Let’s stroll back in time. Our darling neighbors are back on the mountain. We stopped by their home yesterday, and up for discussion came the Texas flag that we’re proudly displaying to welcome them. To welcome them, and for the celebration of Sam Houston’s birthday on the date of their arrival last Tuesday. Rusty said, Honey, it’s wasn’t Sam Houston’s birthday, it was the birth date of [insert name of some other dead Texan here]. I said, No, it was Sam Houston. Rusty said, No it was . . . blah, blah, blah. Okay, dear, I replied.
Well our neighbor (who is Scottish) jumped all over that noting how quickly I acquiesced to my husband’s brilliance. I assured John that if I had my calendar with me, I would at that very moment be flipping to the November 3 page to prove Rusty wrong. But John’s point was made . . . wives should all be happy little ladies, such as myself, and support their husbands, if not in silence, then with a smile, a cocktail, and a wink-and-a-nod. Actually, John implied almost nothing of the kind. He’s Scottish . . . therefore way too smart for such talk among the lassies. Way too smart.
Moments ago my computer popped up with a window saying that Your Sarcasm Is Not Responding. Now I ask you, is that the ultimate in irony? Is that truly mind-blowingly ironic? Yes, in order to have a Sarcasm Not Responding prompt, one must have a Sarcasm folder, and I do . . . oh, I do.
Moments before the appearance of the Your Sarcasm Is Not Responding window I located Rusty in his new garage in his play room in front of his bench grinder. Now I don’t know what purpose is served by a bench grinder, but now I’ll concede that it’s indeed a fascinating piece of equipment in that it throws colorful sparks everywhere. Are the sparks hot? I asked. Do you see these gloves? Rusty replied. Could something catch on fire? I asked.
I don’t believe that Rusty grasped the hopeful dream that perhaps Rusty and his entire collection of toys might just disappear in one large puff of smoke.
So I explained to Rusty that we’ve been fighting all week. He was made to understand that he’s been in the doghouse since the pasta incident*. Rusty, having absolutely no idea that anything was out of the ordinary, being entirely oblivious to everything outside of tools and sports, asked, Should I be worried?
No, dear, I’m simply here to make you understand that we’ve been fighting. All better now. I’m off to color a bird . . . or to wash some laundry, or vacuum and mop the floor for the 49th time this week, or to remove ticks from Jill the Pill, or to clean-up the dishes from making your egg-sandwich breakfast, or to [insert other scintillating acts of housework here].
But first I believe that I’ll make screwdrivers.
A few days ago I sent a maniacal, ranting email to my best girlfriends. The text was about 987 pages long, outlining, with numbers, every %*&#@* thing that Rusty was doing wrong, not the least of which involved the pasta incident* and the obsession with his Kindle®. Most people who know me know how foul my language can be. However, in the case of the 987 page email, I believe that I stunned even Becky and Sally. I’ve heard nothing from Sally since; and Becky promptly responded with a Wow, I’m going to need fortification just to get through the first paragraph. She meant vodka.
So moments ago in comes Rusty to the kitchen hoping that he’ll benefit from my bar-tending at 9:30 in the morning. He innocently asks, What was the fight about? I believe that he genuinely thought that my use of the word fight was intentionally overblown . . . some metaphor for you purchased the wrong type of vodka . . . some melodramatic word somehow tied to my frustration with removing ticks from Jill. Way, way, wrong, darling one.
Well he asked . . . so where does one begin? I mentioned the pasta incident*. Rusty’s incredulous, one-word response: Wow!
Now what must be read in to that one word is: Good Lord, woman, that was probably two weeks ago . . . you’ve really been fuming since then? You never said a word, yet you’ve been keeping this on your secret girl score card all this time?! You genuinely scare me. I told him about the email to Bexx and Sal.
End of tale. All is right with the world again. My sarcasm is no longer unresponsive. Jill still has ticks (details to follow). And November 3 was the birth date of Stephen F. Austin, not Sam Houston. I asked Rusty whether Mr. Austin died at the Alamo. Rusty’s response? No, from a poisoned screwdriver. And we laughed and laughed. Must be love.
What has this to do with Costa Rica? I believe it's that old adage: I said for better or for worse; not for lunch. We're still learning how to enjoy semi-retirement together. Okay, enjoy isn't the proper word. Survive . . . survive is the word.
*The pasta incident involved Rusty making hand-crafted lasagne noodles to go with his hand-crafted mozzarella for house-made lasagne. Picture a pound of flour exploding all over the kitchen with a neon sign saying We Proudly Serve Insects, No Shoes, No Shirts, No Problemo . . . and me with a vacuum, mop, and bleach-water at 11:30 at night. Still . . . delicious hand-crafted lasagne . . . how sweet was that?! Yep, I’m a bitch. Lo que hay.