Sunday, December 9, 2012

Rant on a Hot Tin Roof


A rerun for the Twisted Scottish Bastard who worries that I'm a tad unfair to my sweetie. I ask you TSB how would your wife exact revenge?

"Dammit Rob," belly down, I scootch to the edge of the roof, "get me down."

Silence.

Heat pricks my spine and a lock of hair sticks to my cheek. I can't believe he took the ladder. Who does that? "ROB. DAMMIT."

He's in the house drinking a beer. I can tell. He thinks he's funny only the next time the sewer pipe needs to be snaked he can damned well do it himself. I quit. At least I'd quit if I could get off the roof.

"Listen you son oF A ... "

The dogs race into the backyard and spin in circles til I groan. They look up, settle on their haunches and cock their heads. "Get Daddy." I tell them. They look at each other and glance back at me. I swear they're amused. "Go," I jerk an arm toward the sliding door beneath me, "Get. Daddy."

They bound into the house as I strip off dirt streaked gloves and judge the distance to the pool.

"Too chicken to jump?"

I jerk upright. Rob stands on the patio and tilts a iced bottle of beer to his lips. He's smug. Too smug for a man with a diminishing life span. "Get. Me. Down."

"No, I think you need to get rid of that attitude before I bring back the ladder." Whistling, he disappears into the house.

It's summer. It's Florida. I'm not losing the attitude til the first cold snap in November. When anger overrides fear I sit down, roll over and shimmy back to the edge. My legs dangle in midair but I shove down the panic and kick back til I collide with the fence top.

Ten seconds later I barrel into the house but it's quiet. Too quiet. And then I peer through the plate glass window. Rob's across the street chatting with George. The dogs are with him. He spots me and hoists his beer bottle in salute.

Why that son oF A ...

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Huh, I thought it was Thursday. If you're a Ninja, keep on scrolling and enjoy the day.

The Bedtime Blues

"That's it," I yawn and stretch my arms above my head, "I'm going to bed. You coming?"

Rob doesn't look away from the TV but tips his chin up for a kiss. "Not tired, you go right ahead."

I roll my eyes. Rob does his best sleeping in the evening and by the time I'm ready for bed he's wide awake.

Truth is, I like to sprawl all over that king size bed and if I'm lucky, I'll be sound asleep before he and the dog come in and start their nightly snore-fest.

I'm shrugging out of my t-shirt when I spot Rob's wet smelly jeans on the bed. I freeze and my blood heats. This battle has been a stale mate far too long to suit me. "Robbb ..."

"What?" He lopes into the room and squints into the corners. "Find a spider?"

Like he moves this fast when I do find a spider. "Dammit Rob," I slam my hands to my hips, "Do not put your damned dirty clothes on my bed."

"They're not dirty."

"You were fishing," I hiss but when he starts to grin I slam from annoyance to righteous indignation and my voice ratchets higher, "They're wet and smelly and ..."

"It's my bed too."

Rob's chin tips forward and I know he's ticked. Too bad. "Fine, I'll make this easy for you." I lift his pants with my fingertips and fling them into the laundry basket, "next time you wipe out the bedspread I'm going to steal your credit card and order the most expensive bedding I can find. Got it?"

He gives me a sidewise look. "You wouldn't do that."

Wouldn't I?




Saturday, December 1, 2012

Exposed Your Assets Lately?


We've all been caught in our underwear. Right?

What?

Oh no I'm not buying the denials. Let me speak to your siblings. Your siblings might be truth bending brats but I'm sure they have an interesting perspective on your behavior.

Lets face it, humans are fun to watch. No exceptions.

So I've decided to put your insecurities to ease by sharing a few of my moments. (Send me your moments and I'll post those too. Fine, though tattling on your sibs is a sin, I'll take those as well.)

I have been photographed in my underwear 9,632 times. (By my mom. Don't be a potty brain.)

Not only have I fallen down the stairs, up the stairs and in the hallway, I have flipped over my rollerboard and landed ass over tea kettle at four am while waiting for the elevator. (I was NOT drinking. Shame on you Missie, I'm trying to write an encouraging post here.)

As the only shy sister I wasn't crazy when people mistook me for my sibs. In the interest of full disclosure, I have not been to the nudie-butt beach with Beamer nor have I jumped off chair lifts with Jinxso. My parents are solely responsible for the silly camp songs I sang in public and Brat, well Brat spent an entire year imitating the Fonz so I'm starting to feel a bit better here.

Once I misinterpreted  the hand signal of another driver and when I pulled over to check my tires a trooper parked behind my car and asked what the problem was. Ye-ah, it wasn't until I imitated the other driver that I realized he meant cop, not tire. (Hey, twelve hours of graveyard shift people, twelve hours.)

I blew a snot bubble in first grade, faked a broken leg in eighth and spent a large portion of my freshman year stuffed in lockers.

Feel better?

What, you wanted my greatest insecurity as a writer?

Fine, I have an obnoxious voice and I worry that I drive people crazy. Ah, you're smiling now. Excellent, go off and enjoy your day but send me chocolate I think I've just talked myself into the blues.

               Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writers Blog Hop