BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

There are certain rules around our house…

I will meet E K at the door with her drink…

I will have dinner on the table no later than 30 minutes after E K arrives home…

I will spit shine all of EKay’s shoes on a daily basis…

I will do whatever E K tells me to do…

Sense a pattern there? Yeah, me too.  But the consequences for non-compliance with said rules are pretty harsh, so I just live with them. There are some other rules, of course. Most of them involve something I have to do in order to please The Evil One and keep her from taking me downstairs into her “play room” – which reminds me, I’m supposed to hose it down today after I drop her Stryker Saw off at the shop. I just hope she didn’t leave anyone down there. The trash truck doesn’t run for another couple of days yet…

There is, however, a rule that doesn’t directly involve E K… Well, sorta… I mean, the results of the rule compliance directly involve E K – as well as allow me to comply with the other rules of the house… But the actual rule is more along the line of – The Kitchen is MY domain, leave my stuff alone.

Surprisingly, E K generally works within the boundaries of that rule. Largely, I think, because she hates to cook, but likes to eat.

Because of this, it was a great surprise to me when I walked around the corner the other night and found her torturing a houseplant. I know, I know… Whiplash moment there, but trust me, there’s a connection. She was torturing the houseplant with one of my kitchen knives.

You see, we have this yucca plant… We’ve had this plant for something on the order of forever. Seriously. I’m pretty sure we had it when we moved into together. It has been through some serious trials and tribulations – namely countless plant chewing felines. During the summer it lives on our front porch, soaking up the sunshine and Saint Louis humidity, mostly safe from cats with plant fetishes. During that period of months the yucca goes crazy, sort of like it is making up for the rest of the year when it’s in fear for its life. By the time Autumn rolls around, and the first frost is upon us, the yucca looks a little… well… yucky.

And so, the temperature was forecast to plummet the other night, and plummet it did. Before it fell too far though, E K, in all her regalness, invoked her prime directive – that being the rule saying I have to do whatever she says.

“Lackey!” she demanded. “Go bring in the plants.”

Little did I know that in rescuing the yucky yucca from the cold, I was merely delivering it into the hands of a deranged redhead with a topiary affliction. Unfortunately for both of us – the plant and me – she didn’t have her pruning shears handy, so she headed straight for the knife block on the kitchen counter.

Of course, I suppose I should look upon the incident as an opportunity, because I learned something that evening.  Never mention the rules to an evil redhead who is holding a large, serrated bread knife in one hand and the hacked up limb of a defenseless yucca plant in the other.

We have a Ficus too, but it’s a little tougher than the Yucca. I think while she’s at work I’ll go hide my electric knives, otherwise they might end up dulled and it’ll be a little tough carving the turkey at Thanksgiving this year.

More to come…

Murv

Yeah, I know… Not exactly patriotic sounding given that this is July 4th and all. But, don’t read anything into that title. I’m NOT unpatriotic. I just don’t like parades.

I used to. Well… Sorta…

I mean, I watched the parades on Thanksgiving Day when I was a kid. We still turn them on in the morning while I am doing the last minute cooking before heading out to visit family. Or, as will be the case this November, the ton of cooking here at home because it’s the everyone goes elsewhere year. Since I have little family left, E K, the O-spring and I do it up big time here at the house. This allows for E K to have leftover turkey, which is one of her all time favorite things, surpassed only by leftover corned beef and leftover “Aunt Ida’s Stew.”

But, I’m getting off track, aren’t I?

When I was a kid my parents took me to see parades. I guess back then, as a child, they held a different kind of meaning, because I didn’t hate them. I wasn’t particularly fond of them, mind you, but I didn’t abhor them as I do these days.

In one case I actually enjoyed a parade. It was sometime around the late 60’s and it was the Christmas parade in “downtown” Fulton, Kentucky. For those of you who aren’t aware, Fulton, Kentucky is from whence I hail. Well, I was born in Fulton. I lived in the neighboring farm community of Water Valley. Of course, then we moved to Saint Louis and… well, there I go getting off track again.

So, the thing is, it was the late 60’s in Fulton, Kentucky. We were standing there watching the parade go past us and along came a contingent of ROTC types, led by a Majorette of sorts.

Now, obviously the picture to the left isn’t her. I mean, after all, that’s a doll in the pic. Not that the Majorette in question wasn’t a doll, because trust me, she was.

However, in this case, since she was leading a bunch of ROTC types, she was dressed in a skimpily “Majorettified” military uniform, complete with the black, vinyl go-go boots of the era. I suspect you could find something that closely approximates her attire by surfing the adult “costume” (wink wink) websites. But, I figured I shouldn’t grab any pics from there. I already get enough porn seeking traffic through here because I write about EKay’s dominatrixishness.

Anywho, on with the show… The doll in question was pretty, wearing a uniform, and man could she twirl that rubber tipped metal stick. Moreover, the baton twirling beauty smiled at me. Granted, she had a parade smile stapled to her face the entire time, but I’m relatively certain she smiled right at me. That’s the way I intend to remember it, at least.

But, after a moment or two she was gone, and the rest of the parade filed by, brought up in the rear by the jolly elf riding a firetruck. As usual,  Santa Claus  was tossing individually wrapped circus peanuts to the crowd. (They tended to survive the fall better than candy canes).

I didn’t get one though.

As the confections showered the onlookers, pelting us in the heads and bouncing onto the streets, bigger kids than me scrambled to collect them. My mom purposely stepped on one so she could save it for me, almost taking out the fingers of some man who had been reaching for it. But, the minute she moved her foot some twelve-year old vulture swooped in and took it. The little bastard.

But, that’s not why I hate parades.

Nope… I hate them because they are long, generally boring when you get right down to it, and they always involve crowds. I don’t do crowds.

But, it doesn’t really matter. I still have my fond memories of that parade all those years ago. Maybe I didn’t get a smashed circus peanut, but I did get a  sandwich at The Whistlin’ Pig (a Fulton, Kentucky institution). And guess what? My uniform wearing, smiling, baton twirling beauty of a Majorette was sitting at the table right next to ours.

More to come…

Murv