Friday, February 20, 2009

When Fred is away….


You only have to look at the outside of our house to know my husband, Fred, is out of town. I do many things, but shoveling a driveway is not one of them. In our neighborhood of hard-working, obsessive-compulsive driveway-clearers, Fred is “Monk” or at least “Monk-Second Class.”

The other night Fred called and when I told him about our new 4” snowfall he asked:

“So, what is your plan to clear the driveway?”

“I’m going to drive over and over and over it and pack it down so when it gets super cold it will ice up," I thought, slyly, which is exactly what accidentally happened.

But...Fred is away on business, so things are a little looser here at 3077.

A number of things typically happen when Fred is away. We have at least one “Breakfast Dinner” of eggs, pancakes and/or cereal. We paint our fingernails in the living area—Fred hates the smell of nail polish. We also drink soda and let out avalanche-producing burps (you may have heard us). The glee of not cooking a well-balanced meal, adorning ourselves in improper places and practicing slacking manners lasts a couple of days. Then we start to miss that deep-voiced, brave, toy-fixer.

Yesterday, Krista brought her Mary Poppins doll to me. The head had come off and the neck was cracked. The kind-but-firm nanny replica had flat-lined; I wasn’t sure I could save her. I could Super Glue it, but she’d never be able to nod approvingly or look behind her to see if the “Chimney Sweeps” were “in-step” ever again. Krista suggested I attach her parrot parasol head instead—a ghoulish, “abi-normal” operation I scoffed at--but secretly thought would be possible. Nope, Parrot-Head would remain atop her umbrella, while smiling Poppins-Head rolled around on my desk.

“We’d better wait until Dad gets home.”

After Day 2 of Fred being gone, our house began to moan. Noises I’ve never heard before pushed up through the hardwood floor. Like some “Slasher” movie sacrificial lamb, I moved cautiously downstairs to investigate…with a dim flashlight…alone. Predictably, the flashlight went dead and I heard a loud *click* noise. I, as Sonic the Hedgehog, bolted upstairs (I am comforted to know that this “old girl” can move when she needs to). When Fred is here—“Unusual Noise Investigation” is his job.

Multiple dishes in the sink, and empty Cheerio boxes and soda cans are left “where ever,” by mid-week, I need to start readying the house for the incoming patriarch. When he arrives, I want to be sitting in the living room, with a crackling fire and a pronounced “Warm Beef" smell wafting throughout. Krista will have all her homework done; the dog, groomed, and raked.

All evidence of our *burp* week of living like “Frat-Boys,” cleared and trashed.

1 comment:

bspicknall said...

Hey, if you won't tell I won't tell. We'll both be vewy vewy quiet. Shhhhhhh...