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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
« Leaving La Lunch-a Loca | Main | Aaaand We're Back »
On deck, two more sluggers over at Bugs & Cranks:
30 Facts About... Brian McCann -- First Barney? Then a foodie? And now this?
Daily Predictions: The Heart of a Homer -- It was my turn today to predict the outcome of all the MLB games. I cheated, and turned in two sets of predictions. And they both sucked.
And now batting for the hometown team, playing third base and wearing lucky number three, it's... this post. Enjoy.
You'd think she'd just realize I'm going to be a poopyhead all night, smack me on the forehead, and wash her hands of me. But no. She's a real trooper, that girl. So she rolls up her sleeves and tries to get to the heart of the problem.
"She assured me that there were no horse wieners, or horse wiener-related byproducts, in the lunchmeat."
Naturally, I'm no help. Lathered-up grouchy poopyhead, remember? So she asked me how my day was.
'Meh. Sucktastic.
She gave me a little space when I took off my shoes, flung them down by the door, and stormed off to the kitchen in a huff.
(Yeah, sometimes I lay it on a little thick when I've had a bad day. It's cute; she eats that stuff up.
Or so I tell myself. The reality of the situation may be drastically and alarmingly different. Don't try this at home, kids.)
Soon enough, she ventured in. I was busy opening cupboard doors, sighing dramatically, closing the cupboard doors, and repeating. She very sweetly asked if I was looking for something for dinner.
'There's no poopy food here. I'm gonna starve, I bet. *sigh*'
She gamely tried to help. Did I want some soup and crackers?
'Soup sucks. And crackers blow.'
How about a sandwich?
'I bet the bread's all full of mold and maggots and anthrax. And the lunchmeat's prolly made from horse wieners.'
She assured me that there were no horse wieners, or horse wiener-related byproducts, in the lunchmeat. She claimed that she has two strict rules when shopping for processed meat and fish products -- they must be dolphin-safe and devoid of any horse wieners. I almost cracked a smile, if only for her heroic effort.
Instead, I said it just proves the bread has anthrax. And I flicked the loaf across the counter. Dismissively.
She'd had just about enough. How about a frozen dinner?
'Don't want it.'
A bowl of cereal?
'Cereal's for babies.'
Bag of popcorn?
'I'd probably just choke on a kernel and die. Real sensitive, honey -- thanks a lot. Pfeh.'
I finally grabbed a granola bar -- a dry, icky, poopy granola bar, probably made of gravel or something -- and stomped into the living room. She started to ask me what I wanted to watch on television, probably anticipated my response -- 'Law & Order sucks. And CSI blows.' -- thought better of it and tuned in to Home & Garden TV. Some skinny effeminate man was cutting fabric into draperies while the overly-perky hostess gushed about how 'faboo' they were going to look.
Presumably, the missus figured that if I wanted to be miserable, she'd give me something to be miserable about. Smart lass, that one.
We sat for a while not particularly watching the show. My wife was eating dinner -- a bowl of chicken poopy noodle soup -- while I busied myself with grumbling under my breath and making disgusted smacking noises while I ate my granola bar. Finally, after my wife had finished her meal, she got up, hugged me, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and said:
'I'm sorry you had a bad day. I love you. I'm going to bed. Now stop being a jackass.'
And with those few sweet, smartass words, the fog lifted. My brow unfurrowed, my shoulders untensed, and I could finally enjoy myself in the comfort of my own home, with my loving wife.
Mostly, anyway.
After all, she was going to bed, and I had to stay up to finish a couple of writing projects. And there was still no food in the house, and I was watching some ridiculously annoying home makeover extravaganza program. They were just about to discuss throw pillows. I considered slitting my wrists with the CD in my laptop drive, but everything considered, that didn't seem like the best way out any more.
So I hugged my wife, asked her to leave me the remote on her way to bed, slapped her lightly on the thigh for subjecting me to the monstronsity on the screen, and flipped the channel to The Simpsons. It's the episode where the family moves so Homer can work for Hank Scorpio, who turns out to be a Bond movie-style evil genius. It's just about over now -- 'Work hammocks? It's genius! Why didn't I think of that?' -- this post is wrapping up, and the missus is tucked away snugly in our warm soft bed.
All's right with the world again, and I think it's high time I join her for some shuteye. It's a bullshit world out there some days, but nothing I can't handle with the help of a few finished projects, a good animated sitcom, a hug from the wife, and eight full hours of sleep. I'm off to recharge. Ciao.
(Wait. Did she call me a jackass?!? Ooooh, that woman. I am so putting her hand in a bowl of warm water when I get up there. The nerve.)
| Comments (3)
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hey, sometimes a man needs to be told he's being a jackass. who better than his wife to tell him?
and remember, pay back's a bitch and a wife has a long memory. ;)