I mean: I'm minding my own business at a party over at Doc Milly's house next door, when Milly says to a friend in a real casual tone: "Hey Deb, betcha Robby'll show ya 'round his gorgeous home?!"
Deb brightens all up suddenly: "How-bout-it, Robby? I'd liketa see your home. Everybody says it's GooooorJus!" She strung the word out like that all-big-eyed.
Hmmmmnnnn!? I could only think of several reasons why not to show my place right that very minute -- like:
'Sbeen some time since I last shoveled the place out.
(I'm a widower. A messy one.)
The sweeper has not yet been put away.
(Nor used yet. Just in case you're moved to ask.)
Christmas wrapping stuff is spread evenly throughout the Great Room.
(I strew bitsa Xmas paper about the room and sort presents to size.)
Used lunch cooking utensils and dishes are strewn all over the kitchen.
(Lunch was only ten hours ago.)
To stockinged feet, the hardwood feels like a gravel road.
(Haven't swiffered for. . .awhile.)
Dustballs the size of tumble weeds abound.
(okayOkayOKAY! I'll swiffer. . .soooooon.)
Gatsby-Kitty is having sneezing fits.
(I know. I KNOW! the swiffer. . . .)
But lately I've been learning that one way to avoid new-woman problems is to take Milly up on just such chancy invitations as this one she's just made me offer.
God(dess) hateth a happy bachelor.
My house-keeping is not for the faint of heart. Besides which, any woman who manages to see through the litter is certain to appreciate the buried beauty of my home and think: "My GOD! He's destroying this once-gorgeous home! I'll NEVER speak to this Barbarian again!"
Indeed! Some have said those words aloud! (I love my new independence!)
So off we go next-door to my house. But to my surprise and dismay, Deb remains quietly speculative as we plow through all the debris. Then, when we come again to the front door and are prying our shoes back on, she draws her face up into a quizzical grimace and issues the aforesaid question: "What's with all the Roosters?"
I assume my pseudo-sophisticated docent manner: "My wife was raised on an Ohio chicken&egg farm. They also raised broilers. . . ." My voice trails off. Hopefully no further questions will be asked. By now I'm wiggling my foot desperately, smashing-down the counter of my left shoe in a vain attempt to get us quickly out the door.
But inevitably, questions are asked. I rattle-off my programmed response: "In fact, Nancy's father was renowned across the country for having pioneered the earliest mechanized egg production facility."
Short version: "Umpteen-thousand chickens stand crammed together cross-legged in wire cages, laying eggs that roll down ramps onto concave moving belts. Other stuff is also carried away on moving belts." (I'm rarely asked for particulars.)
Deb cocks her head to the side, quietly speculative. Then, another twisted face: "Yeah! But what's with all those Kaleidoscopes?"
"Same thing."
"Wait-a-minute! Kaleidoscopes stood cross-legged. . . ."
"NoNoNoooo! Roosters're because Nancy liked collecting things that reminded her of her past."
"Kaleidoscopes reminded her of her past?"
Patient, calm and casual: "No! She also liked giving me gifts she discovered interested me."
Astonished glance: "You like carved wooden ducks and decoys? You like carved all-rolled-up-in-a-ball kitties?"
"Yes, I do." Still quietly matter-of-fact. But now I'm feeling a little defensive.
A touch of unabashed criticism: "You like those metal toys that sit-up on fulcrums and pretend to saw wood and stuff when they're teetered?"
"Yeah!" Now I'm gathering up wrapping-paper-clutter in a vain effort to get out of the line of fire. A rolling paper-grabber-upper gathers fewer unsolicited criticisms.
Head poked into the library and then back at me: "You reallyReallyREALLY like books, doncha!?"
I pause about three beats. Begin loading in a few stones of my own.
But now she's smiling all warm. Her face lights up with excitement, and she's all perky-animated: "I do too! I looove books! I'm mostly a reading teacher. . . ."
I release a quiet, long sigh of relief at this accidental score.
But now she's bustling around, traipsing back into the kitchen: "Come-on! Help me with these dishes. . . ."
Now I'm a little panicky. My clutter-defense is not achieving its desired result. "OhhhNOOOO! I couldn't ask you. . . ."
But she's a headlong bustler: "'Sno trouble, Robby. Cleaning-up's my thing!" She darts about like a dervish, gathers up wrapping-paper litter, shoves it all crushed-up in her left arm-pit, clears the table, balancing grubby flatware and lunch dishes on her left forearm. A quick snatch with a flashing right hand, and three pots magically disappear into the sink. Plates and flatware disappear into the dishwasher, all quick-clunkity-clunk. She's a virtual blur.
Oh Lord! Now hot water's running into the sink. How'd she find the Dawn. I've been poking around hopelessly beneath the sink for almost a week. Scrape-itty-scrape-clank, and she shoves a dish-towel into my hand. Where'd she find that?
I dry-em and plunk-em safely away into the cabinet just below her to the left. As I bend down I can't help noticing her nicely-rounded backside. Plus she smells really good.
But still, I'm groping desperately around in all my pockets for my car keys. She lays a hand on my swiffer-handle, I'm outa here.
About 20 minutes later we're relaxing on the couch watchin' Charlie Rose. Clutter's all up. Swiffer'n sweeper are used and put away. Place looks really nice. Still a little dusty. . .but nice.
Gatsy-Kitty's lying in Deb's lap. Sure enough, she's found that spot between his front shoulders. Little traitor's purrin' like a garbage disposal.
Suddenly Deb's up. Gatsby-kitty under her left arm all squished-up-happy as a wad of wrapping paper. I can't help but notice Deb's pert, trim figure. How she's short, cute, athletic. Now I'm wondering about her age.
Now she's found my clip-board. Deb's got that squished-up face again. Kinda cute, actually. But she's smiling: "Let's count the roosters!" Goodby Charlie and his distinguished guest who apparently knows all about Afghanistan, Pakistan, and who knows what-all-else.
So, like in fifteen flashing minutes we find and tote up the roosters:
several large French ceramic-over-tin models,
paintings and assorted china replicas,
assorted carved wooden beauties,
numerous metal sculptures,
artful candle holders,
etched goblets,
napkin rings,
embossed tableware,
stitched pillows and runners,
tosseled key and door-knob hangers,
paintings of Amish youngsters, roosters in arms,
rooster rugs in kitchen and baths,
And more. Still more.
God(dess) hateth a happy bachelor.
My house-keeping is not for the faint of heart. Besides which, any woman who manages to see through the litter is certain to appreciate the buried beauty of my home and think: "My GOD! He's destroying this once-gorgeous home! I'll NEVER speak to this Barbarian again!"
Indeed! Some have said those words aloud! (I love my new independence!)
So off we go next-door to my house. But to my surprise and dismay, Deb remains quietly speculative as we plow through all the debris. Then, when we come again to the front door and are prying our shoes back on, she draws her face up into a quizzical grimace and issues the aforesaid question: "What's with all the Roosters?"
I assume my pseudo-sophisticated docent manner: "My wife was raised on an Ohio chicken&egg farm. They also raised broilers. . . ." My voice trails off. Hopefully no further questions will be asked. By now I'm wiggling my foot desperately, smashing-down the counter of my left shoe in a vain attempt to get us quickly out the door.
But inevitably, questions are asked. I rattle-off my programmed response: "In fact, Nancy's father was renowned across the country for having pioneered the earliest mechanized egg production facility."
Short version: "Umpteen-thousand chickens stand crammed together cross-legged in wire cages, laying eggs that roll down ramps onto concave moving belts. Other stuff is also carried away on moving belts." (I'm rarely asked for particulars.)
Deb cocks her head to the side, quietly speculative. Then, another twisted face: "Yeah! But what's with all those Kaleidoscopes?"
"Same thing."
"Wait-a-minute! Kaleidoscopes stood cross-legged. . . ."
"NoNoNoooo! Roosters're because Nancy liked collecting things that reminded her of her past."
"Kaleidoscopes reminded her of her past?"
Patient, calm and casual: "No! She also liked giving me gifts she discovered interested me."
Astonished glance: "You like carved wooden ducks and decoys? You like carved all-rolled-up-in-a-ball kitties?"
"Yes, I do." Still quietly matter-of-fact. But now I'm feeling a little defensive.
A touch of unabashed criticism: "You like those metal toys that sit-up on fulcrums and pretend to saw wood and stuff when they're teetered?"
"Yeah!" Now I'm gathering up wrapping-paper-clutter in a vain effort to get out of the line of fire. A rolling paper-grabber-upper gathers fewer unsolicited criticisms.
Head poked into the library and then back at me: "You reallyReallyREALLY like books, doncha!?"
I pause about three beats. Begin loading in a few stones of my own.
But now she's smiling all warm. Her face lights up with excitement, and she's all perky-animated: "I do too! I looove books! I'm mostly a reading teacher. . . ."
I release a quiet, long sigh of relief at this accidental score.
But now she's bustling around, traipsing back into the kitchen: "Come-on! Help me with these dishes. . . ."
Now I'm a little panicky. My clutter-defense is not achieving its desired result. "OhhhNOOOO! I couldn't ask you. . . ."
But she's a headlong bustler: "'Sno trouble, Robby. Cleaning-up's my thing!" She darts about like a dervish, gathers up wrapping-paper litter, shoves it all crushed-up in her left arm-pit, clears the table, balancing grubby flatware and lunch dishes on her left forearm. A quick snatch with a flashing right hand, and three pots magically disappear into the sink. Plates and flatware disappear into the dishwasher, all quick-clunkity-clunk. She's a virtual blur.
Oh Lord! Now hot water's running into the sink. How'd she find the Dawn. I've been poking around hopelessly beneath the sink for almost a week. Scrape-itty-scrape-clank, and she shoves a dish-towel into my hand. Where'd she find that?
I dry-em and plunk-em safely away into the cabinet just below her to the left. As I bend down I can't help noticing her nicely-rounded backside. Plus she smells really good.
But still, I'm groping desperately around in all my pockets for my car keys. She lays a hand on my swiffer-handle, I'm outa here.
About 20 minutes later we're relaxing on the couch watchin' Charlie Rose. Clutter's all up. Swiffer'n sweeper are used and put away. Place looks really nice. Still a little dusty. . .but nice.
Gatsy-Kitty's lying in Deb's lap. Sure enough, she's found that spot between his front shoulders. Little traitor's purrin' like a garbage disposal.
Suddenly Deb's up. Gatsby-kitty under her left arm all squished-up-happy as a wad of wrapping paper. I can't help but notice Deb's pert, trim figure. How she's short, cute, athletic. Now I'm wondering about her age.
Now she's found my clip-board. Deb's got that squished-up face again. Kinda cute, actually. But she's smiling: "Let's count the roosters!" Goodby Charlie and his distinguished guest who apparently knows all about Afghanistan, Pakistan, and who knows what-all-else.
So, like in fifteen flashing minutes we find and tote up the roosters:
several large French ceramic-over-tin models,
paintings and assorted china replicas,
assorted carved wooden beauties,
numerous metal sculptures,
artful candle holders,
etched goblets,
napkin rings,
embossed tableware,
stitched pillows and runners,
tosseled key and door-knob hangers,
paintings of Amish youngsters, roosters in arms,
rooster rugs in kitchen and baths,
And more. Still more.
Deb sits down humped over the clipboard. I watch her total the individual rooms. Now she's carrying her totals forward. Finally: "FORTY-FOUR!"
I'm quiet, wondering where all this might lead. I glance over wistfully at Charlie Rose.
Deb plunks down beside me real close, reaches over, grabs my hand, and drapes my arm around her shoulders. Then she nestles in real close&tight, and pretends interest in Charlie and his guest. I'm likin' this some, in spite of myself.
I know the question's coming. Finally she scoots to the side and grabs up a pillow into her lap. She cocks her head to the side: "Howcum so few hens?"
"Well!? There are SIX hens! I always took her clothes-shopping. Her favorite thing."
Now she smiles all warm and cute: "I think Nancy liked you, Robby!"
"Yeah! She did. . . ." Now she's got me blushing -- the cock-a-doodle-dooo-thing and all.
I can see "WHY'D she like you so much?" all over her face.
So I say: "Because I paid such close attention to her all the time. Because she knew I cherished her so much. . . ."
She bounces up and tucks one leg beneath her all cute, smiles real big, points her finger in my face, and cuts me off with a big hooting "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOO! That's why!"
But I shake my head side-to-side: "Most women, it's 'just-any-old-dude'll-dooo.' Any self-styled, horny cocksman. But not with Nancy. With Nancy, not-just-any-old-dude'd-do. With Nancy, it hadda be someone who loved her all the time. Who paid attention to her in every good way he could think of, all the time! Who knew how very special she truly was, all the time. Who knewd-her, and dewd-her-right -- all the time!"
"Nancy was a woman who knew her worth. Who loved in return. We were best-friends and teammates. To me, she was the most important person. Our friendship was the most important thing in my life. She knew that. Absolutely knew it."
Now Deb's all quietly speculative: "And that's how you won her and held her. And that was you -- all the time?"
I nod emphatically: "That was me."
But now I'm liking this woman a little. More than I thought I might.
So I add: "But this's me now. Payin' attention to you!"
So she smiles all big and slides back under my arm all snug.
I'm quiet, wondering where all this might lead. I glance over wistfully at Charlie Rose.
Deb plunks down beside me real close, reaches over, grabs my hand, and drapes my arm around her shoulders. Then she nestles in real close&tight, and pretends interest in Charlie and his guest. I'm likin' this some, in spite of myself.
I know the question's coming. Finally she scoots to the side and grabs up a pillow into her lap. She cocks her head to the side: "Howcum so few hens?"
"Well!? There are SIX hens! I always took her clothes-shopping. Her favorite thing."
Now she smiles all warm and cute: "I think Nancy liked you, Robby!"
"Yeah! She did. . . ." Now she's got me blushing -- the cock-a-doodle-dooo-thing and all.
I can see "WHY'D she like you so much?" all over her face.
So I say: "Because I paid such close attention to her all the time. Because she knew I cherished her so much. . . ."
She bounces up and tucks one leg beneath her all cute, smiles real big, points her finger in my face, and cuts me off with a big hooting "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOO! That's why!"
But I shake my head side-to-side: "Most women, it's 'just-any-old-dude'll-dooo.' Any self-styled, horny cocksman. But not with Nancy. With Nancy, not-just-any-old-dude'd-do. With Nancy, it hadda be someone who loved her all the time. Who paid attention to her in every good way he could think of, all the time! Who knew how very special she truly was, all the time. Who knewd-her, and dewd-her-right -- all the time!"
"Nancy was a woman who knew her worth. Who loved in return. We were best-friends and teammates. To me, she was the most important person. Our friendship was the most important thing in my life. She knew that. Absolutely knew it."
Now Deb's all quietly speculative: "And that's how you won her and held her. And that was you -- all the time?"
I nod emphatically: "That was me."
But now I'm liking this woman a little. More than I thought I might.
So I add: "But this's me now. Payin' attention to you!"
So she smiles all big and slides back under my arm all snug.
And we watch the rest of Charlie Rose.
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