The one thing I hate more than anything else is waiting. The other night Frank was twenty minutes late. But, this was after calling and changing the time he would be home on three separate occasions. When he walked in the door, he smelled like an alcoholic fruit roll up. He has taken to drinking the prissiest cocktails on the planet. You know the kind that come in unnatural colors like smurf blue and are adorned with slices of citrus and maraschino cherries. I'm thinking of getting him a bedazzled goblet that says “Princess.”
“Hey, babycakes.” He swaggered over and tried to hug me.
I was not in the mood. Before his eyes, I transformed into a banshee bitch from Hades.
“Where the hell have you been? And with what trash? How many drinks have you had? Don't lie to me. You've got that glazed look and gummy face. You are drunk. I worked all day, then cooked you dinner, and we were supposed to be in Berea two hours ago. I'm sure you were telling those same old, stupid jokes to anyone that would pretend to listen. You're not funny. You know that, don't you? Asshole.”
I grabbed the plate containing the crab quesadilla that I had slaved over a hot griddle for about five minutes to make, and all but threw it at him.
“I can't. You've upset me too much.”
“You're fine. Eat your dinner.”
“I can't. My stomach is all knotted up. I'm a nervous wreck now.”
“I'm sorry. You know how I hate to wait. Just eat.”
“Look,” he says, and points to the corner, ”You've upset Doc.”
When either Frank or I raise our voices, Doc Grizzly assumes that somehow he is responsible. The dog has some kind of canine Catholic-guilt complex. He hides in the corner and stares with a look that would break Hitler's heart. Oftentimes, he gets so agitated that he goes into a seizure and starts sticking his tongue in and out uncontrollably. Then, I have to administer Bach's Rescue Remedy and lay on the floor with him and rub his chest until he calms down.
“I can't even think about eating. I need a cigarette. I'm like Doc, you know.”
“No,” Frank insists, “I'm serious. Look, I'm shaking. You've got me so worked up I'm going to have a seizure.”
I get so close that our noses touch, and use my scary whisper, “Don't you fucking threaten me with epilepsy.”
We both start laughing. End of fight.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.