BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I need one of these BBC’s…

Well, not really. They’d probably just censor me left and right, and we can’t have that.  It would make for some blog posts that look like a government document released under the Freedom of Information Act. 27 conjunctions, 12 verbs, and 1 pronoun spread out across 53 pages and situated in between long, black marks blocking out everything else in the whole document.

Oh yeah… downright riveting…

No, I think what I need is a bureau full of content to put in my blogs. Yeah… That would be helpful. Provided it has some good stuff in there, not just underwear and socks…And, by bureaus in this case, obviously I am talking about a chest of drawers.

Speaking of bureaus filled with good stuff, sometimes the good stuff is sitting on top of them instead of in them… Or, so it seems.

I suppose it is all a matter of perspective. To adults, the top of a bureau can be a catch all. A place for combs, brushes, your wallet, your watch. Maybe a plant that you forget to water. 58 cents in change. A stick of chewing gum you’ve been carrying around for 2 years. A monkey… wait… not a monkey… Well, you get the idea.

To a married couple it’s a bit different. It becomes a no-man’s land…in my case anyway… And, by no-man’s land I mean there’s no room at all for me to put anything there because it is covered with my wife’s stuff…And, y’all know how EK is. You don’t mess with her stuff or she goes all redhead on you, and well… it ain’t pretty. She is… Pretty, I mean. In fact, she’s downright hot, even when she’s pissed off… but, she can be just plain evil, which is why we call her Satan in high heels… Hence why you don’t mess with her stuff. You following me on that one? Good.

But see, now you’ve gone and gotten me off track again. Shame on you…

Back to that matter of perspective thing. To children, the top of a bureau isn’t as much a no-man’s land, as it is a treasure trove of all things sparkly and out of reach. Probably because they are so short. (that last part is just a guess on my part.) The first part of the statement, however, I know to be fact… How? That’s easy, from experience.

You see, when I was but a wee author type person – 3 1/2 years old in fact – I stood before a four drawer bureau, staring up at the trinket covered summit, and in that moment it became my Mount Everest. My K2. My mountain to conquer.

Literally…

Yeah, I climbed the damn thing. And, to prove how tough I was, I scaled the face of this mountain by free-climbing. No pitons, carabiners, or ropes, and definitely without the benefit of Sherpas or even base camps. I’m telling you, I was a regular action hero…

…right up until the damn thing toppled over on top of me.

The edge of the top put a crease in my forehead, and who knows, I may have actually lost consciousness. Like most folks nearing the half century mark, for me most of those memories are a blur, and the blurs are surrounded by huge gaps of absolutely nothing. The remaining vivid recollections I have from that incident are few…in fact, really only two. One is the fact that my father was working the night shift at McDonnell Aircraft Corporation and we only had one car, so my mother and I waited for a cab to take us to the hospital. I remember that because we sat by the open door of our ground floor apartment, watching out the window for it to arrive. The other was the X-Ray technician wheeling me in to “take a picture of my head”…

Hmmm… A chest of drawers fell on my head, then they beamed radiation at it… Maybe that’s why I turned out all “whimsical in the brainpan.”

Anyhow, I was okay. No fracture, no major problems. Just a very minor concussion. Good thing little kids have elastic skulls. I heard stories for most of my life about how my father rushed home from work and fussed over me. I always heard that from my mother, because my father was a man of few words and it wasn’t like him to be overly forthcoming with his emotions. I suspect his reaction might have embarrassed him a bit, or maybe he was simply trying to be an example of a “man” so that I would know how to act when I grew up. (He was a bit old-school… I suppose I am too in many ways, as since his death in 2003, I find myself virtually channeling him on a regular basis…)

Anyhow, back to bureaus – doesn’t matter what kind really. You see, it seems my most popular blogs are the one’s where I tell stories about the ridiculous  – and sometimes humorous – things that happen in my life. So, my guess is this recent clacking of dominos in my head is just my subconscious telling me what should be leaking out of my brainpan, so to speak.

All good… I’m listening.

Now, this is not to say there won’t be other types of things popping up here. I’m sure there will. In fact, there are a few of us author types right in the middle of planning a “blog tour” whereby we guest post on one another’s blogs. They’ll probably kick me out of the tour after a couple of my posts… won’t THEIR readers be surprised, eh?

But, the long and short of it is this: The stories of silliness in my life will continue. Just like Dave Barry, the late Erma Bombeck, and a whole host of other writers… Who knows? Maybe someday I will get a column somewhere too… It’ll probably on the back of an envelope, written in pencil,  and discarded in the recycle bin, but hey… A column is a column.

Won’t my journalism teachers be so proud.

More to come…

Murv

Well, to some extent they go hand in hand. Love, lust, and all points in between. You start out in lust and as you get to know one another the lust becomes love, and if you are lucky, they blend together to become this Love/Lust amalgam that carries on throughout your relationship and/or marriage.

But, before you get all excited or start calling me Doctor Phil, I should point out that I’m actually here to talk to you about dominos again. And, no, still not the pizza.

You see, I’ve been married to EK now for Twen-koff-koff yea-koff…Okay…for real, 21+ years, and we “co-habitated” for a year prior to that. So, we’ve been ’round the block in the ol’ Radio Flyer a couple of times – always with me pulling as she beats me with a buggy whip and screams “faster, faster…watch out for that crack in the sidewalk…slow down…careful around that turn…faster, faster!” But, as usual, that’s one of those “other” blogs (actually, they probably wouldn’t even let me post it here…but I digress…)

My point being, I’m no stranger to the relationship game, marriage game, whatever… Now, let’s be clear. I am in no way claiming to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t have ANY of the answers. I just pull the wagon and do what I’m told. I’m merely pointing out that I do have at least a passing familiarity with interpersonal relationships between two folks who make up a couple.

Since the EK and I have been together for better than two decades, just like any other couple we have settled into some behavioral patterns. This is not to say that love and lust are gone. The love is there stronger than it was in the beginning, and growing daily. Lust…well…can’t really get into that here (LOL)… But, like I said, as with any couple, patterns will emerge. Ways of interacting. It’s just all part of life. Therefore, a half hour or so ago when I nonchalantly and jokingly said to my wife, “what are you making for dinner tonight?” her response came as no surprise, and the dominos began to teeter…

I suppose you might need a bit of background first…You see, my wife almost never makes dinner. In fact, whenever I go on tour for a week or two at a time, I spend the week prior to my departure working in the kitchen – cooking, packaging, and freezing meals in reusable “freezer to microwave” containers so that I know she and my daughter will eat something other than crackers and yogurt. It’s not that she’s lazy. She’s about as far from lazy as you can get… Hell, I wish I had her energy… It is just that she really dislikes cooking. With a passion it seems. Me, on the other hand, having grown up in a family with diners and restaurants, I absolutely love to cook. So, this makes at least part of the division of labor in our home a no brainer. Put simply, the kitchen is my domain.

But, like I said at the outset, there are dominos involved here, and again, I’m not talking about pizza…even though we are on the subject of food.

To inspect this particular dot-covered game piece we have to turn back the clock to a time EARLY in our marriage. Back when, even though we had dated for some time, then cohabitated for an entire year, and then even been legally married in the eyes of the law for a couple more years, we were still in that state of semi-honeymoon. Not the face-sucking-sex-in-every-room-with-reckless-abandon phase, mind you. Just the hyperactive love-lust combination where you want to impress your partner because you love them so much – and again, I want to be clear on this impressing thing – I’m not talking about dressing up in a negligee and posing next to the bedroom door while batting eyelashes (come to think of it, that’s a pretty good domino too, but I probably wouldn’t fit in that negligee anymore…just kidding… I mean just kidding about the negilgee, not the fitting into it part… you know what I mean…dammit, I’ve never owned a negligee, so just stop it!)

Back to the story… sheesh…ya’ bunch of weirdos…

So, in this particular instance we are talking about dinner. You see, way back when, during the days of hyperlovelustwhatever, the evil redhead decided to make dinner. (They “make” dinner here in the north, as opposed to fixing dinner, like it’s supposed to be done) Now, not being a big fan of the kitchen she wasn’t about to get herself into a major project (I’d like to take a moment to point out that it isn’t that she can’t cook, because she can. It’s simply that she hates cooking.) But still, she intended to “make” dinner. And, so she did. Cheesy tuna and noodles Tuna Helper^TM. Now, before you think I am about to complain, guess again. I happen to like tuna casserole, and mac n’ cheese, and yes, cheesy tuna and noodles. It was all good.

So, my lovely bride served up a big, steaming dish of Tuna Helper^TM, happy with herself and confident in the fact that she had done something nice for me that I would appreciate. And, I did. Harboring the same hyperlovelustwhatever as she, I sat at the table and shoveled in the Tuna Helper^TM while smiling and telling her how wonderful it was, as well as how much I appreciated her fixing dinner. In fact, I was so overwhelmed with hyperlovelustwhatever that I didn’t even hint at the fact that there was something terribly, and fundamentally wrong with the meal. Not something that would make you ill, mind you, but something fundamentally wrong, nonetheless, given what it was supposed to be. The meal went on, the dishes were washed, and well, I can’t really remember what else happened that night, but I suspect that since we were working on remodeling the house at the time we were probably both exhaused and just went to bed then straight to sleep – none of the “not so blog safe” material to worry about this time.

So, everything was good. I had done my duty and nothing need ever be said about the problem with the meal. The EK was happy, I was happy, and even the cats were as happy as cats can be.

The next day, however, it became apparent that my plan to protect the evil redhead from personal embarrassment had gone terribly awry. At this point I cannot remember exactly what I was doing at the moment of realization. I do, however, have vivid recollection of EK walking into the room with an unopened can of tuna in her hand, which she had found sitting on the kitchen counter right where she had left it the night before. With a look of realization flooding her face, she stared at me and stated, as much as asked, complete with a matter-of-fact incredulity, “I forgot to put the tuna in the Tuna Helper last night, didn’t I?”

I could not tell a lie, but I also didn’t want to add insult to injury. I simply replied, “No worries. It was really good macaroni and cheese.”

The domino in this case? Well, it didn’t have to knock much over. You see, this afternoon when I jokingly asked my wife what she would be “making” for dinner, without missing a beat she replied, “Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.”

We’re older now, and while we still have that hyperlovelustwhatever thing going on, I’ve learned I don’t really have to suffer (unless I want to, that is, but again, different blog…)

I think I’ll just go ahead and “make” dinner tonight.

More to come…

Murv