Better Than Macy's Day

Over the weekend, my wife let out the dogs and came back to bed to report the wild turkeys were in our yard. I couldn't believe it. In our yard! But once they saw the dogs, they flew, ran, and hightailed it the hell out of there. On the drive in and out of our neighborhood, I know where to look for the turkeys. They have their own specific turf. Our yard is not it. So when she reported the news, I felt like I had really missed something. I had been left out.

This morning, on the way to work, my wife and I stopped to check the mail.

I got out of the car.

Put the key in the box.

Movement. On my right.

OMG. I inhaled sharply.

Two turkeys, crossing the street. Less than ten feet away from me.

I stood perfectly still.

And then there were five turkeys. And then three. Two. One. Four. Six. Three. Two. Eight. Two. One. Two. Big ones. Little ones. Their little necks bobbing back and forth as their little legs did their best to keep up with their counterparts. Their turkey "feet" crunching the dirt, snow, and road beneath them, the sound echoing in my ears. Just when I thought they were done, there were more. I stood there like I was staring at the real-life Santa. My eyes were wide, staring in disbelief. The smile on my face could be seen from space. A turkey parade, all for me!

It was turkey perfection.

I know the turkeys don't care about me. There is no place for me in their world. They were just going about their turkey business. But if they knew how much I cared about them and how they fit into my world, they would have invited me to go with them.

Mistaken Identies

It is rare when my wife gets into bed before me, and I think that is for good reason.

Before walking across the living room, before heading down the stairs, before pulling back the homemade quilt, the feather bed, and the 600 count threaded sheets, my wife takes off her glasses, tucking them safely into the bathroom cabinet. The terrain she must navigate with blurry vision is not dangerous. She has done it many times and knows her way around.

But, as she laid in bed last night, waiting for me to get my affairs in order, she started looking around. She panickly announced, "Is that a spider?" The covers are creeping closer to her chin as the realization that a spider might be sharing her sleeping space sinks in. She is resisting the temptation to cover her head for fear she will lose track of the spider.

Good lord, here we go.

Our bedroom isn't a broom closet. There are all kinds of places a spider can find its way into. Her announcement was so vague I had to ask, "Where?"

"Over there." Her hand comes out of the covers to point slowly and purposefully, like she's the Grim Reaper of insects. "On the wall," she stops to count. "Five bricks down, by the dresser."

I'm already looking at the "spider" before she tells me where it is. I'm standing further away than she is from the "spider" and already know she's mistaken.

"No, it's a spot on the wall."

She was skeptical. I think she thought I was lying so I could just get into bed already.

I sighed knowing that although I let her know it was not, in fact, a spider, the issue was still unresolved. My shoulders sank as I wearily asked, "Do you want me to go over and touch it?"

She nodded her head up and down like an excitedly nervous child.

I walked around our bed, stradled a dog bed, and brought my finger to the spot of mortar she had mistaken for a blood-sucking, human-eating spider.

"Do you feel better now?"

She nodded and said, "When you went to touch it I thought it was going to jump on you and attack your face!"

Yeah, because aside from binding bricks together, mortar is known for that very thing.

Commercials

1. An older gentleman, sitting in an armchair, is explaining how he has missed weddings and babies being born but has never missed a Superbowl.

Wow, Jerry. Good for you, buddy. I'm sure the billion dollar industry that is the NFL really appreciates your loyalty. I bet you're lauded with flowers and poems and hugs and a suite. Oh? You sit out there with all the other faceless fans and throw money at people who have plenty?

I hope your family realizes how wonderfully special you are.

2. A curly-headed child is sitting in the backseat of his father's car. He's explaining what the car needs to have in order for it to be entertaining for him to sit in it (dvd player for sure!), while another little boy is sitting in the backseat of his parents' car while they sing passionately off tune.

Hmm.

Last I checked, nine-year-olds didn't have $25,000 plus to buy a car. The child should be grateful he isn't walking instead of looking at the other little boy like he's living large while the little boy suffers. And the little boy should be grateful his parents are still together, having fun, finding cheaper ways to entertain him, and each other, while driving to Wal-Mart or Chuck E. Cheese.

Let the curly-headed demand maker have all he wants: take it out of his college fund.

3. Women are clustered together. They lose their shit when they find out he went to Jared.

<Silence. Toe tapping.>

Um, shouldn't the big announcement be, The love of my life proposed, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together? No? I've got it twisted? It is a big deal he went to Jared? My bad.

Finest Hour

I've been wicked sick lately. Sore, itchy throat. Runny nose. Red face. Feverish eyes. Gut-wrenching cough. I think I'm finally on the downhill of the ailment, but this morning, there was an incident that made me feel like I might need additional help.

5:25 AM: I look at the clock and see I have five minutes before the alarm goes off. I decide to get out of bed.

5:26 AM: The minute my feet hit the floor, I realize I really have to pee.

5:28 AM: The babies (the dogs) and I are upstairs, heading down the hallway.

5:28 AM: I grab a tissue on the way.

5:29 AM: I let the babies outside, realizing I still need to pee. Bad. I think about stepping away, but the basset has to be supervised while outside because she likes to put "unsavory" items into her mouth.

5:30 AM: Holy shit, I really have to pee! I blow my nose.

5:35 AM: The basset has been walking around for a lifetime, finding the perfect piece of real estate to drop off her kids. And finally; she lets them go on a really nice piece of dirt, covered by a gentle layer of snow.

5:36 AM: I cough. Hard. I lose focus.

5:37 AM: It takes me a second or two to figure out that the small stream of warmth I feel running down my leg and into my slipper is, in fact, pee. Not a lot. Just enough to take the edge off.

5:37 AM: Really?!?!

5:37 AM: I eyeball the tissue in my hand.

5:37 AM: I use said tissue to clean up what hasn't quite yet made it into the slipper.

5:38 AM: The basset is finally done. The babies come in.

5:39 AM: I use the facilities. It feels like love. I flush the tissue.

5:40 AM: It's shower time. I set the slippers in front of the heat vent.

5:50 AM: I'm out of the shower. Slipper is dry. All incriminating evidence has been erased.

5:51 AM: I decide this never happened.

Sunday Brunch

When I wake up on Sunday mornings, all too often I lay in bed and wish I could go to the Chocolate Maven for brunch. I guess I could, but it would require a four to five hour drive. I simply don't have that kind of time on football Sundays.

This past Sunday, however, the dream became a reality. As sunlight filtered through the crappy blinds in our room, I knew it was only a matter of time: today was the day I would be sipping yummy, decadent hot chocolate and eating the kind of food that monopolizes my mind on weekend mornings.

Last time my wife and I ate at the Maven for brunch, the parking lot was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and we had to wait forty minutes. This time, as we made our way through the parking lot, there were spaces available. People weren't clustered outside the door. We walked in and were seated right away. I wanted to kiss the hostess.

The hot chocolate was everything I remembered. The red chile is never as spicy as I want it to be, but it's still mmm. It was divine.

The check came. I opened my wallet to produce my debit card when my driver's license picture caught my eye. I studied it. It was taken almost eight years ago. My cheeks look swollen. I was probably a good twenty pounds heavier than I am today.

I stretched my arm over the table and presented my wallet to my wife like an FBI agent presents their badge. She was looking down, so I said, "Look at my big fat face!"

With no hesitation, with no qualms whatsoever, my wife bypassed the picture in my wallet and looked me right in the face. My real time face.

My mouth fell open. I gasped like I was wearing a $10,000 gown--on loan--and had just dripped marinara sauce down the front of it.

My wife finally looked at the end of my arm to see what I meant. Of course, she didn't mean it the way it all seemed.

Brunch in Santa Fe...there's nothing fatter, I mean finer.

Lost

I once got lost in bed. I know how it sounds, but still, it is true.

It was in the middle of the night and the bedroom was so dark I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see my wife--a sleeping lump--beside me or our dogs lying on their beds. I had to use my other senses to try and solve the mystery my mind could not wrap itself around--where am I!?

My hands frantically slapped around on the fluffy comforter. Yes, I am in bed, but where am I in bed? I felt like I'd been turned upside down, or sideways, or some kind of way that didn't make any sense. How did I get to be positioned that way? Who was fucking with me? Finally, in a complete state of panic, I called out to my wife, who was only two feet away from me, "HONEY! I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM!"

She calmly and coherently responded, "You're in bed."

"But where in bed?"

Gathering that I wasn't going to let it go and let her peacefully fall back asleep, she snippily said, "Find an edge!"

Find an edge...good advice. So I searched. I found an edge, and then my hand found the wall. Nothing was making any sense. Why did I feel the wall? What edge of the bed was this? How did I get so turned around?

My wife had presented me with a reasonable solution, but it only managed to confuse me more. Like our bed was a plane going down over the Atlantic, I said, "I don't know what's going on!"

My wife sighed loud enough for the walls to shake. I felt the disturbed air of her throwing her covers off.  Her feet padded across the room.

Then the lights came on.

She was standing by the light switch looking less than pleased. I was sitting in the middle of the bed, not turned around, not upside down, but right where I should be. I thanked her, apologized, and we both fell back asleep. (We laughed about it the next morning and still laugh about it today.)

There is no greater feeling than knowing my wife will always lead me back to where I am.

The Bases

On the way to dinner last night, my wife and I were discussing the sexual bases. We were more confused than President Bush when he was told the country was under attack.

It went something like this:

Me: I wonder what the bases mean today.
Wife: Bases?
Me: Sexually, I mean.
Wife: What did they mean when we were kids?
Me: I don't know.
We look at each other like someone should know.
Wife: Me either.
At this point, I'm thinking, yeah, right...
Me: Well, first base was kissing, right?
Wife: I think so.
Me: And second base was a handful of boob?
Wife: Maybe...?
Me: And third base was touching <insert your favorite nether region because the word I actually used is not PG-13>? And a home run was penetration?
We look at each other, still puzzled.
Wife: I don't know.
Me: Me either.

Being a sexual prude in high school (which is really easy to do when you're not attracted to the gender everyone on your side is raving about), the bases were never clearly defined to me. Whenever the topic of sexual acts was brought up, I giggled or oohed-and-aahed along as if to say, "Oh, yeah. I've totally done all that too." (I still do this today.) But the truth of the matter was that it was terrifying territory for a confused baby-dyke who didn't know that two women could touch each other. I'd never seen anything like it with my very own eyes, so how was I to know.

And then, blessed be, Basic Instinct hit the big screen. I dragged my boyfriend at the time to see it about fifty times (a mild exaggeration). He was as confused as a boy in a theater watching the same shitty movie he'd just seen with his still-in-awe girlfriend. When Sharon and the other actress, who was never seen again, kissed each other, it was like harps started playing, like a spotlight shone on the duh! of my psyche. I decided then and there that I wanted to be an actress so I, too, could kiss other women.

When I watch Basic Instinct today, I see it for what it is: a ridiculous movie with no redeeming qualities. But I will always give it the props it is due: it got me thinking about things that have led me to who I am today.

So, when I asked my wife what the bases are today, I was looking to her for guidance. Seeing how she doesn't know either, I can only guess:

First base: kissing
Second base: intercourse
Third base: pregnancy
Home run: creating a make-shift family around this idea that two people who sleep together are perfect for each other.

I am grateful for my sexual prudence. And I am grateful I am not in school today. Although, I do regret, knowing what I know now, that I didn't get a chance to bag a cheerleader.

Mammaries

So, my wife was getting lippy with me the other day.

In her defense, she was coming off a seven day migraine and feeling really good, especially about herself. She thought the things coming out of her mouth were hilarious. Her exact words have since escaped me, but I do remember growing annoyed.

We were in our bedroom, conveniently located on ground level with a gorgeous view of our newly asphalted driveway, making the transition from our day clothes to our comfy clothes. She was still talk, talk, talking, and I couldn't take her picking on me anymore. 

I took off my underwear. 

My tiny hand formed a fist around them. 

I drew my arm back and like I was transformed into Peyton Manning, my unmentionables left my hand, glided through the air as if they were being transported by a flock of angels, and WHAP! My wife looked up just in time for them to smack her in the face.

Bull's eye.

I threw myself onto the bed and laughed until I thought I was going to die, until my stomach hurt so bad I thought I’d have to call into work, until my face was the color of a radish. Was I naked? Yes. Did I care? No need. We live in the mountains, and I spend a great deal of time not worrying about wearing clothes around the house.

She made a lame retaliation attempt by trying to put said panties on my head, but I wasn't going to allow that to happen. After she failed repeatedly, my wife resigned to watching me roll around on the bed, still laughing like my life depended on it, like she was waiting for a child to stop throwing a tantrum. Her lips were tight and slightly pursed. She was not amused. I think she might have said a few departing words, but I couldn't register anything outside my perfect throw and how goddamn funny I thought it was. She left me downstairs, closing the bedroom door behind her with the force of someone trying to have the last say. I looked down at my basset—the last witness to my athletic brilliance—who was looking at the door, wondering who the mommy upstairs was talking too.

My eyes were then directed to a flash of red in the driveway.

Oh, shit.

A man. In a red t-shirt. Getting out of a truck. What the…!?

I heard my wife’s voice yelling at our mutt to bring his squeaky (a giant stuffed octopus that squeaks no matter where you touch it) inside. I heard the voice of a man, asking her if our mutt's name was Bubba? No, his name is not Bubba (but we do call him that more often than his given name of Parker.) And then another man's voice. The basset and I were as quiet as Anne Frank in an attic. My mind couldn't help but to wonder how long the men had been there. If they had seen the wrestling match that revolved around my underwear!? Pleasantries were exchanged. Thank-you-for-your-times and beautiful-day-isn’t-its were passed out like butterscotch candies at church.

In less than five minutes, the men made their way back to their truck. [The men were there to try and convince us to vote for Dan Maes for Colorado’s next governor (like that would ever happen!). Once they saw my wife was a woman of color and announced she was a democrat with no plans to change her mind, they made their way (I can only imagine happily) back to their truck.] I watched the dust blow around the truck as it safely exited the driveway.

Once they were out of sight, I yelled upstairs to my wife, trying my best to get the words out through another fit of hysterics, “I’m…um…ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT SURE they saw my titties!”

We both found the humor in that.

Taking Chances

Moments ago, I was using the facilities in my work's restroom. Generally, there is nothing of interest to mention when facilitating, but my eye could not help but to be drawn to something small and dark in color on the back of the door. It didn't take a great deal of investigating to discover the something-small-and-dark-in-color's identity. My immediate horror was quickly replaced by trying to figure out--based on placement--if it had been flicked or wiped off the end of a finger. I thought about the proximity of the door in relation to where I was sitting. I thought about trajectory. A rash of what-ifs ran through my mind to the point I forgot what I was doing there in the first place: facilitiating.

Pleased with my findings, I merrily walked out of the stall, washed my hands, and wondered if the person after me would give the booger as much thought as I had. I wondered if our deductive reasoning was similiar; if they, too, would think it had been flicked off the end of a finger.

Or would they simply think, 'It's things like this that remind me I take a chance every time I leave my house.'