Somebody broke my balls.
And I'd really like to find the guilty party.
I mean my balls, literally. The large, bright blue, ceramic balls that used to reside in front of my house before a person or persons so savagely broke them.
I know who breaks my balls, figuratively. That would, of course, be Edward. Just the other day, he did or said something that prompted me to respond, "If you had shown me this side of yourself while we were dating, things would have turned out a whole lot differently for us." Due to the aging process, or something much more sinister, I can't remember why I said that, I only remember that what Edward did or said was very, very irritating.
So back to the literal balls. These bright, blue balls were large and like nothing I have seen before or since. They were unusual and made quite a statement. I loved those balls, but apparently not everyone in the neighborhood did.
One day, I was gardening and hidden behind the hedges that line the front of my house. People were talking in the street, and when they got to my house, I heard this exchange:
"Wow. Those are some blue balls."
"Oh my God. Can you believe they put those there?"
"The house is really very nice until you see those horrible blue balls."
Undaunted, I popped up from behind the hedges and yelled a cheery good morning (and something else under my breath). A man and a woman were either highly sunburned or blushing a deep red as they said good morning and then ran off.
Were my blue balls ugly? I thought for a while and concluded, No! My blue balls are beautiful.
A few weeks later, Edward and I were awakened from a deep sleep around 2 a.m. by the sound of breaking ceramic. We never saw who did it, but we found shards of our beloved balls all over the front of our house.
Who could have been so cruel?
Some have suggested it was a mercy killing, but I reject that notion completely.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Barnie Prepares for the Easter Parade
The sun was out, the temperature was above 40 and spring seemed to be beckoning to me this morning.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
On the Road With Barnie and Edward
Edward and I spent approximately 11 hours in the car together over a 48-hour period this weekend without committing a violent act on each other. We are very proud of our behavior.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Diary of a Mad Housewife
Saturday, March 27, 2011
Edward left the house early to attend a lecture given by Michael Korda on his biography of Lawrence of Arabia. I opted to sleep in and read the paper undisturbed. Normally when I read The Times, I am forced to read the same sentence at least three times over as Edward provides constant commentary from his side of the kitchen table. I wonder if there are muzzles for humans?
Edward returns and joins me in in the den to watch the Rangers play the Bruins. Since the season is ending, and the Rangers need all the points they can get going into the playoffs, this is an important game. In the third period, when the Rangers are leading 1-0 but are getting pounded by the Bruins, I get unnerved and start shouting and, I'm sorry to admit it, hitting Edward. However, in my defense, I hit him with a Starbucks Venti paper cup and it was only a few times on the head, and he wasn't really injured. At the end of the game, Edward declares that he thought it would be good to watch the game at home because he would save money and not have to sit next to people like me, but unfortunately, all he did was save money.
In the afternoon, I go to the Lululemon store on Third and 66th to buy my outfit for the 5k run sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society to raise money to help save penguins (for more information, please go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy). When I walk into the store, I am immediately hit by the fact that one must be young and unbelievably attractive to work there. I gulp and look through the racks. I gulp again when I look at the prices. I start to sweat and take off my coat. A twentysomething with a long, lithe body, long blonde hair and big blue eyes asks if she can help. It's too bad I no longer have my Starbucks Venti paper cup because I want to hit her over the head. I select a top, jacket, vest and two pairs of pants so I am ready for all possible weather conditions on the day of the run, but where are the sports bras? Sweet blonde thing says I probably don't need a sports bra with the top I chose, but she doesn't have my breasts, which require body armour to hold them in place. She gets the damn bra for me. At the checkout counter, the total bill causes me to feel guilt, shame and chest pain. Normally I don't hide expeditures from Edward, but it's hard to explain spending so much on stuff I'm going to sweat in so I hand over cash plus the credit card so when Edward sees the smaller credit card bill he won't think Lululemon is the name of a car dealership.
I haul myself home and read awhile before we meet Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy, for dinner. I tell them that our new bathroom is finished but since Edward dislikes the new faucet, light fixture and towels, he is using the old bathroom downstairs. Works for me. We discuss travel and places we might possibly go to together which reminds me of when Edward and I went to Israel and for some inexplicable reason, at a roadside stop in the middle of the desert, Edward asked a bedouin if he could ride his camel. The bedouin was happy to oblige and wanted to assist further by adding authenticity to the photo op. He grabbed a head scarf that had been tied to the camel's butt and plopped it on Edward's head. I was horrified, but Edward, not knowing where the scarf came from, had a silly grin on his face. When I later told him about the scarf, Edward resisted the impulse to go to the ER and simply said, "If you love me, you'll kiss my head."
Edward left the house early to attend a lecture given by Michael Korda on his biography of Lawrence of Arabia. I opted to sleep in and read the paper undisturbed. Normally when I read The Times, I am forced to read the same sentence at least three times over as Edward provides constant commentary from his side of the kitchen table. I wonder if there are muzzles for humans?
Edward returns and joins me in in the den to watch the Rangers play the Bruins. Since the season is ending, and the Rangers need all the points they can get going into the playoffs, this is an important game. In the third period, when the Rangers are leading 1-0 but are getting pounded by the Bruins, I get unnerved and start shouting and, I'm sorry to admit it, hitting Edward. However, in my defense, I hit him with a Starbucks Venti paper cup and it was only a few times on the head, and he wasn't really injured. At the end of the game, Edward declares that he thought it would be good to watch the game at home because he would save money and not have to sit next to people like me, but unfortunately, all he did was save money.
In the afternoon, I go to the Lululemon store on Third and 66th to buy my outfit for the 5k run sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society to raise money to help save penguins (for more information, please go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy). When I walk into the store, I am immediately hit by the fact that one must be young and unbelievably attractive to work there. I gulp and look through the racks. I gulp again when I look at the prices. I start to sweat and take off my coat. A twentysomething with a long, lithe body, long blonde hair and big blue eyes asks if she can help. It's too bad I no longer have my Starbucks Venti paper cup because I want to hit her over the head. I select a top, jacket, vest and two pairs of pants so I am ready for all possible weather conditions on the day of the run, but where are the sports bras? Sweet blonde thing says I probably don't need a sports bra with the top I chose, but she doesn't have my breasts, which require body armour to hold them in place. She gets the damn bra for me. At the checkout counter, the total bill causes me to feel guilt, shame and chest pain. Normally I don't hide expeditures from Edward, but it's hard to explain spending so much on stuff I'm going to sweat in so I hand over cash plus the credit card so when Edward sees the smaller credit card bill he won't think Lululemon is the name of a car dealership.
I haul myself home and read awhile before we meet Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy, for dinner. I tell them that our new bathroom is finished but since Edward dislikes the new faucet, light fixture and towels, he is using the old bathroom downstairs. Works for me. We discuss travel and places we might possibly go to together which reminds me of when Edward and I went to Israel and for some inexplicable reason, at a roadside stop in the middle of the desert, Edward asked a bedouin if he could ride his camel. The bedouin was happy to oblige and wanted to assist further by adding authenticity to the photo op. He grabbed a head scarf that had been tied to the camel's butt and plopped it on Edward's head. I was horrified, but Edward, not knowing where the scarf came from, had a silly grin on his face. When I later told him about the scarf, Edward resisted the impulse to go to the ER and simply said, "If you love me, you'll kiss my head."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Moment at the Supermarket
I am not looking to be congratulated, or to make a political statement or to comment on the state of our society.
I am writing this because it is something that happened to me, and I can't seem to write about anything else until I put this out.
A few days ago, I went directly from my pilates class to the supermarket across from the gym to pick up a few things. When I got on line, a couple in their late 20s were in the process of purchasing their groceries. The man was standing at the bagging station and the woman was studying the computer price read-out. I heard her say, "I thought the cereal was on sale." She turned to the man for instructions about what to do. He told her to put the several boxes of cereal back. Then she held up a can of Spam and questioned the price of that.
It was obvious that this couple could not afford to buy even cheap food staples.
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be wearing my exercise outfit and carrying the wonderful Gucci bag that Edward had so generously presented me with for Valentine's Day.
I imagined that they were the working poor -- people who made too much money to qualify for food stamps but not enough to adequately feed their family.
I decided that I had to do something to help them, but I was also concerned that in my desire to be generous, I would do something that the couple found humiliating. I didn't have a lot of time to think about it either.
I turned to the woman and told her that I wanted to pay for the boxes of cereal. She smiled at me, immediately said thank you, and I could see visible signs of relief.
I imagined that there were kids at home, and they would now have their favorite cereals to eat in the morning.
The man walked away without a word, and I assume that I did indeed humiliate him or perhaps cause the couple to later argue about this incident. An added element is that I am Caucasian and they are African American.
I tried to make it better by telling the woman that she will do this for someone else someday.
Maybe that made it worse. It was only $15 worth of cereal, for God's sake.
She paid for her $60 food order with a credit card, and I thought maybe I should just pay for that as well. I didn't, not because I didn't want to spend the money, but because I didn't want to make her feel more indebted to me.
She couldn't have been nicer, and there were few words between us, but it was an awkward experience for all of us, even the cashier. After the couple left, the cashier told me how I did a nice thing.
She was, however, so unsettled that she forgot to give me my change.
I am writing this because it is something that happened to me, and I can't seem to write about anything else until I put this out.
A few days ago, I went directly from my pilates class to the supermarket across from the gym to pick up a few things. When I got on line, a couple in their late 20s were in the process of purchasing their groceries. The man was standing at the bagging station and the woman was studying the computer price read-out. I heard her say, "I thought the cereal was on sale." She turned to the man for instructions about what to do. He told her to put the several boxes of cereal back. Then she held up a can of Spam and questioned the price of that.
It was obvious that this couple could not afford to buy even cheap food staples.
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be wearing my exercise outfit and carrying the wonderful Gucci bag that Edward had so generously presented me with for Valentine's Day.
I imagined that they were the working poor -- people who made too much money to qualify for food stamps but not enough to adequately feed their family.
I decided that I had to do something to help them, but I was also concerned that in my desire to be generous, I would do something that the couple found humiliating. I didn't have a lot of time to think about it either.
I turned to the woman and told her that I wanted to pay for the boxes of cereal. She smiled at me, immediately said thank you, and I could see visible signs of relief.
I imagined that there were kids at home, and they would now have their favorite cereals to eat in the morning.
The man walked away without a word, and I assume that I did indeed humiliate him or perhaps cause the couple to later argue about this incident. An added element is that I am Caucasian and they are African American.
I tried to make it better by telling the woman that she will do this for someone else someday.
Maybe that made it worse. It was only $15 worth of cereal, for God's sake.
She paid for her $60 food order with a credit card, and I thought maybe I should just pay for that as well. I didn't, not because I didn't want to spend the money, but because I didn't want to make her feel more indebted to me.
She couldn't have been nicer, and there were few words between us, but it was an awkward experience for all of us, even the cashier. After the couple left, the cashier told me how I did a nice thing.
She was, however, so unsettled that she forgot to give me my change.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
It's a Home Depot Kind of Day
We are now in our third week of the bathroom renovation and are approaching grouting of the tile. To this end, Cash, the contractor, told me today to buy two boxes of non-sand grout. "Me?" I asked. He said that no way, no how, was he going to pick the color.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Barnie Tees are Here!
Are you tired of wearing last year's leftover's? Well, believe me, we're tired of seeing you in them. Get something better: Barnie Tees.
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