Hot Dogs * September 15, 2007

Hello, I’m Back,

    And I am fine—better than fine really. 

    My youngest child, Adam, got married September 8th and that makes my nest officially empty—not one child with my DNA living anywhere on or near my property—not in a bedroom, mother-in-law quarters, barn, or tent next to the Butterfly Palm.  But don’t you worry about me.  I’m getting a dog, and I’m naming the dog Adam. 

    I’ve gone back to college, which means that I have homework now, so while Adam’s been on his honeymoon I swept all his junk into a laundry basket and stole his desk, oh wait . . . my desk.

    So now it’s just me and my darling husband of twenty-eight years.  Oh and the dog named Adam—when I get it.

    I just hope the dog is less gassy than my darling husband of twenty-eight years.  Sigh.

    Sherwood travels.  Sherwood travels and when he travels he tends to eat unsavory if not downright poisonous food—in airports, on the run, without much thought or judgment, and at his age the results can be unsavory if not downright poisonous—sometimes volcanic.

    On a recent weekend home Sherwood began exhibiting the ominous rumblings and the strange expulsions of an airport dinner gone terribly wrong.

    “Oh my goodness what is going on with you?”  I waved a hand wildly in front of my nose.

    “A Coney Island foot long hotdog,” he frowned and burped.

    “What were you thinking?” I said, horrified.  “A man your age should know . . .”

    “With chili.”  He rolled on the bed and groaned while various noises emanated from various parts of his person.

    “How could you possibly survive two hours on an airplane?”

    “The question is, how did the other passengers survive two hours on an airplane—with me.”

    I gasped for air and clawed at my chest. “You . . . did . . . not . . .”

    “I did—a lot.  But I pulled a blanket over myself and pretended to be asleep.  No one knew that it was me.”

    Shocked by his crazed optimism, I said, “Oh, honey, they knew.  Believe me, they knew.  Babe, you live alone in a hotel room way too much.”

    A volcano rumbled somewhere near the place where pizza goes to die in my husband’s insides.  “I am pretty disgusting.” 

    It seemed pointless to agree with such an obvious conclusion so I just smiled a crooked smile and tried not to breathe.

    He lay on the bed like something washed up on the beach after a bad oil spill.

    Putting his hands behind his head he rumbled and said, “You know what I am?”

    I couldn’t imagine.  The truth is, I couldn’t get enough fresh air to form a coherent thought.

    “I’m a modern day mountain man.”  The volcano erupted—once, twice.

    I was incredulous.  “You mean like one of those guys who used to live in the mountains, in caves, wrapped in animal skins, wandering around—alone—talking trash to a donkey, looking for beavers to bash on the head?   That kind of mountain man?”

    The volcano complained but did not erupt.

    “Absolutely.”

    I sighed.  “And just think, now that Adam is married it’s just you and me and whatever you decide to eat on your way home.”

    “That’s right.”  He visibly brightened.  “And that means we can run around the house naked if we want.”
 
    Sighing deeply, I said,  “Is that something a modern day mountain man would do, you think?”

    He burped.  “Absolutely.”

    “Can I have a dog?”

    Don’t you worry about me; I’m back in college, I’ve got a great new desk to do my homework on, and I’m getting a dog.  And if life gets dark and dreary I have my darling husband of twenty-eight years who, by all accounts, is a modern day mountain man.  Top that.

    Happy to be getting a dog,

    Linda (Hold the Chili) Zern 

   

   

   

   

   

  

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