Thursday, March 23, 2017
Today I am grateful for brain farts. I seem to be having more and more of them. Nothing serious, but things like grabbing my gym bag, the folder I need to give to someone at the Y, and my phone, I buzz out and slam the door. Without my keys.
Himself is in the bedroom, with morning brain, sans hearing aids and does not hear me banging on the door, ringing the doorbell, or screaming for him to open up. The garbage men hear. Probably all of my neighbors hear, but HE does not. Until I call him. Which I don’t even think of until after 10 minutes of looking like a felon on a day job.
“Yea, what’s up?” he says into the phone.
“I’m locked out! Can you open the door?” I am screaming into my phone, above the din of the trash trucks groaning and the recycling bins flying.
“What? Wait a minute! I don’t have my ears in.” He hustles off to get at least one, finally hears me and lets me in. I grab my keys and we are still married. Go figure. Oh don’t worry, sometimes karma. . .okay, ALL times karma is a great thing.
I’m doing a crossword puzzle the other day. If I let it lay in the john for long enough he might put a word or two in, figuring I’m stuck. He wouldn’t be wrong. I get stuck a lot.
On the crossword, not the toilet. But sometimes I just look at a clue, have a brain fart and can’t imagine “whatever” would be the answer. As in the other morning.
“I helped you with your puzzle,” Himself says.
“I saw. But it doesn’t make any sense,” I argue, fool that I am.
“Of course it does. Where doesn’t it make sense?” He looks at it.
“Well I don’t know what an atoz is.” I answer with conviction.
“What?” He’s looking at me for a clue. But this isn’t his first rodeo so he waits while I explain.
“Number 27 Across says, ‘Whole range’. What kind of range? A stove? A driving range? Home, Home on the Range? Whole range of what? Range of ALL insects, idiots, government officials? And how can the answer be atoz? I thought maybe it was “At Oz”, but that doesn’t make any more sense so I think this one is just wrong!” I rant and toss the puzzle at him for verification of my brilliance at catching the puzzle writer in an error.
His laughter starts with a low, guttural rumble. He is roaring so loudly that he can’t even explain or hear me saying, “What? What? What?” as I’m snatching the newspaper out of his hand.
“The answer is A to Z!!!” He says between guffaws. “It’s the whole range of the alphabet!” He’s about to pop a blood vessel. Damn!
“And I was just getting attached to my new word, atoz! Put that in your A to Z and stuff it!” I say, grabbing my purse, phone and gym bag as I head out the door, laughing. Without my keys. And the brain farts continue. Ding-Dong.