I’ve recently been accused of neglect. I’d defend myself, but, eh, she may have had a point.
What can I say? My writers are on strike. Bah-dum-bum.
Seriously though folks….
The blog stoppage this time around has had mostly to do with sickness. The kids kept getting sick—each in their turn, thank God. Then I’d be sick for a while. Then one or the other of the kids again. Then me—with a series of exercise induced migraines this time. Then finally even Mister succumbed to the trend, and very nearly died—or rather, gave a pitch perfect performance of a man on the verge of death. Please believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more galling, more offensive to regrettably lucid eyes and stubbornly functioning ears, than a husband with a head cold. How is it exactly that these delicate creatures—namely the white male of the species—have managed to rule the world as long as they have when they are so completely undone by a mild headache and a little phlegm? I suppose the experience of coming thiiiisssss close the hand of God two or three times a year, and miraculously living (barely) to tell the tale (hallelujah) would tend to induce a sort of CHOSEN ONE delusion in anyone. Silly gits. Get over yourselves already!
But I digress.
There has been very little in the way of inspiring subject matter happening anyway, so you really haven’t missed much. There was a brilliant, utterly silent battle of wills played out between Mister and me last week. I’m not sure who ultimately won, but I believe the prize for Most Inspired Salvo goes to moi. Monday night, after a full 24 hours of cold, stony silence, I chose to exact my revenge by whipping up a pork loin stew so good, so lip smackingly delicious that the eyes of said Sir popped spontaneously out of his head and fell aghast to the floor after a single spoonful.
I waited—tweezed brow arched coolly in an expression of smug self-satisfaction—while he fished his fallen oculi out from under the table. I was curious to see if he’d break his self-imposed vow of silence to compliment me on the rich, yet subtle blend of meaty perfection I had created.
Alas, he did not. But he wanted to, I could tell. It damn near killed him not to. And I believe he knew a moment of regret for his chosen method of warfare, so I counted the victory on my side. He finally broke his silence the next night to ask me, however grudgingly, if I’d like a cup of tea, but got only a tart, “No. And furthermore go fuck yourself,” from me. I jest. I didn’t really say all that, but he understood that it was ever implied.
Fear not! Peace reigns supreme here at Chez JEDA. Since then we’ve talked, we’ve joked, we’ve even fooled around a little. So once again, it seems the union will stand. I still say it’s a moronic way to have a fight, but it does get him out of my hair and leave me blissfully alone with the remote control while it lasts. So I guess it’s not all bad.
It occurs to me that this is shaping up to be a sort of crap-all-over-Mister kind of post, but I didn’t mean for it to be. In fact, my heart is brimming over with goodwill for the grizzly old Viking at the moment because, not 40 minutes ago, he packed my babies up in the car and took them away to my sainted mother-in-law’s for the weekend.
THE! WHOLE! WEEKEND!
I’ve got wine. I’ve got pizza. I've got 3 new DVD’s and 2 new books.
And listen……
Can you hear that?
No. Neither can I.
BECAUSE THERE’S NO! ONE! THERE!
Ahhhhh. Life is good. Now where’s that bloody cork screw?
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