good sport, but he’s listened to so many speeches about money wasted on water over the years, the man is afraid to throw a penny in a wishing well.
“You got liver.” He made accompanying facial gestures that either indicated disapproval or suggested he had his boxers on backwards.
“It’s good for you.”
“I don’t eat internal organs.”
“Oh, it’s not to eat. It’s for a possible donor situation.”
“Very funny. What’re you hiding under the vegetables?”
“I’m not hiding anything. There are no secrets in our marriage.”
“What about the Johnny Depp poster you’ve got stashed in your women’s magazine?”
Drat. I planned an undercover Depp relocation for later that evening. “That doesn’t count. Besides, you’ve got Penelope Cruz stuck in that National Geographic in the bathroom.” I started edging down the hall with the grocery bag.
“What’s in the bag? Did you get saturated fat?”
“Yes. I’ll show it to you later.” I gave him what I hoped was a come hither look. “After the kids are in bed.”
“Did you drop your contact in the cat food again? You’re making that scrunchy face.”
I sighed. The hall was inches away. Trying not to draw attention to the grocery bag, I turned to saunter nonchalantly away.
“So. Is it a member of the crunchy fried family?”
“Ummm, I’d say it’s more smooth.”
“So it’s not pork rinds? You never get me anything I like.”
“Last week I let you have turkey bacon.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
“I’m looking out for your health.”
Sensing junk food on the horizon, the kids appeared from their room, the land where video games go to die. Hearing the rattle of bags in the kitchen, the dogs rushed past the boys to get their shopping day surprise, knocking the bag holding my clandestine purchase out of my hand and sending the bottle of storebought water rolling across the floor.
“What’s this?” (Why is it that gleefulness can sometimes be more irritating than being swerved Scampi with shells still on the shrimp?) “You’re cheating on the grocery budget with. . .SmartWater?” He was happier than a Collie in a cow pasture with all day free to roll.
I had the decency to harbor a bit of embarrassment. “Okay, I’ve been drinking SmartWater. But so far, it hasn’t helped.”
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