Splendor in the Grass

Have you ever watched The Pioneer Woman on the Food Channel?

At the beginning of every show, Ree Drummond tells us, “Here’s what’s happening on the ranch today” and it always proves to be something that necessitates the preparation of several fabulous beefy, buttery, or sugary dishes wherein calories or fat content are not a consideration.

Shortly after our youngest daughter got me hooked on the show, I read an article in The NYT about the editor of one of the glossy women’s magazines being so inspired by The Pioneer Woman that she quit her job and moved her family from New York to an English farm in her husband’s family.  I’ve never hankered to live someplace that it’s best not to name the farm critters and I’m perfectly content to answer, “Not much” when anyone asks me what is going on at the Lee house.   But perhaps I should bring out the butter because much has been happening around here in the past two weeks or so.

Dearly Beloved decided, after more than a dozen years of having someone else handle our lawn maintenance, that he wanted to do it himself.   He broke the news to the lawn guy and then the fun was on.  While Ree refers to her husband as “the Marlboro man,” mine is the anti-shopping man, so he planned to do it all without setting foot inside a store.

First he ordered a tiller/edger/whatever.  He was ecstatic when it arrived, and assembled  it that same day so that he could till and over-seed all the thin spots in the lawn.  He wanted to be ready for his next internet purchase, a lawn mower.

We don’t have a large yard, so nothing fancy was needed, but still, I would have thought he’d have looked for something in the key-starter, self-propelled direction.  Oh no, he wanted one that would be “manly exercise.”  Not that I’m opposed to that, but it does mean that if he breaks an ankle or gets the flu or something, the grass will have to wait  because The Little Woman won’t be stepping up to the rope starter pull.

A few days after he ordered it, I said, “There’s a UPS truck.  Maybe it’s your lawnmower.”  

He scoffed.  “That baby won’t be coming in a dinky UPS truck.  It’ll be arriving in a SEMI!“

While waiting, he contented himself with buying a chainsaw and, of course, watching the grass grow.  His manly mower finally arrived, not in an 18-wheeler, but still something larger than a UPS truck.  Oh, the joy…!

Manly machine delivery.

Said joy was short-lived when he began assembling it and found that one of the wheels had been damaged in transit.  He called the factory and they promised to send out a replacement wheel that same day.

That wasn’t fast enough. . .  he got out the duct tape.

The new one arrived Wednesday, but so did the rain.  He hasn’t been able to try it out yet with all four wheels, but he’s handling it well.  All this rain is sure to give him more to mow.

When he started looking into chainsaws, he mentioned that he’d better get a gas-powered mower because sometimes it was unsafe to be climbing trees with an electric one.

I called the tree-triming folks yesterday.  They wanted to know was it an emergency.

Could be.

“The sky is blue so we know where to stop mowing.” – Harold Stone

Let Me Count The Ways

Since my Dearly Beloved and I are, and always have been, Total Opposites (deserving of capital letters) it stands to reason that we would have different skill sets.  That became more apparent than ever during the recent moving process.   I’ll just say modestly that while I rose to the occasion, Dearly Beloved was often clearly out of his element.

Lest you think I’m bragging, let me point out that I’m not talking high finance or brain surgery, but things like how to arrange furniture, for instance, or color selections… what to keep and what to give away.  In some of the areas, he assumed he had expertise. ( I am speaking of a man who chose navy and mauve furnishings for every office he ever had… and spent less than five minutes making the selections, probably.)  Because I mull these things over beforehand, my decisions are usually more …um… thoughtful.

I know to blot, not rub a stain… to prune azaleas after they bloom… that one can refreeze bread… that a microwave has settings other than popcorn… In blunt terms, I know the same crap other homemakers know because I’ve done it for a long time.

One day we were riding in the car and although I can’t remember the particular incident,  he acceded to my suggestion over something, acknowledging that my idea was better.  The man who never utters a profane word, said in exasperation, “I don’t know SHIT, do I?!”

“You know STUFF,” I assured him.  ”You just don’t know SHIT.”

It has become his mantra.  He tells the neighbors that he knows “stuff.”

Just stuff; no s-h-i-t.   He spells the word in the telling.  Then he points out to the guys that they might be similarly handicapped.

One of the areas in which he is most deficient is the concept of nesting.  He can build a nest egg. but how to nest a cluster of objects clearly mystifies him.

When he retired, he announced that he was taking over the unloading of the dishwasher, something we’ve heard that many retired husbands do.  (Loading the dishwasher apparently requires more advanced skills.)

Emptying the dishwasher is simple.  Putting it away properly has proven to be beyond him.  I even rearranged drawers to try to make it logical for him.

• This drawer is only for utensils I use at the stove:  wooden spoons, ladles, etc….  I
• If it’s an unfamiliar utensil, it’s probably something I use in preparation– rubber spatulas, turkey basters, counter scrapers… so put those in THIS drawer.
• Knives have their own drawer.

It didn’t work.

The cabinets are even worse.  Some have glass doors, but I keep the junky plastic items– measuring cups, mixing bowls, colanders, and some of my larger Tupperware containers and lids hidden behind solid doors.  Smaller containers and lids go in a deep drawer in the butler’s pantry.  To keep the assemblage neat and functional, one must sometimes take an item out to put a larger, but similar item under it.  That, my friends, is what I call nesting.

Exhibit A.

 

Exhibit B.

-             –             –           –              -            -            -           –             –           -

The pots and pans fare no better.  Sometimes a small saucepan lid is lost for weeks in the bowels of the corner cabinet where it’s been dropped inside a Dutch oven or behind the double boiler.

I, who am not known for my neatness,  despaired.  I e-mailed several friends who’ve told me that their husbands unload the dishwasher at home.  Possibly, I could send DB for lessons.

One sent back a photo of pots and lids lined up on the counter–her husband’s idea of unloading.  A second explained that yes, her husband unloads the dishwasher, he doesn’t put the items in cabinets because that requires skill of a level equal to that of loading the dishwasher.  Ahhh.  A third simply sent a photo of a carton of milk in a pantry.  ???

Their husbands, like mine, know stuff.

But–you guessed it… they don’t know shit.

I’ll drink to that!

-             –          -           –           –           -

Happy Valentine’s Day, Dearly Beloved.  I love you.

Autumn

In the opening scene of the old movie, Hopscotch,  Walter Matthau, with his droopy, basset hound mug, looks around an outdoor cafe and strides over to an attractive woman (Glenda Jackson) who is sitting alone at a table.  She shows no sign of recognition, but nevertheless,  he bends down and kisses her lustily.

When he steps back, she asks in her dramatic British voice, “Where have you bee-e-n, you Old Goat?!”

I use that line often (with or without the kiss) on Dearly Beloved and have been advised that some of my blog friends are starting to wonder the same thing about me.

During my own “aging spurt” this summer, the extended service contract on my laptop, Granny Smith, expired.  Within weeks, Granny had an aging spurt of her own.  I would turn her on, only to hear three warning foghorn-like blasts.  I’d quickly turn it off and try again.  She’d eventually start, but a grey shade would fall over the screen and a black box would appear with an ominous warning.  In few words and about a dozen languages,  it advised me to shut down my computer immediately.

I left her with the Genius Bar folks for several days and was less than satisfied when she was returned to me.  The fog horn still blew sometimes, the scary black box still appeared, but now Granny had developed a new tic:  she would drop the first letter of every word.  For instance, when I could finally manage to get her started, she’d demand the assword for ary ee.  

I have bellied up to the Genius Bar several times since then.  The last time she went in for an overnight stay, they either inserted two new sticks of RAM or rammed in two new sticks of something else.  I can’t remember what they said.  Perhaps it was B-12.  At any rate, she’s still ornery, but working better, so here I am.

I’d better write fast.

Miss Piggy, too, is feeling her 16 years.  She can hear only the loudest sounds now and cataracts have clouded her brown eyes.  We have always thought of her as…um… not smart, but are rethinking our opinion.

She doesn’t beg to go out, we have to beg her.  We stand in front of her dangling her leash and gesturing wildly.  Eventually she relents and agrees to accompany us.  Once she’s on the sidewalk, she enjoys it, sniffing the leaves and grass, ever hopeful that someone has dropped a crumb or crust.

We try to get her to go outside frequently to prevent the leaks that sometimes appear on the rug.  Arrgh!  She won’t squat in wet grass for me unless I stand in it with her, as if she is demanding that I realize what I’m asking her to do.  DB is cleverer; he simply gives her a treat whenever she produces.   That dog can duckwalk in a full squat the full width of the front yard, trying to convince him that she’s Beggin’ Strip-worthy.

She refuses the chewable tablets for her leaks and her joints unless we encase them in Pill Pockets, along with a pain pill for her arthritis.  She ignores her dry food unless we serve a sauce, like warm beef broth.  The liquid from a can of tuna is her absolute favorite.

Dramatic as ever, she wanders the house at night, wailing and moaning loudly as she looks for places to hide her chew bones from unseen thieves.   She snores.  She smells.

She melts our hearts.

Dearly Beloved and I have thought this autumn to be especially beautiful.  We smell the roses, crunch the leaves, and enjoy morning coffee in front of the fire instead of obsessing that the house needs painting, the bathroom needs updating, and the shrubbery is reaching for the power lines.

We love mornings, but bedtime is pretty darned nice these days.  After years of lecturing to me that the bed was for only two things, neither of which was reading,  DB now goes to bed early because it has become his favorite place to read.

I try not to be smug.

Carpe diem?  Of course!

It’s just that now, we also carpe naps.

Get the Picture?

When I was born, one of my mother’s aunts (the one after whom I was named) began a photo album which she gave  to me when I was 13. . . a very wise move, since by then I was all knobby knees, frizzy perms,  braces, and terminal camera-shyness.

The album was a lovely idea.

The photos, all black and white, were taken in the days of boxy Brownie cameras and one-time usage flashbulbs which bubbled and popped and temporarily blinded a generation of startled babies.

I realized later that, although the album was full of photos,  it wasn’t exactly a pictorial diary of my childhood.  My aunt lived in another town, so the occasions that she visited and remembered to bring her camera weren’t that frequent.  A dozen or so photos of me as a baby show me in a sunsuit lying on a blanket on the front porch, along with another dozen or so of me as a toddler in a snowsuit.  A couple of pages were full of my cousin Margaret and me about 3 or 4, wearing the same plaid dresses in every picture.  After that, it skipped to a spring when I was 7 or 8.   I can tell that it was Easter by the corsage pinned to my jacket (which was called a “topper”) and my sporty white tam.

Welcome to the pre-digital camera age.

I got through childhood in four outfits.

When Dearly Beloved and I bought an expensive 35mm camera, digital cameras were already becoming popular, but we were purists.  Besides, DB was mightily impressed that big green camera case on a strap around his neck made him look so official that a press pass would have been superfluous.  He assumed the role of Photographer Pompous Presidentus.

He bought a magnifying lens after an impressive demonstration by the sales clerk allowed  him to read the Do not leave child unattended warning on a shopping cart left in the back of the parking lot across from the store.   I doubt that the lens cap was ever removed from that sucker.

Nevertheless, DB’s photography sessions mimicked my aunt’s except that his rarely included people.  The envelope of photos he’d probably have called Cardinal, would have been more aptly identified as Red Dot on a Branch.

The camera broke, the manufacturer went out of business, and we bought a Point and Shoot in which DB has absolutely no interest.  BUT, even though he protested when Good Egg Son gave him an iPhone for his birthday, he has surprised us by becoming an iPhone Fiend, regularly e-mailing pictures, especially to our kids.

Many are taken while walking on the beach.  He called this one Mother and Daughter in the subject line of his e-mail and included a note that he’d asked the woman’s permission before he snapped it.

Slacker explained the marijuana haze just ahead of him as he walked back to his car.

DB is merciless about sending pictures of sailboats and ocean waves to our son and SIL’s… during their working hours, of course.  They’re clearly recognizable as boats, not dots on the sea.   This one looks like an oil canvas to me.

Here’s  my current favorite.  He took it a couple of weeks ago, looking out the sunroom windows.  He thought of it as Reflections.

Thinking back to that red dot on the branch, I’d call it  Enlightened.

I hate cameras. They are so much more sure than I am about everything.
John Steinbeck

How can a society that exists on instant mashed potatoes, packaged cake mixes, frozen dinners, and instant cameras teach patience to its young?
Paul Sweeney

Mrs. Dude Abides…Barely

Dearly Beloved gave me a birthday break when he let me post his stories about his cattle ranch/college days.  Not that I post regularly anyhow, but having something new without having to write it was fun.

DB was grateful for your compliments and your comments about starting a blog of his own, but I can’t imagine him ever wanting to do so.   His writing these days is mostly in the form of e-mails to family.

His notes to our son and sons-in-law and their responses can sometimes be hilarious to me when he shares them, even though I don’t speak their language.  Phrases and wisdom from The Big Lebowski are common, but repetitive, since there is little quotable material from that movie which isn’t laced with f-bombs.  Such pithy statements  as this aggression will not stand, man… special lady… dabbling in pacifism… adult beverages… the dude abides… and most certainly, the concerns about peeing on the rug. Peeing on the rug was an act of aggression in the movie.

I feel responsible for their obsession, since I was the one who spotted the review of the movie about 14 years ago and thought it was something DB might enjoy.  I remember walking out of the Minneapolis theater with an apology for selecting such an awful movie on my lips when DB, gushed something like, “That was one of the best movies I’ve ever seen!  I can’t wait to tell the guys (son and SILs) about it.“

The movie, written and produced by the Coen Brothers, is supposedly based on Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.  Lebowski became a cult favorite long after it was released and spawned books and blogs about it. There’s Duderonomy,  a Dudespaper, and even Dude conventions.   Thankfully, DB has not gone that route, but Lebowski still has a place of honor in our house.

Some of DB’s notes are about retirement, as in, “I’m having an adult beverage and watching basketball.  How’s work today?”  He also imparts wisdom on marriage and life in general.

Here’s one he shared with me last week:

Subject: Learn from the Master

Tomorrow is the wife’s birthday.  She’ll be 51.

I’ve made a few bad choices on her presents over the years.  The crockpot year, Newark Airport gift shop picture (which she hung over the toilet), and there’ve been others.

This year I’ve hired someone to clean the outside windows, rather than me.  They’ll be here Monday.

She’ll be thrilled.  I’ll give you a report.

          Elder dude

I was thrilled, (a) that the windows were going to be cleaned and (b) that DB wasn’t going to get on that ladder himself.  It was raining last Monday, so the window washer didn’t come.  Looks like this Monday wasn’t good for him either.  Still, if it keeps DB off that ladder, I’m willing to wait.

In the meantime, it’s our inside windows that are looking worse every day.  They’re filled with nose prints.  We have been keeping granddog Ivy for a couple of weeks and she has taken it upon herself to be on full squirrel alert.  She stands, nose to the windows, and when she sees a damnsquirrel she races to the door to go outside and chase them away.

Think I don’t love that?!

DB has enjoyed every minute of her visit.  Having an active dog around, especially one with a personality like Ivy’s, has delighted him.  They go on long walks together.  They play ball.  Ivy sleeps by his side of the bed.  He dreads having to take her back to her peeps.  

Recently, I was seated on the sofa working on my laptop, my feet on the coffee table.   Dearly Beloved was sitting on the loveseat at a right angle to me.  He wanted a glass of water, so he stood and nudged my legs with his knee, saying, “Will you move your legs for a minute so that I can get by?”

I looked up, surprised.  It was much easier for him to go in the other direction. There was a wider path and my legs weren’t blocking it.  But wait… I looked down and saw that Ivy was lying on the floor and knew instantly what he was doing.

“You’re asking me to move so that you won’t have to disturb the dog, aren’t you?”

Mr. Romantic looked around and realized sheepishly that,  ”Uh… yes.  I guess I was.” 

Honestly!  It’s a good thing the man does not wear a toupee.

I’d be tempted to pee on his rug.

Oh, Fudge!

To say that we are not social butterflies is an understatement.  As mentioned before, Dearly Beloved’s idea of entertaining is to sit out on the front porch and if anyone walks by that he wants to chat with, he’ll invite them up for a glass of iced tea.

We don’t have a front porch.

I, on the other hand, would love to have warm, elegant, memorable dinner parties except for the planning, the cleaning, the shopping, the cooking, the dressing, the cleanup, etc., so the front porch option is fine by me.

Our neighbors Beau and Boo called last week and invited us over for dinner so that somebody (that would be us) could see the Christmas tree he hadn’t wanted to put up in the first place.  He told DB not to dress up, since the menu was going to be bread and water unless he could catch a squirrel.  Hah!  Sort of an iced tea invitation, only we get to go inside.

Then, lo and behold, two other neighbors mentioned having us over and I began to think, “YIKES!  Hostess gifts!”

To digress for a minute… Dearly Beloved and I had our annual Christmas shopping/lunch date last week.  Never mind that we had no shopping plans.  If the car is parked in a mall, it counts as a shopping trip in DB’s book and he’s good for only one such trip per year.  Since we have our annual lunch at the Cheesecake Factory at the mall, the car park qualification was in force even though, technically, we weren’t in the mall because the restaurant has a separate entrance.   DB asked our server to take a picture to send to our kids as proof that “I took your mother out to lunch.”

My friend Beanie had mentioned last week that she couldn’t find the digital candy thermometer her daughter-in-law wanted for Christmas, so I thought that since DB and I were at the mall anyhow, I could look for one… venture inside the mall.

DB parked himself in one of the mall lounge chairs outside the kitchen shop. That, too, required a photo for Mr. Goody Two-Shoes’ report to the kids.  ”I’m shopping.”

I kid you not.

My cellphone rang just as the sales clerk handed me the bag with the thermometer.  It was Beanie, telling me that she’d ordered one via the internet.  I could have returned the thermometer right then, but I brought it home instead, deciding that with this flurry of social engagements, I could make fudge for everyone.  Perfect fudge– with the new digital thermometer.

I started with buttermilk fudge.  I’ve never had it and don’t like buttermilk, but I had some left over from an earlier recipe, so I started with that buttermilk fudge recipe.  I melted the sugar and got the mixture boiling and, with the digital thermometer set to 240 degrees–soft ball stage–and clipped to the side of the pot, went about my business.

DB was the one who eventually called out, “What is that funny noise?” and I ran into the kitchen where a wimpy beep beep wasn’t nearly as loud as the charcoal-smelling, tar-like concoction bubbling on the stove deserved.  I knew it was a failure, but nevertheless, tried to taste it to determine whether or not I even wanted to try another batch.

Although I blew on the stuff before I put the spoon to my lips, the goo on the bottom of the spoon stuck to my lower lip and the rest epoxied my teeth with a rugged brown glaze.  I rushed into the bathroom to chisel the stuff off my teeth.

It was not an easy task. In fact, had I gotten some on my upper lip, my mouth would surely have been super-glued shut.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, I was able to lift the entire pot of brown cement by the spoon standing upright in the middle where I’d thrown it in my haste to get to the bathroom.

Regardless of the digital temperature, the white knot in the center of my lower lip told me that the stuff had reached hardball stage.

No fudge for my hosts,  but they’ll be able to make their own.  I just need to wrap this fancy digital candy thermometer….

Won't budge fudge.

This One?

There is nothing like the beach for one’s health, so that is exactly where I asked Dearly Beloved to take that annoying dog of ours so that I could stay here and sleep through the night and get rid of my creeping crud.

The final straw in her nighttime annoyances routine happened when I had to take her outside at 3 AM and I heard voices from across the street.  Earlier in the week it had been five ladies jogging, but this time, three teenaged boys in hoodies were walking down the block, laughing and talking.  While I thought of calling the police, I did not.  They weren’t being furtive or casing the neighborhood as far as I could tell.  I don’t know whether we have a curfew or not, so the only obvious charge I could think of was “poor parenting.”

The next morning I asked Dearly Beloved to think about getting Miss Piggy out of the house for a few days.  Nudged into selflessness by the sunny, low 70′s weather reports on the coast, he agreed that a trip to the beach–theirs–might be good for me.

Thoughtful husband that he is, DB assembled the supplies he thought I might need before he returned:  he brought down the Christmas decoration boxes from the attic and set up the ironing board for me.

DB and Miss Piggy hit the road, I slid the boxes under the ironing board, then plopped on the sofa, and everybody was happy.

A couple of days after they left, I roused myself, thinking to at least set up my mother’s old ceramic tree with the lightbulb inside.  I picked through the boxes, looking for the “FRAGILE” marked box.  When I couldn’t find it, I called DB.

He said he’d probably left it in the attic–he could picture it in his mind now, straight ahead if I went up the steps.  Normally, I don’t “do” attic stuff, so I said I’d wait until he got back.  However, even I got a whiff of wussiness from myself, so as a matter of pride,  I pulled down the old disappearing stairs to find the darned box.

Those suckers are into their seventh decade and “glide” isn’t a word that came to mind during my efforts.  In previous houses, it was a one-motion thing… pull down the door, unfold the steps, and start climbing.  THIS contraption has a latch at the base of the stairs which has to be undone in order to release the actual stepladder.  There is no folding.

I wasn’t expecting that, so I was pulling on a wooden stairway that refused to move.  In the meantime the entire heavy door contraption is sort of, well… dangling.  Finally I noticed the latch and with some effort, popped it to unleash the stepladder.

By that time, the door had been at so many angles, I didn’t know which one was the correct one.  It didn’t seem to have a set point.  I tried the steps at several different points on the floor before they felt sturdy enough to climb.

I was about 2/3 of the way up when I heard a loud pop and something metal made a spinning noise.  I’m not sure exactly why I climbed UP the Hindenburg instead of going back down. I quickly plopped on the attic floor with my feet hanging into the hole to assess the situation.  It was possible I could be there awhile. Days, even.

I looked around and saw the ceramic tree box right where DB had said it would be and crawled over to pull it toward me.  I noticed a box of old framed photographs and pulled it back to the opening with me also. I lost myself in old family pictures, delaying my er… departure.

The phone rang.  I decided not to chance a quick descent to get it.  In fact, I was none too sure about a slow descent either.

I saw a small metal pulley jiggling on the left side, the source of the POP,  and could see a broken rope hanging down. That didn’t look like something that would make the whole thing fall, so I decided to make a run for it.  At first I wanted to take both boxes, but the mental picture of myself going down with boxes in each hand wasn’t working for me, so I abandoned the idea and carefully climbed down with only the tree in hand.

I set down the box, shoved the steps back into place, then pushed the doorway toward the ceiling.  It rose like an elevator, then stopped… about 18 inches shy of the ceiling.

I wiggled the door slightly, then pushed again.  Nothing.

This is embarrassing, but my solution was to e-mail my knitting/reading group for advice, as none are short of opinions.  The best one this time was, “Call a neighbor.”   However, among the immediate neighbors, it’s usually DB that gets called.

I did, too.  I took photos of the dangling rope, the jiggling pulley, and the gaping attic door and e-mailed them to DB.

He knows me.  He really, really knows me.  He called and told me to make certain that the springs on either side of the steps weren’t catching on anything to impede closure, then asked, “Could you have left a box close enough to the opening that the stairs can’t lie flat?”

Gulp.

“UM… maybe.”

I told him I’d go check on that and get back with him later.

“Ohhhh no,” he said.  “Take the phone.  I want to go with you.”  

Of course the box of pictures was directly in the path of the staircase, so I pushed it to the side, descended the steps, and sure enough the door closed smoothly and tightly.  Never again!

Then I remembered the phone– still lying on the attic floor. I had to open the door, remount the steps, and grab the cordless phone.  DB was still on the line, of course.

When I wrote the post recently about DB’s shopping experience–the one where he kept phoning me from the store for instructions–he called from the beach and said drily, “You know… that’s not the story I expected to read.”

Might it have been this one, DB?

Only one pulley pulling...

Repeating the Sounding Joy

Since the creeping, croupy crud still has me in its grip, Dearly Beloved volunteered to go shopping for me Monday.  Let me hastily clarify that by “going shopping” I mean driving to a toy store– not a chain giant, but a local store in a nearby shopping strip– to pick up an item I’d ordered.  They’d called to say that their shipment had arrived.

DB is not a stupid man and it’s a good thing that I remain firmly convinced of that because when he goes shopping, he does everything he can to disabuse me of my convictions in that regard.  He leaves his brain at home and takes his cellphone instead.

I had explained to him that the toy is a Nanoblock set–micro sized pieces which, when assembled, make a 3-D building that will fit in the palm of one’s hand.  I read about them and thought they might be nice for the grandson who loves assembling Legos–one time per set only–then wants to enshrine the completed masterpiece.  These will take up only a little shelf space so maybe he can do that, if his younger brothers don’t have other ideas.

When I put my name on the waiting list, the toy store didn’t have any samples for me to see, so I didn’t request a particular model.  I tell DB that he has authority to choose and while he’s there, maybe he’ll see anything else the grandsons might enjoy.  He heads to the store.

Ten minutes later, the phone rings.

“Guess who.”

I was expecting this call, not because he should need help, but because that’s the way he operates; under the influence of the planet Mars.

“Do you want the ones in the pouch or the box?”

Since I’ve never seen either and he is looking at both, why am I the expert here?  He knows the grandson’s taste and abilities.  Ovaries are not crystal balls.

I ask him which one has a set that Grandson would have the most fun assembling.

He is less than enthusiastic in his response, probably turned off by the tiny pieces.  In DB’s world, anything smaller than a golf ball is a waste of raw material.

“Which building do you want me to get?”

Didn’t we discuss this before he left?  My toenails are starting to loosen from their nail beds.   Déjà vu–all over again.  We talk.  I can hear the clerk chiming in occasionally.    Perhaps her toenails are beginning to curl, too.  Eventually he tells me that okay, he’s got it straight and ends the call.

Ten minutes later, the phone rings.

He wants to give me a play-by-play, even though I was there via phone for most of his visit.  He didn’t see anything else that really “got” him and besides, it was a madhouse in there.  All these women with babies in strollers and grandparents who have no idea what they’re doing.  He says that one old fart was walking around with his hands in his pockets, two rows behind his wife, and she’s talking to him the whole time, knowing he’s not hearing a word she’s saying.

I feel an immediate kinship with this unknown woman.

“I was the only one in the whole place who knew what he was doing.”

He offers to tackle the Chick-fila drive-thru if I’d like something.  I would.  I want a chicken sandwich, but will he get me a small vanilla milkshake with no toppings so that I can have it later.  It will feel good on my throat.  We disconnect.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

“All right, I’m in line.  What do you want?  The usual?”

Yes, but…  I repeat–once more– that I would like a small vanilla shake with no toppings.  No whipped cream, no cherry.  Small. Vanilla. Milkshake. He tells me he’s at the speaker now, so we hang up.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

“Okay, I’m on my way home.  I got you a peppermint milkshake. I thought it would feel better on your throat.”

Nurse Ratchett, I Presume?

Pestilence and disease are lurking in the Lee household.  Dearly Beloved has been feeling puny this week.  In Husbandspeak, that means he has draped himself upon the sofa, remote control in hand, but believing it obvious to all that he belonged in Intensive Care.  He decided to brave it out here, however–with Nurse Mary on 24-hour duty, of course.

Now, it seems I’ve come down with the same symptoms and I’m mulling over my options.  Do I show him how an adult handles a virus or do I try to outdo him in drama?   The thing is, the couch does feel pretty darned good.

He has already claimed the remote today–”BIG GAMES ON”–even though he felt well  enough to go on his walk for the past two days.  I see that as a sign that he is well enough to go for takeout while I’m down for the count.

Usually when he’s out on those walks he calls me at least once–for no reason.  I think it’s because he likes the mental image of knowing I stop whatever I’m doing  to scramble for the phone.  He takes it as a declaration of love when I answer, since the Caller ID has identified him.

Yesterday, for instance, he called while he was out on his daily constitutional, but he  kept yelling at me, “TALK LOUDER!  I can’t hear you over the leaf blowers!”

What is wrong with that picture?  The leaf blowers weren’t here–they were out wherever he was walking. Wouldn’t you think he’d have simply walked another block before calling?

Sigh.

Calling him is an entirely different experience.  The man who scoffed at iPhones now can’t be without one.  He listens to music, takes photos, sends e-mails (painful to watch!), surfs the internet, and does everything that phone-savvy people do except answer the damn thing.  He can never get it out of his pocket in time.

Earlier today I needed an answer quickly and wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone, so I called his cell. It went to voicemail.  I could visualize the scene:  DB walking blissfully along, listening to music–sometimes via earbuds, sometimes with it blasting out of his pocket. The phone vibrates.  He waits for it to vibrate again, just to make sure.  He sucks in his breath in order to slide his whole hand into his jeans pocket to pull out the phone and read the Caller ID.  By the time he has gone through all that, the call has long since gone to voicemail–which he never checks.  He calls back. I know the procedure, so I twiddle my thumbs and wait.

Carrier pigeons would be faster.

Today, since I feel so bad, he is acknowledging my plight by going into his own husbandly nursing mode. I promise this is my life. Here is an example:

He pointed to the end table next to the sofa.  “What IS all that stuff?” he asked, wiggling his trigger finger at my book, a Belk’s flyer, and my iPad.

I ignored him, so he proceeded to carry on both parts of the conversation. Barely missing a beat, he said, “Leave me alone, DB.  You know I feel bad.  If it bugs you, MOVE it.”

We have since had several conversations, with him taking both parts.  In fact, we have some of our longest conversations for the entire week without my actually saying a word.

He took the other sofa while ago and flipped to the first football game.  “Do you want me  to tell you all about this game?” he asked, preparing to launch into a history of the season.

“No.”  I was able to get that for myself.

Taken aback, he said indignantly, “Well, do you want me to grill you a steak tonight?”  Was he implying that I have to listen to that chronology if I want to get fed?  I’ll starve first.

Suddenly I was laughing hysterically, tears rolling down my cheeks.  He looked slightly alarmed.  ”What is it?” he asked.

“You are so annoying that I can’t even type fast enough to get it all down.”

Send an ambulance.  I think I’m ready for Intensive Care.

DB offers this photo of Drama Mama writing her blog about him.  Remind him of what to put on my headstone:  I TOLD you I was sick!

Reunited And It Feels so G-o-o-d!

Dearly Beloved and I attended high schools 200 miles apart, so we didn’t know each other during our teen years.  I don’t mind at all.  That way, I can believe without any doubt that he was as terrific a football player as he says, as Troy Donahue-handsome as his mother says, and as hard-working and industrious as his friends tell me.

In contrast, he pictures that I was not the plain, skinny, mixed up girl I remember (an awkward stage I didn’t outgrow until my 30′s.)

Would I attend one of my own class reunions?  I’d sooner empty Miss Piggy’s anal sacs.

On the other hand, Dearly Beloved’s class reunions are held locally, so it’s easy for him to attend.  He has another one coming up this month– the big 5-0.  I’ve attended two of them and know that the record of the couple who produced four children in three years will remain intact and that the guy who had been divorced four times may have increased his lead, since the astonished expression on his new bride’s face at the last reunion revealed that she was unaware of his dubious distinction.

If they recognized the guy in the best physical shape, DB would be a strong contender.  Sure, his medical records have as much ink as the rest of us, but his exercise regimen–walking a couple of hours a day– has him looking as trim and muscular as he must have been in high school.

Earlier this week we were driving somewhere when he pointed out to me that the sport shirt he was wearing was one he hadn’t been able to wear for some years because it had been too tight.  To show me, he said confidently, “Reach over here and button the collar.”

I leaned over and gave it a try.  No dice.

“It’s not going to work because of your turkey wattle,”  I told him.

“My WHAT???”  He looked genuinely stricken.

“This,” I said, reaching under my chin and flapping my own seductively at him.

“You and I don’t HAVE turkey wattles,” he said, quite definitely, yanking down his visor to confirm his statement in the mirror.

See?  Rose-colored glasses!  I love that about him!

He reached up and buttoned the shirt himself.

“LOOK!”  he said smugly.

I nodded quickly so that he’d undo it before his eyes started bulging.

“Oh yeah.  Lookin’ good, Babe,” I answered.

Here’s a question for you:  Is it a waddle or a wattle?  If you want to waste an afternoon on the internet looking into it, let me know what you decide.  I tried, but stopped to try some of  the exercises one could do to get rid of it, like bending your head from side to side but not touching your ear to your shoulders.  The cellophane sound popping in my neck was so annoying that I moved on to Option B–something about rubbing female testosterone on it.  I couldn’t imagine DB being interested and, since we plan to waddle through life together, I looked no further.

Maybe I’ll knit him an ascot.  They worked for Cary Grant when he could no longer button that top button, not to mention Elvis.  Heck, he couldn’t button down to his waist some days.

Nah.  DB wouldn’t wear it and it doesn’t matter anyhow.  His reunion is the week before Thanksgiving.

Gobble, gobble.

 

 

 

 

 

(Fabulous photo of the ascoted turkey is being used with the kind permission of LynnGuppy.  Her blog is LynnGuppy: Live Music, Fine Art, and General Mischief.  I’m not sure whether this is art or mischief.)