Sunday, April 29, 2012

Oz Knows Poop ...

... But he's never met Slobbie Robbie.

Rob dosen't care about the separation of manure and mayonnaise. He doesn't worry about the life cycle of a protazoa. E. Coli and Streptococcus are not his concern.

He tosses raw meat on vegetables and pounds his chest while dragging fish across my counters.

He shares an ice cream spoon with the dog.

Not me. I rant and rave and hide my desserts, but there's no escaping the dirty duo and their diabolical actions.

When I was little, Mom's dream kitchen was a lucite dome with a clear floor that could rise above the chaos. A big bubble of serenity where she could see us, but not hear us. I want one of those.

I want ...

"Oh no," I look out the kitchen window and spot the dog on the lanai, "he isn't ..."

"He is." Rob hurries out to coax our eighteen year old mutt into the grass, but he's too late, soft, viscous road apples are sinking into the outdoor carpet. He checks Simon's paws and then airlifts him over the mess and back inside. "I'll have to clean that up."

I smirk. I can't help it, last week I had a similar occurrence, only Simon had wiped out the tile floor of our bathroom. I'm grateful he missed miles of carpet, but not too happy to be first on scene. In our house, you find it, you own it, unless you can duck out of site when you hear the other guy coming.

But today? Today I'm busy with the dishes and that mess is all his.

Rob strokes his chin and when I lift the silverware out of the water, he snaps his fingers. " I could use the spatula."

"Oh no you don't." I toss the utensils back in the suds and guard the counter. I could never eat pancakes again. He grins and tries to step around me, so I thrust a finger under his nose. "Touch anything in this kitchen and I will hurt you."

He laughs and vanishes into the garage. After a minute, he reappears and trots through the kitchen dragging the wet dry vac.

Hands on hips, I narrow my eyes and watch his progress. I don't trust Rob, not one little bit, and from the expression on his face, he knows it. He hesitates.  "Keep moving Bub." I point to the back door. "Your destiny awaits."

He steps outside, but when the back door reopens, I stand at the ready. If I need to, I'll hit him with the spatula.

"Just using the plug." He says and ducks out of sight.

I grunt. When I hear the vac roar to life, I run out to the mailbox, grab the letters and race back inside. Rob is still busy and the spatula is still on the counter. I breath a sigh of relief.

Several minutes later he pokes his head in the house. "Hey, you gotta check this out."

Well that's fair. he did all the work, the least I can do is heap on the praise. "Wow Honey, nice ... hey, that's my favorite pot. You son of a ... "

"Slow down, I only used it for water."

I wish I could believe that. I'll never make popcorn again.










Thursday, April 19, 2012

Bringing Down the House

Raccoons line the snowy front porch, two adults and half a dozen kits. We have great raccoons, full, lush and oh so cute in their winter coats. 

I'm in my winter coat, one of the disadvantages of living in the garbungalow.

Not only are are the walls uninsulated, but the upstairs windows aren't flush with the sills and wind whistles through the cracks. In the morning we'll need to heat the pipe under the bathroom sink with a blow dryer to run water.

The living room downstairs isn't much better. When I lean over the pot belly stove, warmth heats my cheeks, as I step away, frigid air takes it's place. "Honey," I cross back to the window, "as soon as these guys leave, lets go to Lake Tahoe Pizza Company and warm up."

"Oh yeah," his eyes gleam, "how about the Jackpot?" He sighs. "I could use a cold beer."

I shiver. I'd rather have a chip shot, or a Baileys and coffee, anything with coffee. And as much as I admire the Jackpot, we need a little heat, we need the Gut Buster.

Rob strokes his chin and looks at me. "You want that pizza with the pepperocinis, don't you?"

I nod. "Now could you chase away the critters. Maybe startle them?"

"Well," he says, "I get rid of the raccoons, we get the jackpot."

"Fine," I peer out the car, "but do something, the snow's getting thick."

Hands on hips, Rob peers out the window. After a long moment he makes his way to the fridge, retrieves a bag of grapes and heads for the door.  Uh oh. "Uh, honey ... "

An icy blast rips the door out of Rob's grasp and snow plumes into the living room. He tosses a handful of grapes over the snow bank and the raccoons dive after the fruit. I tuck my chin in the neck of my parka, grab the car keys and slam to a halt.

One tiny raccoon sits on the threshold and reaches toward Rob. Entranced, Rob squats down and slowly extends his hand. With nimble fingers the kit plucks the glistening grape from Rob's palm and pops it in it's mouth.

Rob backs into the house.

The raccoon follows. And before I can react the small beast races up the stairs, pivots, flings himself toward the kitchen and ricochets off the fridge.

I shriek and press my back against the far wall. Rob calmly lays a trail of grapes to the door and steps back. Kit Catastrophe studies us from his perch on the windowsill, then makes a mad dash for the door.

When our masked intruder crosses the threshold, I slam the door and shake the keys at Rob. "We," I glare, "get the Gut Buster."



Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Propose or Pucker Up

"Marry me and you won't need to drive a god damned hack."

Rain sleets across the windshield as I grip the wheel and peer into the gloom. This guy's nuts, so I don't answer.

Any second now I'll find the street address and he'll be on his way.
Only this is Kodiak Alaska and normal rules don't apply.

"I own a fishing boat." He rasps. "You won't need to work."

At nineteen I can't appreciate his grizzled charm, plus he's old, fifty at least, so I keep quiet.

"There it is." He jerks upright, stabs a finger against the side window, then curls in on himself. "That's my house."

Thank God. I hit the breaks, but black ice litters the roadway and the cab slides sideways.

"Don't stop," he roars, "the bitch is home." Spittle flies as he starts to rant. "Son of a bitch, I knew she'd have company." He slumps in his seat and turns wild eyes my way. "Drive, god dammit, drive."

We hover on rain slicked ice before the tires catch on a patch of sand and launch us forward. 

I flex my hands on the steering wheel and blow out a breath.

"That's better," he mumbles when the house is out of sight, " turn around, drive slow, but don't stop."

We drive back and forth and spy on his ex for the better part of three hours. The muscles in my back are stiff and pain throbs in my temple. "I need to refuel." I say, hoping he's ready to go home. "Should I drop you off at the boat?"

He nods and I head toward the harbour. I'm a little leary that he won't pay the hefty cab fare, but he peels off several large bills and I heave a sigh. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says, "so what about marriage?"

I sigh, shake my head, and drive back to the center of town to await my next fair.

An hour later, the side door opens and I force myself awake.

"Hey, I need a ride." Twenty something and whip cord thin a man slides onto the front seat. He's dressed in wet camoflage and leaves a trail of water on the cracked leather seat."Want a toke?"

I glance at the bag of pot he's waving in front of the windshield and grimace. Last week I rear-ended a state trooper. I don't want anymore trouble. "No thanks," I say, "but you go right ahead."

He narrows his eyes and opens the door. "On second thought, I think I'll walk."

Good idea.

Next I'm sent to the bar on the outskirts of town. Crap, tonight's wet t-shirt night and crowds make it difficult to find my fare. I'm out of my depth around invisible t-shirts. I mean, where do you look?

No one's waiting outdoors, so I park and head inside. Just as I feared, the place is packed. 

A man catches my arm as I try to pass by. "Hey, wanna dance?"

I pull away and make a run for the ladies room. As long as I'm here I may as well make use of the facilities.

"Ooh, you're cute." 

Shaking the water from my hands, I grab a paper towel and look around. A tiny rotund woman peers up at me. Black crumbs dot her round cheeks. She reaches for the back of my neck and puckers up.

"Gotta Go." I squeak and lock myself into a stall.

When I'm sure she's gone, I peep around the door and make a mad dash for the exit. In three hours I have to be back on base for the day shift. As far as I'm concerned, this night is over.

I've been wrong before.

Tucking my chin to keep the sleet out of my eyes, I slip slide across the ice to my cab and skid to a halt.

The woman from the restroom is leaning against my bumper. "Took you long enough." She cackles. "Now take me home."

I give her a look, but she gives me a gap toothed grin. "Fine, but you," I point to the rear door, "sit in back."

























Sunday, April 1, 2012

Delusions of Grandeur

"I'm still looking for Mr. Right." Says Silicone Sally as she flounces into the galley.

Well crap, I flip off my glasses and wait. Sally is mid forties and ignores the obvious - like bugger off, I'm reading, or no, I do not wish to discuss articles from the National Enquirer.

After she pouts for a moment, Sally thrusts her chin into the air. "I really thought I'd found the perfect guy." She sighs and rolls her eyes at me. "Did that ever happen to you?"

She doesn't want an answer so I shrug.

"The last guy was really handsome and really charming and I really, really thought he was the one."

"So what happened?" I ask before she can sigh again.

"He left me alone at the restaurant." She gives a solemn nod. "He left me sitting alone at the table while he walked out to his car to get a coupon." She shivers and then her eyes glint. "I'm really worth more than a coupon."

"First date?" I ask, hoping Mr. Right knows how lucky he is.

"No," she says, "we'd been dating awhile."

"Maybe he had a plan." I offer. "Maybe he'd like to retire early." Maybe he was outside plotting his escape or trying to get his therapist on the phone.

She stares out the window. "The thing is, I really thought he respected me."

Oh. Shoot Me Now. Really, just shoot me now.