Sunday, July 20, 2014

Goosing the Gander, OR, The Afternoon of Living Dangerously

Hey! Remember how I have been kind of recuperating all summer from my unfortunate three-day hospitalization, having knocked a bit too hard on death's door?

And remember how I have not been able to sleep past 5:00 or 6:00 a.m., depending on Hick's whim of how much rest he thinks I've indulged in between my usual bedtime of 2:00 a.m. and his departure for work?

Get this! Today, Sunday, Hick made sure I was up and moving by 7:30. Yes. I know that's a Rip-Van-Winkle age for my sleep habits. But still. It's SUNDAY! Just because Hick goes to bed with the chickens at the crack of dusk, and slurps up sleep like a five-year-old on a cherry sno-cone...that doesn't mean I am ready to get up when he does to admire whatever shack he's building, or watch him cart his auction bargains from Pacifica to Gator. Or, most often, to observe his tail lights as he drives to town for a clandestine breakfast under the guise of getting a four-hour haircut.

Well! Take a whiff of THIS fine kettle of fish! Hick was in and out, puttering around doing a great big deal of nothing, calling The Pony to hold something while he screwed it (something metal or wood, I'm hoping), and waiting for Genius to return from an overnight swimming trip so they could chew the fat about his new phone. I went to town for some provisions for Genius to take back to his basement apartment and wrestle the landlords' Husky for, and some meat for Hick to grill for supper.

No sooner had I returned and put away the groceries and plopped down in the La-Z-Boy to rest my weary knees than Hick crossed the threshold in a dramatic, wide-open kind of way that invites flies to partake of our hospitality. "I feel sick to my stomach," pronounced Hick.

"Do we need to go to the ER? Are you having a heart attack?"

"No. I feel sick to my stomach, I said."

"What did you eat?"

"Just a breakfast platter from Burger King."

Let the record show that Burger King is not in Backroads proper, but down the highway a piece in a neighboring town. Let the record further show that the time was shortly before noon.

"I'm going to lay down and see if I feel better."

Let the record show in detail that Hick had already enjoyed a full nine hours of shut-eye before getting up at 7:30 a.m.

With the assurance that the Grim Reaper was not Hick's little shadow, the thought dawned on me that I had been forcibly yanked from my slumber, while this snooze glutton was now having second helpings. Not on my watch. Val, like karma and Mother Nature, is a harsh taskmistress. I waited about ten minutes, time enough for Hick to make himself comfortable and nod off. Hm. I had not yet changed out of my town clothes. So I opened the bedroom door on the way to our bathroom to slip into my raggedy attire, and saw Hick, or at least a large lump under a sheet with a tube to the breather running under it.

"Hey! Remember all those mornings this summer that you made sure I was wide awake before you left for work? THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE!" No. I'm not proud. But I felt like a teakettle releasing steam. Like the boiler at the Overlook Hotel right after Jack Torrance dumped it so it wouldn't blow. Fair is fair. Said the goose mentally to the gander. I might have hear a "hmpf" evaporate through the sheet. I went about my business of clothes-changing, and gathered myself some lunch and descended to my dark basement lair to inflict my annoyance on the blogosphere.

At 3:00 p.m., Hick hiked all the way down the 13 stairs to ask why I had done such a thing. Was it really necessary? Yes. Yes, it was.

"You know how you felt when I barged in and woke you up? Well, multiply that by 60, and you'll understand how I have felt all summer long. Except that you just went back to sleep for another three hours."

"It's not like that at all. I WAS SICK!"

"Yeah. So was I. I needed rest to recover, and I got none. All summer."

"Well, you should have gone to bed earlier."

"YOU should have gone to bed earlier! THREE HOURS earlier!"

"It is totally different. There was no need for that. It's not the same at all."

Sadly, there's no enlightenment for the gander, and no rest for the goose.


  1. And your story is not even 1/365th as entertaining as I thought it would be. (Just kidding. I had to figure out some way to refer to the title.)

    Since that did not teach him a lesson, you will have to bring in the big guns next weekend. You've looked at the data, and Hick has not reached "proficient" yet, so you'll have to engage in some intervention strategies and do some reteaching.

    Have fun.

  2. THis is why I love Mrs. Cranky, we are on the same page sleep wise, both night owls. THe other day we went to the association pool and after 2 hrs of taking a dip and then doing nothing we came home. THe house needed cleaning and there were other chores needed doing. I asked what do you want to do and she said how about taking a nap. that is when I told her I love you!

  3. Guys never get it. Doesn't matter if they're a goose or a duck. It's just not wired into their jeans. Hmmm. That bit could be taken several ways. Should I re-write? Nah. I'll just leave that comment and hit Publish.

  4. At least you didn't crimp his hose Hee Hee

  5. Well, you know what I always say, Val. Men ought to be a four-letter word. MENN!

  6. Val, I've just read about a week's worth of your posts. I need to remember to do this first thing every morning to start my day off with laughs!!

  7. He is a man, after all. Did you really expect him to get it?

  8. Mrs. Chatterbox is very tolerant of my sleep habits and we have no problems there. We do have an issue when one of us is sick. I want to be left alone to die quietly while she wants a bendy straw, a magazine, her pillow fluffed and on and on....

  9. Sioux,
    You could have pointed out that Mel Gibson was only 1/365 as tall as Sigourney Weaver in that movie, and had to stand on an apple box every time they had a kissing scene.

    I am pleased as punch that Hick is one point above Below Basic, and I shall not do anything to jar a single item of knowledge out of his noggin by trying to squeeze new items in.

    I may need you to testify some day that night owls are people too. That the early birds are full of worms.

    So appropriate, some slips of the finger.

    But did I WANT to? Oh, yes!

    MENN! Said with the same inflection as NEWMANNNN!

    I shall not be responsible for wasting your mornings! But that does not mean that I will shorten my posts. Self-control. It's on your shoulders and in your hands.

    It's kind of like when you talk to a dog, and he gets all excited, and mimics you with "rour rour rooo rourrr" and you think maybe, just maybe, a real word is going to come out.

    But men seem to be on the deathbed once or twice a week. It's uncanny, really, how you all survive so many fatal illnesses. It's almost as if you weren't really ill at all...