BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 1 of 2…

You really never know exactly what an evil redhead like E K is going to do to you. Sure, there are all the normal, everyday tortures she has in her bag of tricks. The evil, sadistic stuff that wicked redheads do that would make even Dick Cheney cringe. I’ve already told you about those.

I’m talking about the far more intense EHTT’s (Enhanced Husband Torture Techniques). You see, E K is among that elite group of hypersadistic not-of-this-earth redheads who come up with ways to grind their stiletto heel into the back of your head without even being within 20 miles of you.  Pretty scary stuff this “Remote Torture”, and The Evil Redheads of the world have perfected it.

I’ll let you in on a little secret – I’m pretty sure E K is their leader. She disappears for a couple of hours every week and whenever I ask about it she just gives me one of those really evil grins and says she was at a “meeting”, then tells me to make sure I have chocolate fondue or finger sandwiches ready for her to take with her to “the meeting” the following week. Unless I am missing my guess here, these “meetings” are where the redheads get together and devise new and frightening things to do to poor husbands like me. This includes not returning my Tupperware and/or fondue forks, but that’s another blog.

Anyhow, regarding these new and sadistic tortures, let me give you an example – Take for instance a couple of Christmases ago… (nice segue, eh?)

You see, E K is a “sock lady”. This is almost exactly like a “shoe lady” (she’s one of those too), but it involves socks instead of shoes. Also, be aware that “sock ladies” should not be confused with “sock puppets”. They are something entirely different. Sock ladies can, however, have puppets, especially if they are evil redheaded sock ladies. But, usually they just call us lackeys, slaves, or “hey you”. For some reason they eschew the use of the word puppet. It probably has something to do with “sock monkeys” and corporal punishment, but we won’t go there.

Yeah, I’m  digressing… so what’s new about that?

Okay… Back to the situation at hand – or, at foot as the case may be…

As I was saying, E K is a “sock lady”.  Back in her early twenties – which isn’t all that long ago since, as we all know, she just turned 25 (wink wink, nudge nudge) – her majesty wore skirts, stockings, and heels to work. Yeah… Even as a service technician out in the field she could be found lithely prancing about on high-heels while beating a printer into rightful submission, and looking damn good doing it. (Not that she doesn’t look damn good doing now too, mind you.)

However, for the past several years she has reserved her “fancy shoes” for “fancy occasions”… These days when going all dominatrix with a screwdriver on a printer or plotter she is far more likely to be found in slacks and a stylish pair of black or brown leather, flat-soled Mary Janes.

This is where the socks come in.

You see, she is not about to sacrifice her quirky individuality for anything. Therefore, she has an entire room full of socks.  And when I say socks, I don’t just mean your average, run of the mill, 6 in a package from K-mart type of socks. Nope. Not E K. She has knee socks, over the knee socks, mid-calf socks, ankle socks, lacy socks, sheer socks, polka-dotted socks, striped socks, solid color socks, argyle, oddly patterned, holiday, whimsical, thin, thick, fuzzy, wool, cotton, synthetic, electric, nuclear, hybrid… wheeeezzzzzzz… wheeeezzzzzzz…

(Pant… Pant… Pant… Hold on a sec while I catch my breath, okay?)

wheeeezzzzzzz… wheeeezzzzzzz…

(Whew… Better now… I think…)

So, anyway, you get the point. The woman has socks galore, and is always all about obtaining more socks galore.

She will buy them in a box. She will wear them with an ox.

She will wear them on her feet. She thinks socks are really sweet!

She will get them from the store. She will get them more, more, more!

And, that’s just the beginning.

But, much like the folks who collect those little “baby spoons” from National Parks, she doesn’t want just any socks. They have to be socks she doesn’t already have in her collection. Socks that speak to her. Showcase her individuality and wicked stylishness.

Which brings us back around to Christmas a couple of years ago.

Here’s the thing… E K and I have been together for a long time. When you have been together as long as we have, no matter how much you are “in love of one another” you tend to start scaling back in the Christmas gift department. Instead of going out and mortgaging the house for the Faith or Charity Diamond (I mean, who would want the Hope Diamond. It’s cursed!) You tend to go for gifts that are slightly less pricey and sometimes even a bit more practical. Especially when you are married to a Taurus. They are all about practical. So, on to the socks… You see, those couple of years back I asked The Evil One if there was anything special she wanted to find under the Yule tree. Without missing a beat she replied, “Cool Socks.”

Okay. Cool socks. Easy like pie. This, even I can do without screwing up too badly.

I should have paid more attention to the way the corners of her mouth curled up into a fleeting grin, because little did I know she had just set her wicked, wicked plan into motion.

More to come…

Murv

To Be Continued In:  Murv The Purv…

Kids can flat out scare the crap out of you.

Just so we are on the same page, I’m not just talking about when they run into the street without looking because they are chasing an errant soccer ball, or even when you find them trying to stick a fork in an electrical outlet. Those are definitely heart stoppers, but I’m talking about a different kind of scared. Honestly, maybe scare is too strong a word. Perhaps surprise, flabbergast, or shock might be better choices.

What I am talking about are the things they say that carry connotations that they don’t even understand. And, when you get right down to it, we’re all guilty of it as some point in our lives. I can clearly recall an incident where I said something that caused my father to raise an eyebrow one day. If I am recalling his facial expression correctly, I think it was something along the line of “crap, how do I handle this one?“

In my particular instance, it was during a fairly hot summer when central air was a pipe dream for us poor folk, and the only reason we even had a window unit was due to the fact that my sister had fallen and broken her collarbone. Since she had to wear an itchy, bulky brace, and she was only about 6, we had to keep her cooled down lest she toss and turn, which would only serve to aggravate the fracture. As I recall, that particular summer the entire family pretty much slept in the living room where the window unit was installed.

But, back to my jaw dropper… I was around 10, so I hadn’t quite entered puberty, but was kind of on the edge of that slippery slope, so I suspect my parents were already on high alert and looking for the first signs of pimples, wet dreams, and a sudden lack of “cooties” in the opposite sex. I think that’s probably what made my comment such a shocker for my dad. We were sitting in the living room, watching TV, and out of the clear blue I announced that I felt like I needed to “take a cold shower.”

My father jerked his head toward me and stared like I had just grown antlers. The reality of it is, I was hot and sweaty. I had been outside playing with friends a bit earlier, riding my bike and all that jazz, and unfortunately that window unit simply wasn’t keeping up with the heat that day. Of course, a few years later I came to understand the underlying significance of the “cold shower,” and it suddenly dawned on me why I had damn near given my father a heart attack.

Well, just the other day, I had an opportunity to experience something similar, and if my dad was still with us, I’m sure he would be laughing his a$$ off. Oh, who am I kidding… He’s probably standing behind me right now, doubled over in laughter… I just can’t see him.

So, anyway, on with my bout of heart palpitations… Whenever the weather is nice I walk the offspring to school. It’s a good way to spend some quality time with the kid sans distractions like Nintendo DS, TV, and in recent months her discovery of the telephone. It’s also a good way to get some exercise. A leisurely walk to the school, then after I drop her off I take the long way home and pick up the pace to get the blood flowing and burn some calories.

As it happens, during the week in question the kid was on spring break, so we made it our habit to walk to the post office each morning to check the PO Box, and drop off any mail we might need to get out that day. That way we stayed in the habit of walking and still got some exercise. As usual, we would chit-chat about stuff, most of which I don’t really understand, but I listen anyway – apparently there’s some kid named after a northwestern state who sings on TV, and she’s friends with some guys who are brothers in a band, and some guy in that same band named Rick or Nick or something like that is really cute. Plus, if you log on to something-or-another-giggly-wonky pets dot com, you can have a pet monster and get points or some such.

You know what I’m talking about… The stuff that is important in a 9-year-old kid’s life. And, like a good parent you listen and do your best to interact so that the child understands that they are important.

So… On the day in question, the short person was finished telling me about which of her friends in school was “in love” with which of the brothers in the band that the “state kid” knows. She was quiet for a bit, then moved on to one of her quests for information about the origins of her parents. Kids will do this every now and then… Stuff like, “When did you meet Mommy?” and “Why do you and Mommy do that kissy-kissy thing when she leaves for work?”

Typical kid questions.

Well, this particular quest started innocently enough by her asking how to pronounce the name of a particular local Real Estate firm we happened to pass by during our walk. I told her, then added that her grandmother, (my mother, who unfortunately passed long before the offspring was born), had worked there a long time ago.

This, of course, led to, “When did she work there?”

To which I answered, “Oh, a long time. Probably about 25 years ago.”

“25 years! That’s a really long time ago.”

“Yep. I think it was probably even before I met your mother.”

After a few seconds spent walking along in silence with her pondering the sidewalk ahead of us, she asked, “How old were you when you met Mommy?”

“Well,” I said. “Let me see… I think I was 23.”

“23? How old are you now?”

“Old.”

“Are you 48?”

“I think I’m 47.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s 47.”

“How can you not know for sure how old you are?”

“When you get to be my age, it really isn’t that important. But, yes, I’m 47.”

“Okay, so you were 23 when you met Mommy?”

“I think so,” I told her, then did some quick math aloud. “Let’s see, I’m pretty sure I turned 24 very shortly after we met. Then, we moved in together and a few months later we celebrated my 25th birthday at the little apartment where we lived… I definitely remember that for sure. So, yeah, I had to have been 23 when we first met.”

Kids minds working the way they do, she abandoned the whole age issue itself and asked, “What did Mommy get you for your 25th birthday?”

Now dear readers, please remember that E K and I were relatively poor back then, as I outlined in the “Mahwage” blog entries. So the love of my life made homemade stir-fry – yes, I know, I’ve pointed out that she doesn’t cook. But, when I can convince her to get into the kitchen, she makes the best stir-fry on the planet. Topping off the meal as a centerpiece of the birthday celebration – foodwise, at any rate – was a big, decorated chocolate chip cookie. This was, of course, followed by the crowning jewel, that being “adult activities”. These shall remain unwritten. Suffice it to say, they also remained unspoken, but in that moment were certainly remembered fondly, which I think added to my shock.

I shrugged and answered the offspring’s question. “A big cookie.”

My kid stopped dead in her tracks and yelped, “A Big Pussy?”

I almost dropped the grocery bag of sundries we had picked up from Walgreens a couple of blocks back. My heart jumped into my throat, my eyes bugged, and I spun around to look at her with what I am certain was horrified shock on my face.

“Cookie…” I replied. “She gave me a big chocolate chip cookie that said happy birthday on it.”

“Oh,” the offspring said with a nod. “I thought you said she gave you a pussycat.”

Upon hearing her explanation, I was able to start breathing again.

Like I said, I’m sure the departed souls of my parents are having a good laugh over this one. I think my saving grace in this instance is that we weren’t in the middle of a crowded store with dozens of onlookers.

But, just to be on the safe side, I think maybe I’ll take the kid to have her ears checked before I answer any more questions…

More to come…

Murv