We were on our way to breakfast Saturday morning, driving down 13th, when we passed a woman I normally see on the bus.
“Hey! Her hair is down. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her hair up. She works at Candyland downtown. There’s a friendship to cultivate, huh?”
“What now? Why did she have candy in her hair?”
“No, she works at Candyland.”
Thirty minutes later, over breakfast, we were discussing the fact that neither of us has started our Christmas shopping.
“The Boy mentioned to me last summer that he thought Nixon watches were cool. I can only assume he doesn’t mean ol’ Tricky Dick.”
“What now?” Willie says. “Why would my Dad want a Richard Nixon watch?”
“What?” I said. “Who said anything about your Dad?”
“I thought you were talking about getting my Dad a watch.”
Now, I realize that not every word out of my mouth is remarkable. I’ve been known to discuss groceries, appointments to have the cat shaved. I once was forced to converse with his mother’s second husband, who insisted that he had “super long hair in high school” and that we “totally would’ve partied”.
Sure we would’ve.
But I digress.
We’ve discussed this before, Willie and I, the fact that he seems to hear less than half of what I say.
For the first few years that we were married, I was concerned. Was he deaf? Had he had a stroke? Had he recently taken up shooting heroin? No. The man is ten years younger than I am and shows no signs of anything untoward.
The truth of the matter is that he just isn’t listening.
So I do the only thing I can think of to do.
I mess with him. And then he is fined.
“Peat glue for slimmer aright?”
“Beef stew. For dinner. All right with you?”
We’re not really having beef stew – or peat glue, for that matter.
He’s taking me out.
That's right. He's handed me lemons, and I'm making lemonade.
Terms of Endearment
33 minutes ago