Sunday morning. I woke up and opened one eye. My beautiful bride was rolling out of bed. I didn't want her to know I was awake and then ask me to help her out with the kids. It is much more important for me to maintain my perpetual laziness than to love her in that regard. Besides, my second youngest daughter was shoving her toes into my spine and digging them in while making sweet thumb sucking noises. I never pass up a free back massage.
Unfortunately, the massage didn't last long. Where my delicious wife goes, goes all the children. So, my three-year-old daughter flew out of bed and disappeared. I fell back to sleep.
Morning dreams, when you should be awake, tend to creep toward the crazy. This morning's repertoire was no different. I dreamt that I was an adult, living in my mother's house. I was married but with no children. We heard a large noise outside and went to investigate, discovering a large contraption had been rolled into our old lady neighbor's driveway. It had torn up the concrete irreparably. I was staring at that when a black SUV squealed to a stop in front of the house and six Asian men flew out of the doors. (I swear, I wasn't enjoying a Jackie Chan flick the night before)
Five of the men disappeared but the sixth stormed past me, popped the lid off of a canister and threw it into our living room. The top was glowing. I heard a "swoosh" and decided to peer past the doorway into the room (but was smart enough to hold my breath). I saw three of my brothers standing or lying down, not hurt, but very acquiescent. Realizing quickly that they had been given a shot of mind-control from the exploding canister, I clotheslined the Asian guy running back out the door and took all his aerosol cans.
Then, I ran around the house, clouding my family's face with this mind-control elixir and shouting out orders. My mother took three squirts to the face before she would follow my directions. That made a lot of sense to me in the dream - not to mention - still does. I yelled at my brother to go to a neighbor's house and get some guns so we could fight the naughty peeps. Then, I woke up. My world saving days were over.
I smelled bacon! I jumped out of bed and rushed down the stairs. The two kitchens were spotless. My gorgeous trophy wife was hunched over a griddle of sizzling pancakes. The window in one of the kitchens was half open, letting in a shivering breeze which actually felt good. I noticed that condensation (or what I thought was bacon grease smoke) had collected on a few of the prep-kitchen windows. Wanting to know whether I needed to clean them or whether the gray day, turning into a bright sunny day would do the deed, I asked the following question:
"Is that bacon grease on the windows?"
Has anyone ever wanted to ask a question over again, or simply not ask the question at all? There is so much that goes on in my head before I say a word or two that I know exactly why I am asking a question but not necessarily why I choose the words I select. This was one of those times. I wasn't aware that my wife had had a bad morning. My question was a sort of last straw.
She had wanted to have a beautiful breakfast ready for me on my birthday morning (which I had forgotten it was my birthday) when I arrived downstairs but everything had worked against her that morning. And here, the chump that she married marched down the stairs and could say only one thing! "Hey dufus! What the bleep! The windows are dirty!"
Moron. Idiot. Loser. Pathetic pipsqueakish thumb-sucking numbskull.
But, after ten years of marriage, I have learned one thing. I have discovered how to be sensitive. I wrapped my arms around my wife, from behind, who was sobbing internally, and apologized. My birthday morning was perfect, regardless of what she did for me. And at that moment, she knew it. The windows ended up melting and the breakfast was wonderful. She was radiant, as usual and the kids were monsters, which of course, is usual.
And, to set the record straight - I love Asians. My best friends in all of my school years were the many Hmong and Laotians that graced our great state. I hold a deep respect for their work ethic and an even deeper respect for their martial arts. In real life, I would have gladly been sprayed in the face, rather than getting my butt kicked trying to clothesline one of them dudes.
Unfortunately, the massage didn't last long. Where my delicious wife goes, goes all the children. So, my three-year-old daughter flew out of bed and disappeared. I fell back to sleep.
Morning dreams, when you should be awake, tend to creep toward the crazy. This morning's repertoire was no different. I dreamt that I was an adult, living in my mother's house. I was married but with no children. We heard a large noise outside and went to investigate, discovering a large contraption had been rolled into our old lady neighbor's driveway. It had torn up the concrete irreparably. I was staring at that when a black SUV squealed to a stop in front of the house and six Asian men flew out of the doors. (I swear, I wasn't enjoying a Jackie Chan flick the night before)
Five of the men disappeared but the sixth stormed past me, popped the lid off of a canister and threw it into our living room. The top was glowing. I heard a "swoosh" and decided to peer past the doorway into the room (but was smart enough to hold my breath). I saw three of my brothers standing or lying down, not hurt, but very acquiescent. Realizing quickly that they had been given a shot of mind-control from the exploding canister, I clotheslined the Asian guy running back out the door and took all his aerosol cans.
Then, I ran around the house, clouding my family's face with this mind-control elixir and shouting out orders. My mother took three squirts to the face before she would follow my directions. That made a lot of sense to me in the dream - not to mention - still does. I yelled at my brother to go to a neighbor's house and get some guns so we could fight the naughty peeps. Then, I woke up. My world saving days were over.
I smelled bacon! I jumped out of bed and rushed down the stairs. The two kitchens were spotless. My gorgeous trophy wife was hunched over a griddle of sizzling pancakes. The window in one of the kitchens was half open, letting in a shivering breeze which actually felt good. I noticed that condensation (or what I thought was bacon grease smoke) had collected on a few of the prep-kitchen windows. Wanting to know whether I needed to clean them or whether the gray day, turning into a bright sunny day would do the deed, I asked the following question:
"Is that bacon grease on the windows?"
Has anyone ever wanted to ask a question over again, or simply not ask the question at all? There is so much that goes on in my head before I say a word or two that I know exactly why I am asking a question but not necessarily why I choose the words I select. This was one of those times. I wasn't aware that my wife had had a bad morning. My question was a sort of last straw.
She had wanted to have a beautiful breakfast ready for me on my birthday morning (which I had forgotten it was my birthday) when I arrived downstairs but everything had worked against her that morning. And here, the chump that she married marched down the stairs and could say only one thing! "Hey dufus! What the bleep! The windows are dirty!"
Moron. Idiot. Loser. Pathetic pipsqueakish thumb-sucking numbskull.
But, after ten years of marriage, I have learned one thing. I have discovered how to be sensitive. I wrapped my arms around my wife, from behind, who was sobbing internally, and apologized. My birthday morning was perfect, regardless of what she did for me. And at that moment, she knew it. The windows ended up melting and the breakfast was wonderful. She was radiant, as usual and the kids were monsters, which of course, is usual.
And, to set the record straight - I love Asians. My best friends in all of my school years were the many Hmong and Laotians that graced our great state. I hold a deep respect for their work ethic and an even deeper respect for their martial arts. In real life, I would have gladly been sprayed in the face, rather than getting my butt kicked trying to clothesline one of them dudes.
Why, happy birthday!
ReplyDeleteWhy, thank you! Really. It was a memorable day. And not because it was my birthday.
ReplyDelete