The Pluck for a Pardon

The Pluck for a Pardon

Thanksgiving is a three-ring circus in our family.  The fun begins when the troop arrives--eight siblings with children and grandchildren bursting from a myriad of vehicles, tumbling out the side doors and cascading out the back hatches.  The great-grandparents serve as ringmasters who oversee the big top; we unfold tables and set-up chairs for a hundred in our community hall. Everyone is welcome and this year we invited an expansion pack of in-laws that added even more clowns to the crush.

With a group that big, there can be no sit-down dinner with elegant china, lacy tablecloths and a succulent, bronzed fowl.  It’s a challenge to grab a paper plate and a plastic fork as the group swings past the main table scooping from industrial-sized vats of mashed potatoes, gravy and corn.  Then they flip back to the platters of turkey and stuffing.  Back and forth from a side-table of salads to another filled with drinks.  The meal culminates with a heart-stopping landing in front of the dessert table laden with a nearly two-pies-per-person ratio. 

Our family dinner traditions include a freak show of vegetarians and gluten-free-ers.  The great-grand parents were charter members of those food groups long before food became fad.  Those epicureans have been joined the past couple years by new foodies that eat paleo, keto and whole.  These odd-balls wander past dishes marked clearly with labels like vegetarian, g/f, c/f, and sugar-free.  Our family’s food habits may seem finicky at first, but if you take the time to get the whole backstory of their medical odyssey, then empathy spills forth and the bullying and snark fade away.  The odd-balls are embraced because the goal is to have no medical reactions served up with dessert. Insight creates understanding and that is a laudable life goal.   

After dinner half of our group disperse to their second-meal destinations and a collective sigh releases from the gaffers and grips who have juggled the seamless presentation of the food-free-for-all.   The rest of the clan sit down to some serious board gaming and govern-mental problem-solving. 

Tempers flare in the after-meal conversations, but conflict is one of the standard side shows of most close relationships.  Humans have an inborn yearning to connect and through each one of us runs a streak of unique that is seeking its place in the crush.  Rejection by those who matter the most is humanity’s greatest fear.  Throughout my own personal journey, I have come to learn firsthand how the prickly Me, Me, Me Monster--that bullying narcissist—can learn to pull in its quills and lower its defenses when offered acceptance and love unfeigned.     

Soon, we welcomed the occupants of the second chorus of clown cars and their contribution to the table of diverse desserts.  Amidst the carnival chaos, two of the grand-nieces flee the brouhaha to take a refreshing stroll outdoors.  They wander a block or two away to visit a friend who is also visiting relatives in our little town from their own little town.

When the girls return they corner me, and they made an intriguing comment, “Auntie, we just visited a friend whose Dad said he knew you years ago, from high-school.”

That innocuous phrase is one I dread.  “I knew you from high school,” is anathema for me because I know that if I hear it in person, I should probably duck.  More than likely, those words will be followed by a slap on the cheek, or a sock on the chin.  And I when I come-to from the knock-out, I will have to shrug and admit, “I deserved that.”  Angst and regret fill the painful anecdotes from my high school memories.  

“He said that we shouldn’t mention to you that he said hi, because you guys didn’t get along all that well.”  Their comment didn’t completely drain the pool of candidates, but it helped.   A hammer slammed down and rang a bell in my memory, and I knew of whom they had spoken.  

I may not have been the nice one at school, but back then, I felt I was equally matched in offensive talent by only one guy.   While I was adept at tossing a verbal dagger, he had the deadliest knife-toss in the school and he could set his target spinning in circles with a cascade of verbal jabs. 

He was the subject of my decade-long retribution nightmares until I finally woke up and learned to embrace the bully creed, “The best bullies are those built by bullies.”  I evolved and in our last years of high school, when the two of us would meet at each end of the hallway, we'd duel and sling an arsenal of steel-tipped barbs with deadly accuracy and heaven help the innocent victims in our way. 

So now, thirty-five years later and eons wiser, I thought I would take the opportunity to walk over and face him.  I would look in his eyes with forgiveness and say, “Hey, I imagine that being the youngest of seven brothers couldn’t have been easy.  I’m sorry for sending you that Valentine cookie in our Senior year that said, ‘Drop Dead,’ and I’d like to ask for your forgiveness.” 

Yeah, I wish I’d done it.  But in life’s freak show, there lingers in me that porcupine girl who has become comfortable with the pain from her prickles. 

Maybe I’ll get up the pluck next year, when the traveling circus returns.

This is My Reality, and Sometimes it Bites.  And When It Does, I Write.  

Final Eng 101 - Yeah, I'm finally starting College. Jan 3, 2018

The New Brother

A New Egg Joins the Family Scramble  

How do you test the fitness of a new in-law?   With FOOD of course.  

Half a year ago, I acquired a new brother-in-law—an uncommon event, as we siblings have reached the age where our children are beginning to marry. 

It’s hard to imagine an interloper fitting in like the other seven in-laws, each of whom has melded seamlessly over the years and whom I regard as a divine sister or brother from another mother.

With this later-in-life acquisition to the family, my maturity (audacity) and experience (senility) support my thinking that I merit some opinion as to his marriage suitability. I have watched and listened as the love-struck sister extolls his merits: Turns out that he’s musical ( a definite +), a fun hog (absolute+) and witty (double ++). His green hair stunt on St. Patty’s certainly marked him as a possible candidate for the lunacy of the clan, though sources report he has shown liberal leanings (slight –).

Only time and close proximity could provide a true test.  HEY!  A family reunion would be perfect. The other sisters and I hatched the covert plan involving many tents and a myriad of  travails--where his suitability as an in-law would be tested to the extreme by us--a plethora of quirky relatives. 

The day dawns and the newlywed couple pulled up in a rig that rivaled Jezabel and Ahab crossing the desert, and it unfolded like an origami box revealing each and every luxury.  

That made me, with my liquid gas coleman stacked on my truck bed, look like a camping neophyte (uh oh, huge –).

The big weight that tilted the balance came at breakfast—eggs for all, cooked in that luxurious caravan—and made to order (+++). Sunny side up? Over easy, scrambled? Could eggs in the RV be better than those fried in the great outdoors in cast iron over pump propane?

Yeeayah, Doggie!  

After what seemed like a fraction of a moment, I am savoring light, fluffy, cooked to perfection, scrambled deliciousness. 

Then the chef poked his head out and asked, “Do you taste mango?”

"In scrambled eggs?" I thought, but then replied quickly, “No.”

“Oh.” His head withdrew.

Puzzled, I keep eating. I am a purist and prefer nothing to dilute the natural flavor of farm-fresh, free-range eggs. Or plain old, store bought, whatever. Anyway…

The head reappeared, “No papaya?”

I slid my tongue over my teeth . “Nope,” I reassured him. I ate faster, spent less time dabbling and more time gobbling.  Now I'm afraid he’d admit that I had gotten the wrong order. In my experience, a family group this size dictates that you “eat what you get and don’t pitch a fit and you do it QUICK!”

Then the sister (acting as the sous chef) pokes her head out. “Are you sure? No mango, no papaya, no tropical sunset?”

I again said, “Nope, just delicious eggs.”

The sister then rolled her eyes and announced, “I guess it’s my fault for placing the air freshener right next to the cooking spray on the counter,” and she disappeared back into the RV.

My last bite of egg slipped down the wrong way as the statement registered!

But I’m not gagging, just giggling. I start to guffaw—and choke—as I realize, HE IS ME!!

AND that, being as cracked as I am, that makes him a keeper!!!

But I am left with one question?  Is Air Wick gluten-free? 

It's My Reality:  And Sometimes It Bites. And When It Does, I Write              2009

I Could've Killed My Husband!

Today, I coulda killed my husband. 

I know most of us have said that about our spouses at one time or another in our lives, but today was my day.

Let me start with a little back story, Mr. Darcey has waged an ongoing battle with digger wasps in our front yard for months. They do not like the vibration of the lawn mower and yet he feels an ongoing urge for the rumble.  Ergo, let the battle begin.

In the past he’s been stung on his ankle tendon and it truly does debilitate a man, even one who seems invulnerable like unto Achilles. I don’t worry too much because the effects haven't moved beyond extreme pain and localized swelling--of the entire affected extremity.

Last week, he and I were just getting over the dreaded grandkid gom-booee, which is whatever the two darlings have picked up by lapping up the virus of the month from the bacterial regions of the earth.  And Mr. Darcey had just been given a steroid shot to curtail the left-over racking cough.  So he could go out and mow! 

This time he got bit/stung atop his right hand.  There was an identical response, pain and swelling, but this time Dr. Me was in the vicinity!  So I doped him up with a couple of Benadryl and a good experimental rub of whatever essential oil was the stink-de-jour. His body’s response was typical, four or five days of swelling resulting in an arm that from wrist to elbow resembled a spinach-loaded Popeye’s.  Remember, this response happened was while he was still on steroids. Sheesh.

Jump ahead.  This morning,  again while mowing, he comes racing in the house swatting wasps and when the panic and killing stops, we count four sting/bites. One on the chest, one on each ankle and one on the thumb joint. Dang. Here we go again! And most allergies intensify with added exposure, right?  This time I consolidate all the thought into one plan, “I gotta up the Benadryl to avoid another steroid shot.”  So my brain counts four bites and multiplies that by the two Benadryl, (those which were ineffective last time,) and I gave him six of the innocuous little pink pills. He’s in pain and he's listened to my hypebolic imagining of an entire body swollen, so he pops them down. I can tell he’s out of his mind in pain because he doesn’t stop to correct my math.  And it's a good thing that he doesn't. 

Now, women are not the only gender whose depths are totally unfathomable to the opposite genus of the species. While in pain, the husband heads back outside to move the mower in from the north forty and again, in he races--and again, he is swatting wasps and has been bitten/stung on his eyelid!

I coulda killed him!!!

But no worries, the Benadryl will probably kick in at anytime and it will do it for me.

When I read the bottle to see if we could up the dosage even more, I find the answer is NO.

Not just No, but,

OH NO!

Not to exceed six pills in a 24 hour period. What?

Hmmmm, I wonder what happens if you do?

He goes to shower and lie down and I get in the car to go off to church, only to discover the day-before-yesterday’s groceries sitting forgotten in the back seat and I discover that the fish has gone-off. Bad fish. Yeech. Such is the bite of reality that is my life.  

So I clean that up and head off to church where the first medical professional I meet advises me to go home and monitor the patient since, “that’s a boatload of Benadryl.”  "Just make sure he's still breathing."  He was joking, right?  

Turns out that Benadryl is a really bad high.  All the google comments are warnings that suggest that this is not the party drug of choice because the side-effects are "a real downer, dude."   

Yeah. I really coulda killed him.

After this experience, there is one thing I have learned for certain.  

Probably 12 hours is the upper safety limit for the left-in-the-car fish.

That's My Reality, and Sometimes It Bites.  

Sept. 2016

Food or Famine - Not Hoarding

Hey all,  

I'm pandemic posting for want of anything else to do, just to fill the aching void.  Today I'm musing about panic buying and empty store shelves.  

Food panic has become a staple of this pandemic and I think we need to step outside our current sugar canister and consider that the bulk of the problem should not all be heaped upon the hoarders.  Based on my pandemic binge-viewing I suspect that we're misdirecting a big heap of the blame for our food shortage.  

Given my wealth of experience, I'd have to say that we hoarders are typically introverts who's biggest problem is our inability to sidle around our homes alongside the newspapers stacked to our ceilings.  The shortages can't all be blamed on hoarders, because if we hoarders are any good at what we been blamed for, we’ve already been storing food alongside our newspapers and trust me.  We ran out of space for food late in the 1980's!  Add that to the fact that most hoarders would rather be found dead than go out into the world with the ravening hoard to scavenge for food and you may begin to agree with me that pandemic food shortages might have a different source. 

What if the problem is more sinister?  What if we’ve designed our nation into starvation?  

Just for a moment, imagine the showcase kitchen fitted with wall-sized refrigeration, double ovens and microwave drawers.  Perfection right?  Well, there is a flaw in the beautiful kitchen design with its quartzite counter tops and lighted cabinetry.  And I postulate that this is what has led to the nation’s food shortage.  

The basic design flaw that's caused our food emergency is that we've placed form over function—our nation's problem is that beautiful kitchen.  

  

Don’t get me wrong, the answer isn't simple appliance ignorance akin to my boss’s problem who can't run his new conduction/convection range.  “Please call the service representative and ask them to come and teach me how to use my oven.”  My thought was, “I think that warranty expired two years ago.”  

Nope, it's not simple stove stupidity that is blame for this round of panic buying.  Nope, this problem  is big and it can’t be resolved with a youtube video or a food channel how-to. 

The Pandemic flaw is that our designer kitchens are food-less.  Designers discovered that if you store food without rotation, you invite bugs, so beautiful kitchens have been filled with faux vegetables and fake fruit.  Across the United States, our kitchens have engineered shelving that unfold like a pop-up card to reveal fancy calligraphed tins filled with empty-ness.   

American's have carefully cultivated an ignorance in basic food acquisition and preparation skills.  That coupled with no time to prepare because we are working frantically to pay for those beautiful kitchens, means that as a whole, America eats out.  

Often. And that means there is NO FOOD IN THOSE HOMES.  

And now that Americans have been ordered by national emergency to eat in, we are forced to begin to replace the internet influencer-fueled faux life with reality.  And in the case of food, there is the need to acquire basic food supplies and that--THAT--is what’s contributing to the nation's food shortages. 

I'm reminded of Robin, that cute influencer from Houston who stands outside her gorgeous, (empty) pantry with a package of rice in one hand and one of beans in the other, while she muses that she does not currently know how to cook beans and rice, but her mother has assured her that she could live off them in a pinch.  Well, this is the pinch and that handful of food will indeed make one meal.  Or maybe two.  

So please stop blaming the hoarders and begin to direct the concern toward the ones that are truly at risk.  Those beautiful, ignorant, unrealistic people who were caught unprepared and are now struggling to fix their fundamental design flaw.   Basic food storage.  

Have a little empathy for everyone in the nation who are just now struggling to learn what basic necessities look like and how to prepare them.  And even if you can only throw them a bone, with their bean and rice storage, they might make a really tasty soup.  

That's My Reality, and Sometimes It Bites and When it does, I Write.            Mar. 2020 for the Win

Redneck Piano Mover

My Dad is a genius!

"Dad, I just bought a piano.  Can you help me move it with your truck, or your trailer, or one of the myriad of moving menagerie that you own?"

"We don't have brawn,"  he deadpanned.  "Let me think and I'll be over in a minute."

I returned to the garage sale site and patiently waited.

"My dad is coming."

"Just your dad?" the guy said.

"Yup, just my Dad."  I responded with complete confidence.    The guy is a product of a brighter age-- a guy who thinks the world needs whatever he thinks up next.  He is always the inventor, trying to do it better.  From backpacks, log splitters, diamond forging, to a better way to mold bronze, he has been there, built that and then tried to improve it.


We hear an engine laboring... what will it be, the ten-ton trailer he welded himself to move his heavy machinery?  Or the RV he rebuilt from his half-ton dump truck?  It could be the tool trailer he modeled from an old truck bed?  I could hardly wait.

And Voila!  Up he drives in Hogan. A 1972 International that still runs, and when it doesn't, it can still be fixed without computers.  

Dad lowered the bucket down, tipped the piano in, tied it down and drove through town.

Drove right to my back door, tipped it up and he, my son, my nephew, and weak little me rolled it in.

ThAT, GUY, is, AMAZing!






If only my son could reignite the inventor mind that has been dumbed out of him by the monotony of public school and my poor parenting practices which failed to inspire greatness.  I can only hope.

The world needs more inventive minds like my Dad's.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.     And when it does, I write

12-9-13

Naked at Church

I try to get to church early enough each week to take a deep breath and allow calm to enhance my spiritual experience.  I typically go to church by myself and because of that, I get the opportunity to exercise the spirit of my muse who asks, “Who needs me to sit with them today?”  Like many churchgoers, I begin the day in the spirit of warm acceptance, but sometimes I end the day with a bit of a chill. 

A little back story.  I have an autoimmune disorder that causes discomfort from cold temperatures.  During the summer months I avoid air-conditioned superstores and all restaurants that don't offer patio seating because after I spend an hour in air-conditioning, I am forced to spend an equal amount of time curled up regenerating heat to regain movement in my hips, elbows, knees and fingers.  And, awaiting that thaw can be awkward at closing time. 

Most weeks, I sit for an hour at church and solidify, then I spend the first part of second hour standing outside basking in the regenerating, (others might say cloying and oppressive,) heat of Oklahoma.  It’s a very pleasant time that I spend people watching—an activity that could be augmented by the addition of a bench.  But I understand that a chair might encourage exactly what a church is trying to avoid;  people feeling more comfortable outside the building than inside it.  

Church chic is a clothing challenge since I am compelled to wear thermal long underwear year-round.  It's an outdated fashion that hearkens back to the time period when women wore six petticoats and men withstood the chill by donning long underwear in the winter and leaving them to rot off in the springtime.  But I’ve made it work for me.  It’s not that hard to add a sweater to my ensemble, with long stockings and a wool cap and fleece throw.  

The church cold-challenge appears to be nondenominational; I’ve discussed this conundrum with my favorite survey group--the Walmart checkout line, and most women there are in agreement.  Churches can be frigid, some more metaphorically than literally.  I know first-hand that layering up protects, but it also prevents permeation and I’ve begun to ponder the value of shedding insulating layers and becoming more transparent.  Could God shine through me to others more readily?  And in this life, isn't that what I’m aiming for?  If only I didn't risk the chill.   

I've recently moved across the country and in my new church home, I've found a back row of support against the cold.  These are the white-haired ladies who, through age and wisdom, have shed the chill and have joined with me in my quest for warmth.   This particular Sunday is Mother’s Day and I’ve chosen fashion over wisdom.  I’ve donned a pencil skirt and Me, Myself and I spent the morning in the jacket-or-sweater debate, but I still have come to church woefully under-dressed.  

As I enter, I notice that the chapel has been pre-chilled and the thermometer is set at its coolest so I pick up my church bag and I make the trek from my front right corner pew to the left back bench, right below the thermostat.  I tweek it up two notches—not yet up to normal, just up toward normal and then I sit down.  Right in front of it.

 I’ve always found it interesting that the temperature of a church is affected most by those wearing the most layers.  I sit defending the thermometer and muse on the generalization that men are typically more warm-blooded than women and I wonder if it stems from epigenetic evolution...   I am comfortably considering my calefaction until suddenly I gird up my loins as the “suit” approaches.  He walks up, shakes my hand and says, “So I noticed you switched up the temperature?”  I grin and rehearse the entire argument that I’ve related above, ad nauseum.  He smiles and nods and I admire how well his eyes don't roll.  Then he moves on to greet more people and I sit warmed by the peaceful organ music.

 

I watch the congregation and note that most of the congregants are dressed for comfort and are wearing lightweights and shirtsleeves, but still I ponder on the meta-physical temperature in the church being managed by the layered.  I’ve spent years in leadership callings and I know that those days spent wearing the suit are definitely warmer when the pressure of leadership sweats you out.  But on a typical day, I suspect that most of leaders could benefit from a little more training in the leadership model that focuses on the well-being of others.   Perhaps all of us who are layered could be more understanding.  We could sacrifice ourselves and put other’s thoughts, feelings and discomfort at church before our own, not unlike another great leader of spiritual philosophy… Christ. 

Suddenly, I come to the conclusion that it must start with me. So, I sacrifice my comfort and my moment of selfishness and move to sit next to a person who is also alone and who may need to feel some warmth.  We may as well sit together in the overflow section. So there I am, watching as another suit walks over and tweeks up the thermostat. 

Oh I get it, I do.  I understand.  Maybe they ARE considering others first and are reacting to the furious-fan-frenzy-attack over in the menopause section.  (I skirted that flash of pleasure and skipped straight to the frigidity of the white hairs.)  The leaders may be more attuned to the feelings and comfort of others than I first imagined. 

            So it’s a matter of two things, my attitude and my motivations.  And the question for both of me may be, “Am I being more deliberate in considering others?”  It’s easy for me to pile on the layers and put up a shield against the chill, but in my church community, sometimes it’s about daring to go naked. 

That's My Reality, and Sometimes it Bites, and When It Does, I Write.  

The Man Plan -- (A Satire)

The Man Plan    

  

The men who lead our church youth group have an easy-going leadership style. They don’t get caught up in minutiae.  They stay flexible and just go with the flow.  

The male of the species plans with a laid-back attitude and I watch with awe.    Maybe it’s a gender thing that is uniform in church leaderships worldwide? 

Men don’t sweat the small stuff.  Women spend months on details like the  table centerpiece and the guys live “Let it Go,” long before it was a song.

In our house, the cool and calm planning attitude of man gets twisted by the whirlwind that is woman,  and when it does, the blustery moments usually result in tornadoes.

Like last night.  My husband tries to balance his natural man-planning with mine, the wifely PCD’r (planning compulsively disordered).  It was our weekly-annual planning meeting, and as usual, I took the lead.  

“There is a youth activity planned; Let me have our son explain it to you,” I say.

The son shuffles in and mumbles, “It’s our turn to be in charge of the Wednesday activity.” 

“Really,” the husband looks shocked, “Already?  Are you sure?” 

His response surprises me.  I expect the male to have a, “be cool fool, we got this,” attitude.  He must be channeling his femistique.  The guy knows that the boys and girls take turns overseeing the planning—and that means somehow his time and space  has warped six months and that rift has created a deep-down fissure that could prove treacherous.

I interject coolly, “It doesn’t matter.”   I figure if he’s switching up genders, I will too.

“No,”  he recovers, “It does matter.  It’s important to follow the calendared plan.”

Still,  I can tell the unfamiliar underpinnings are chafing.

    

“Well,”   I replied, “You are right, and if there were such a thing as a plan...” 

The importance of a plan!   I have learned this from my study of a compilation of leadership books that could be titled, “The Mindset and Element of the Seven Habits of  Leadership Skills”.   Every one of those leader-building books insist that ‘The End Will Begin’ only if it’s calendared. 

So I persist,  "Let me give you an imagined scenario of how the man-planning process would go.” And I began relating the story as I have watched it played out over my decades of experience in youth activity planning. 

And to enhance the experience,  I will attempt to write this performance in a duo of male voices as I did for him:  

------------------------------------------

(First, in the rich base tones of a radio announcer,)  "A day in the life of a male youth leader.  The alarm rings and the hand reaches for the cell phone and the eyeballs squint at the day's calendar.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in."

( My vocal pitch changes to treble,)

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?” as the man scans his smart phone.   “Whose week is it anyway?”

(Changing back to the Elvis voice.)  "And a distant memory from a planning meeting begins to struggle up  from the depths and belches a vague recall."

 

 (Back to the Sinatra voice,) “Seems like I heard the older group’s got it.  I heard they were planning something that sounded like fun.” 

(Bass,) "And the relief endorphins kick in."

(Tenor,) “Wow, great.  Wonder if they need help? I’ll text them tomorrow."  

(Bass,) "But then just as he’s rolling over, his calendar pings."

(Tenor,) “Oh, but I have that late meeting at work tomorrow.  I’m sure they will let me know if they need anything.  Yeah, they have my number.” 

------------------------------------------

Now, I’ve been using my voice skills, and my psychic man-channeling that’s been honed through thirty-some years of close marital contact, so as I wind down and slam the imaginary smart-flip phone shut, (because no one has ever effectively demonstrated the end of anything without a satisfactorily slam of something,)  I look at the man and his cub and say, “And that’s how it will go.”

“So honey,” I conclude in my normal voice, “I think that if you plan it, all will be okay.” 

My husband, the consummate critic of my acting skills, quirks a questioning eyebrow and says, “Maybe we just better be sure.” 

“Hey,” I counter the criticism , ‘ I cleared this activity months ago with the young women leader.” 

“Yeah, still…” his dubious mind balks at my unfamiliar faux-male casual attitude and he hesitates, proving his ignorance of  the critical component of church calendaring,  the addition of estrogen.   He turns to the budding planner, my son, the micro-male and says, “Who can you call?” 

“Well,”  I stifle the response that resounds in my head, “that would be me--the young woman leader.”    

I’m more than a little shocked that flipping out the female card hasn’t trumped and my mind races ahead to what deeper issue he may have that I haven’t already mentally considered and resolved. 

“Honey,” my husband, the long-term analyst-for-a-living rebukes, “I just don’t want to have to do this again in a month, if it’s not our turn.” 

Ah Ha!  And there we have it;  the real crux.  My mind leaps to a resolution and the drama drag queen begs to emerge.

“Oh, I get it.  Let me allay your concerns.  Let’s visualize next month, and imagine the thoughts of one of the other young men leaders,” and with a throat clearing, I drop back into my man-channeling persona. 

--------------------------------

 “Announcing a day in the life of a typical man.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in,” booms me.

My tenor, “’Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?’ flipping open that magical smart/flip phone.   ‘What week is it anyway?’  

"And a distant memory belches a vague recall."

“I remember that great activity from last month and the guys planned it… so it must be the girls.”  

"And with that, all youth-activity-centered-thought ceases and the mind shifts to other world-related problems."

"The next month arrives and again youth-activity-centered thought belches," 

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge tomorrow night?  Is it my week?  Ah, I recall that great activity … but it wasn’t last month as that was the girls, so it might be us...” 

"And the man pushes the button and says, 'SIRI, Text  the other male leader.'"
---------------------------------------------

Back in my own voice at home, in the kitchen, the husband watches enrapt with a slight smile on his face and I know that I’ve entertained.  

Then I wrap it up, “And every other month from then on,  that ‘great’ activity will be remembered and remarked upon.”

And the coup-de-gras--the last word?   I got it.    

"You may not have to ‘plan’ again for six more months.”   

And that's it, the earth-shattering brilliance of The Man Plan.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  And When It Does, I Write.  

circa 2015