By W. G. Warren.
- - -
I need to kvetch to someone. It's tough being a male sometimes.
In honor of St. Pattie’s Day, my wife, Cynthia, cooked corned beef the other night and also made a salad while I watched TV. She asked me to dish out the salad for the two of us. I did. If you knew Cynthia as I certainly know Cynthia, she is all about fairness and equality. In other words, her piece of green cake has to be exactly the same size as my piece of green cake - or anyone else sitting within, you know - THE STATE.
Anyway, I spooned the salad exactly equally into our exactly matching salad bowls. The tops of the salad were rounded to impeccable preciseness as if Martha Stewart had measured them with a micrometer.
We sat down to eat. No sound, no voice, utter silence. Munch. Munch. Slurp. Slurp. All those chewing sounds, yes, but no conversation. I know Cynthia. Her voice is constantly in flow. But not now. Her maw, muffled.
So I said to her, "Dear, is anything wrong?”
“No,” she replied.
"Dear, are you angry with me?”
“No," She shot me the look. I persisted with the dears and she persisted with the noes. But I knew there was trouble in Happy Homestead.
In your wildest dreams, fantasies, or even your nightmares, you will not guess the source of her muted disillusionment. Are you ready? All this dismay emanated from an educated, articulate and silver-tongued Ms. Expressive. Are you sure you’re ready? Trumpets please.
Ta dahhhh! My wife didn't get her equal share of cucumber slices. HOLY COW! Can you believe it? Who in the world counts cucumber slices? Then I said, "It's a good thing I don't have to count coffee grinds." Now there was no talk at all... As I slowly awoke from the coma in my St. Pattie’s Day body cast.
- - -
Click to see: Nobody's Nomad by W. G. Warren.