himself in both things like
they were cheap cologne on a gigolo. I swear he uses the
pump-bottle of hand sanitizer like body wash in the shower. Reminds
me fondly of when we were first dating and he’d wedge a quart-sized
pump-bottle of the stuff between the bucket seats of his car and
use it before kissing me at the drive-in—back when we were
middle-aged and foolish!
Maybe I should let him suffer with that cold. He’s
earned it.
Water, Water Everywhere
By the time I was
thirty-eight, I had still lived a relatively sheltered life. I’d
never gone streaking, never given blood (on purpose), and never
slept in a waterbed. Then I married a man who owns a king-sized
waterbed—and since then it’s been sink or swim.
Getting into the bed is easy.
Let’s just say “stop, drop and roll” works for more than just fire
safety. But climbing out is a different matter. No amount of unladylike
gymnastics or contortions can get me out of that bed gracefully.
And the padded side rails aren’t good for anything except moral
support. Or a rather unseemly dismount. Mary Lou Retton, I’m
not.
My husband’s quite used to sailing the seven
seas at bedtime and doesn’t need to take Dramamine before docking
himself at night. Plus, he’s fourteen inches taller than I am
and—unlike me—doesn’t need a pool ladder and a life guard to get in
and out of the bed. Meanwhile, on my side of the bed, falling
asleep with loud sloshing noises in my ears does nothing for my
bladder. So I wake up in the middle of the night and sway back and
forth, trying to hoist myself over the side and onto the floor. The
mattress, which is filled with more water than the Hoover Dam sees
in a year, lurches to and fro and wakes him up.
“ Do you need a
little push or
something?” he mumbles from the inlet on his side of the
bed.
“ No.”
“ Life
preserver?”
“ No. Now go back to
sleep.”
“ Wet suit? Rubber ducky? A
copy of Moby Dick ?”
I ignore him and create a small tsunami
trying to get out of the bed.
“ What are you doing over there?” he
mumbles.
“ The breast
stroke.”
“ Need any help?”
“ Very funny.
No!”
I don’t know whether to kiss him or drown
him.
“ How can you get
comfortable in this contraption every night?” I ask.
“ Easy,” he says. “You’re
good ballast.”
Drown him. Definitely
drown him.
The Bus Stops Here
I’m sitting on a bench at
the busway, minding my own business, trying to act like I
instinctively know the bus schedule by heart and do this all the
time. But, I know better. I know my Honda is in the shop and this
is the first time I’ve taken the bus in decades. And now I need to
maneuver my way via bus schedule and self-induced panic across town
to the shop to pick up the car.
While others around me are nonchalantly
chatting or doing other things, I’m worried I’ll get on the wrong
bus, or get on the right bus but get off at the wrong stop. I
secretly remind myself to buy a better car, as soon as I find
several thousand dollars in loose change in the couch cushions.
In the distance, still
blocks away, a bus that will probably stop here rounds the corner
and pops into view. For the umpteenth time, my hand dives into my
purse and finds the zippered inside pocket where I keep quarters
and dimes. Going in this direction, out of town, I pay the fare
when I get off the bus—I think. I check again to see if I have enough
change, worried that I have inexplicably forgotten how to count
money and will get on the bus without enough money to pay for the
trip. I have no clue what they do to people who get on the bus
without the proper fare. Does the driver make an added stop at the
next police station so the cops can cuff them when they make a
break for it? Could a person end up with a police record for this?
I shake myself awake and pay more attention.
As I ponder these deep truths, the bus gets
within a block of where I’m standing. I look up just in time to
they were cheap cologne on a gigolo. I swear he uses the
pump-bottle of hand sanitizer like body wash in the shower. Reminds
me fondly of when we were first dating and he’d wedge a quart-sized
pump-bottle of the stuff between the bucket seats of his car and
use it before kissing me at the drive-in—back when we were
middle-aged and foolish!
Maybe I should let him suffer with that cold. He’s
earned it.
Water, Water Everywhere
By the time I was
thirty-eight, I had still lived a relatively sheltered life. I’d
never gone streaking, never given blood (on purpose), and never
slept in a waterbed. Then I married a man who owns a king-sized
waterbed—and since then it’s been sink or swim.
Getting into the bed is easy.
Let’s just say “stop, drop and roll” works for more than just fire
safety. But climbing out is a different matter. No amount of unladylike
gymnastics or contortions can get me out of that bed gracefully.
And the padded side rails aren’t good for anything except moral
support. Or a rather unseemly dismount. Mary Lou Retton, I’m
not.
My husband’s quite used to sailing the seven
seas at bedtime and doesn’t need to take Dramamine before docking
himself at night. Plus, he’s fourteen inches taller than I am
and—unlike me—doesn’t need a pool ladder and a life guard to get in
and out of the bed. Meanwhile, on my side of the bed, falling
asleep with loud sloshing noises in my ears does nothing for my
bladder. So I wake up in the middle of the night and sway back and
forth, trying to hoist myself over the side and onto the floor. The
mattress, which is filled with more water than the Hoover Dam sees
in a year, lurches to and fro and wakes him up.
“ Do you need a
little push or
something?” he mumbles from the inlet on his side of the
bed.
“ No.”
“ Life
preserver?”
“ No. Now go back to
sleep.”
“ Wet suit? Rubber ducky? A
copy of Moby Dick ?”
I ignore him and create a small tsunami
trying to get out of the bed.
“ What are you doing over there?” he
mumbles.
“ The breast
stroke.”
“ Need any help?”
“ Very funny.
No!”
I don’t know whether to kiss him or drown
him.
“ How can you get
comfortable in this contraption every night?” I ask.
“ Easy,” he says. “You’re
good ballast.”
Drown him. Definitely
drown him.
The Bus Stops Here
I’m sitting on a bench at
the busway, minding my own business, trying to act like I
instinctively know the bus schedule by heart and do this all the
time. But, I know better. I know my Honda is in the shop and this
is the first time I’ve taken the bus in decades. And now I need to
maneuver my way via bus schedule and self-induced panic across town
to the shop to pick up the car.
While others around me are nonchalantly
chatting or doing other things, I’m worried I’ll get on the wrong
bus, or get on the right bus but get off at the wrong stop. I
secretly remind myself to buy a better car, as soon as I find
several thousand dollars in loose change in the couch cushions.
In the distance, still
blocks away, a bus that will probably stop here rounds the corner
and pops into view. For the umpteenth time, my hand dives into my
purse and finds the zippered inside pocket where I keep quarters
and dimes. Going in this direction, out of town, I pay the fare
when I get off the bus—I think. I check again to see if I have enough
change, worried that I have inexplicably forgotten how to count
money and will get on the bus without enough money to pay for the
trip. I have no clue what they do to people who get on the bus
without the proper fare. Does the driver make an added stop at the
next police station so the cops can cuff them when they make a
break for it? Could a person end up with a police record for this?
I shake myself awake and pay more attention.
As I ponder these deep truths, the bus gets
within a block of where I’m standing. I look up just in time to
Similar Books
