In Which I'm in Deep Trouble
Were I to be asked for a story by my daughter, I'd rest my fork, peer down over my glasses and suggest "I don't know who the freak you are. Granted I've played around but in terms of progeny, I'd have remembered a shot that well targeted."
So of course she'd have to confess her true identity as a midget East German gymnast and all familial overtones to bedtime would be cast aside.
So here's a dinnertime story, my little blogosphere of retired anabolically-steroided worker's paradise showpieces.
I needed a paint mixer today and ran across the six lane state road to the hardware store across the way. That's as far as I travel these days, my wings are a little clipped what with the Knob and Tube and Parmour still on my asset sheet. Thanks to some third level underwriter at CountrySide going "Oops" a few months ago, a couple of us are up to our asses in real estate when we should be shouting "more hurricanes for my men!" at some bar on Duval or Rue Dauphin.
That's not to say that no one is travelling. One of Thumper's is across the pond feasting on frog legs these days. Literally. Two years ago there were near tears because the Thanksgiving turkey "felt funny." Now frog legs. Hell, I haven't eaten the damn things. Probably because in the world of unintended consequences I'd eat them, like them and six weeks later get an envelope full of address labels and a nickel reminding me that "a nickel a day can get a frog walking again."
You see scary shit when you cross a six lane road. Even a six lane road with a pedestrian crosswalk and a signal. Like full-sized hummers changing lanes without turn signals while Gretchen is on the cell phone. Or the Lexus that stops midway across the crosswalk because Ray took the time to look up from his Ipod shuffle.
I needed the paint mixer because the drywall primer was bought for a project four houses ago. I've finally finished my mastic makeover but paint tends to react to raw plaster the way tall blonde women react to me. With all the rejection one would ascribe to a middle aged chihuahua with a leg humping problem. Paint tends to peel off of raw plaster. Drywall primer is sort of like the spiked drink that makes things a little more palatable in that relationship. This of course is where I get into trouble because I have bought a paint mixer.
Not that I have bought the paint mixer and we are tight on cash.
Not that I make smartass remarks to elevator passengers asking "whatcha got there?" and pointing.
"Magic wand. I'll be turning those I don't favor into stale croutons this afternoon."
I'm sure HR will be calling me about that. No worries. I said croutons but meant nothing more severe than sunflower seeds.
No, I'm in trouble because Thumper already has a paint mixer and do we need two (or in the case of electric sanders, seven) of everything?
Trouble is Thumper's is huge. You could stir Chesapeake Bay with it. I have a gallon of paint. If I used it I'd fear creating my own low pressure system. Nonetheless I'm sure I'm going to hear something about it. But that's all right, because its not what you do or don't have but the special moments you share with those you love. Its not that I was poor and kept shorts in the freezer because starch was a luxury, its that in later years you can look back on days like that and think:
"That really sucked."
So I'm going to cherish the paint mixer moment with Thumper because now we have each other as well as two mixers. When that special moment comes along and we're both in the basement and she's found where I've hidden the thing all these months, her lips will purse into a wry smile, she'll ask if this is another paint mixer, I'll look deep into her eyes, wave my hand and turn her into a crouton.