Maggie West

You Take The High Road

'Twas then that we parted
In yon shady glen,
On the steep, steep side o' Ben Lomond,
Where in purple hue
The Hielan' hills we view,
An' the moon cumin' out i' the gloamin'.

Oh! ye'll ta' the hie rade an'
I'll ta' the law rade,
An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me an' ma' true luve
Will ne'er meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.

The wee birdie sang
An' the wild flowers spring,
An' in sunshine the waters are sleepin',
But the braken heart, it kens
Nae second Spring again,
Tho' the waeful may cease frae their greetin'.

Oh! ye'll take the hie rade an'
I'll ta' the law rade,
An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me an' ma' true luve
Will ne'er meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.

The Spic:

An old Scottish song that expresses my mood is as good a way to begin as any, I suppose.

Jeff and I are often separated by our respective highs and lows. In his blue-painted, Celtic/Pictish way, he's frequently absorbed in ancient books, news reports, history, and examining the frequent "what the fuck" behaviors and situations we hear or read about on a daily basis. Of course, all the while, I'm perched atop the nearest cloud formation in search of yet another silver lining. I guess that's the "high road" for me, eh (One of Jeff's favorite terms)?

I do come down to earth occasionally. And on these rare (I add this adjective for Jeff's benefit. To my mind, I often have both feet on the ground) occasions, is it too much to ask to have one's loved ones notice? Half of the time he is "blue" mode – depressed and melancholy – and the other half he's in the "red" – angry and as stubborn as a mule taking a shit. Ah ha, blue plus red equals purple: This is how his Purple Psyche is produced.

But leave it to my "short-sightedness" (or female silliness, or lack of intuition – pick one) that I dare disrupt "world order" by requesting a kiss, a hug, or, at the very least, an eye shift – anything to acknowledge I exist. The over-the-book eye roll is old-hat by now. Is it that difficult to "change it up" with a peck on the cheek, a wink, or even a closed-book glance of affection every now and again? I'm not asking for a dissertation on Einstein's Theory of Relativity, though I have no doubt he'd close the book for that one.

And the saints preserve us when my attention span diminishes to a needle's point while I enjoy a glass of wine or two. Jeff's findings, research, and sentiments have a deep impact on me – they always have. I am "all ears" most of the time. But when I flip the switch to "relax," he's invariably in "upheaval mode." And who'd ever guess that when it's his turn to rest, I, of course, think the sky is falling.

Add to all of this that being three sheets to the wind does nothing to dull the man's senses. They remain as sharp as ever. That's Outer Limits shit, right?

To my knowledge, the consumption of alcoholic beverages should cause a mind's deterioration and a body's inability to function properly. At the very least, one's speech should become slurred. Right? Oh no! Not in Jeff's case. As uncanny as it sounds; beer, whiskey, and wine hone his mental and physical functions. Could this be a Celtic thing? One has to wonder.

There's rarely a moment that presents itself, which enables me, or anyone, to sneak up on the man – mentally or physically. I say "rarely," as he has jumped a time or two when I've grabbed him from behind (in a loving way). To me, that's one hell of an accomplishment.

Ah, I know what everyone is thinking. I can hear the cries of "No way!" from the Peanut Gallery and Nosebleed Seats, even as I type…

Try sneaking out of the room when he's had enough beer to floor an African bull elephant. Try questioning one of his assertions when there's enough whiskey in him to recreate the burning of Atlanta, should he dare to light a cigarette. Better yet, pinch one of his snack crackers with cheese on it while he's not looking; thinking that he's too intoxicated to notice.

I have. I know.

Now allow me to elaborate in "female" mode.

The "you don't love me(s)" and "if you loved me(s)" don't work in this household. If they did, I'd sure as hell use 'em: Anything to get "one up" on the man.

The banks of Loch Lomond for me are when I say, "If you love me, you'll smile," and he smiles or when I say, "You don't love me" after he has neglected to share an item I fancy and his expression is one of earnest apology.

There was a time when I could also say, "Are you mad?" and he was concerned; willing to make amends for my thinking so; or take me in his arms and hug my worries away. I still remember May 1, 2007 with fondness, as if it happened only yesterday. When in a drunken stupor (or so I thought), he whispered in my ear, "Marry me and you'll never regret it for the rest of your life."

Don't get me wrong, I don't regret a single moment. But where's that man?

Ah, the good ol' days…

The Mick:

Welcome to the wonderful world yclept "Dave's opinion," and all that entails, implies, suggests and whatnot. If that doesn't work for you; stick a rabid gerbil up your "tailpipe" and do the Lambada in a Balkan minefield. End disclaimer.

Every so often, I find myself confronted by a singularly difficult and unpleasant task: draining a flooded cellar with a Dixie Cup for example – or reasoning with a woman. Left to choose between them, I'd pick the former, as it can be accomplished, given sufficient time. The latter, though, is practically impossible.

Maybe it's all that estrogen coursing through their bloodstreams. Maybe it's because they're right-brained. Maybe their tits interfere with their circulation, resulting in oxygen-deprivation. Maybe doctors routinely drop infant females on their heads whilst delivering them. I don't know, and I don't imagine I ever will. I know only that the term "female thought" is an oxymoron.

What women lack in rationality, though, they more than compensate for in emotion. It's amazing – simply amazing. In the dark, cobwebbed corridors of the female mind, everything merits an emotional response. Nothing is merely extant – everything is either "good" or "bad." Inanimate objects have volition. Existence itself is a capricious – but conscious -- puppet-master, meting out rewards and punishments arbitrarily and indiscriminately. In this veritable Twilight Zone, neither causality nor coincidence exists. (In short, the observation: "Shit happens" is not of female origin.) Worst of all, words and behaviors (and/or the absence thereof) – all words and gestures (and/or the absence thereof) – are rife with hidden meaning to the fair sex.

As prima facie evidence, I submit my wife's half of this post (consider it Exhibit A) – and leave her to contest it. Now, in the interest of courtesy (and of having non-transacted sex again within the next twenty years), I'll address her points.

My better half notes that we're temperamentally dissimilar, and often out of phase -- as it were -- with one another. For some reason, this surprises and distresses her. As far as I'm concerned, the matter should be filed under "N" for "No shit, Sherlock." Our differences in temperament were obvious from day one: We're of opposite sexes (more data for the "N" file…), different ethnic backgrounds, different ages, and from different parts of the country (Rust Belt and Upper South, respectively). She's Catholic, I'm Protestant. According the Myers-Briggs personality test, she's an ENFP while I'm an INTP. Hell, in New Agey terms, her aura is red, while mine is purple. Furthermore, my manic-depression (of which I – secretive, uncommunicative SOB that I am -- informed her on our first date) often puts me out of phase with myself, for Christ's sake!

Different?

Gee, ye' reckon? But I don't think it's all bad. Variety is the spice of life, and, as my Bro-cum-marriage counselor, Marc MacYoung says: "Only one of you gets to be crazy at a time." Words to live by, in my opinion.

Next, my wife notes – fairly and accurately – that I'm the more bookish of us, and that I often become absorbed in whatever I'm reading. This, however, means neither that I invite the entire cosmos to pound sand up its ass whenever I crack (no pun intended) open a book, nor that I become unaware of it. Guilty as charged – but I don't consider it a crime.

This brings us to the matter of "disrupt[ing] the world order." This is likewise an illustration of the differences between male and female thought. I think males are generally more secure, in that we require less validation and attention than do females. My wife told me that she loved me a few weeks into our relationship, and I believed her—end of fuckin' story. (Hell, we got married a year later…) I don't need to hear it every day to bolster my sense of self-worth. Moreover, she demonstrates it so frequently; I've never doubted it, although in a fit of pique, I recently employed the female "You don't love me!" gambit during an exchange of recriminations (I get a mite snarky when she forbids me to use car-bombs against the richly deserving, after all.) There. I admitted it.

From the perspective of an American male, I view constant demands for attention/affection as I would a dictator's incessant tests of loyalty: expressions of distrust -- which offend me. Were I the cheating type, they'd be justified. As I'm not, they're simply irritants.

I've long agreed with the saying "Actions speak louder than words," and I try, whenever feasible, to express my affection non-verbally. I buy and/or make my wife gifts. I cook her meals, and I edit her manuscripts (sometimes a chore in se) and see to it that her material needs are covered – even when it's inconvenient. If I didn't love her, I wouldn't do any of the aforementioned. Just ask the last fuckwit who incurred my enmity…

Unfortunately, women's assumptions tend towards the negative. If, for example, I fail to say "I love you," I've (in maelstrom of paranoia that is the female mind) somehow implied: "I hate you worse than I do the baw'bag who cut me off in traffic this morning. I plan to kill you with a chainsaw, bang your kid sister/best friend, leave the toilet seat up, sacrifice the cat to Satan and move to Tahiti with the twenty-something waitress at 'Bubba's Beer, Billiards and BBQ Bungalow.' And by the way, that dress makes your ass look fat."

Naturally, I'm not implying anything of the sort. But then again, I'm not a woman…

The next barrier consists of Huxley's "doors of perception" – and I think that's the crux of the matter. Like Gurdjieff, I often think of most people I meet as being in a trance of sorts. No one is omniscient, and we all have blind spots, so I consider it neither a fatal flaw nor a mortal sin. It's a part of being human. Moreover, I admit that my training in various martial arts, combined with peering into certain shadowy corners best left uninvestigated has influenced my attitude considerably. Ultimately, I don't like short attention spans – especially when they become habitual. There are days on which we're all unfocused, out of sorts, and out of sync with our surroundings. To reiterate, it's human nature. But is it – or should it be – a permanent condition?

To my mind, the answer is an unequivocal "No." As everything from the Bible to Buddhism, from nei kung to NLP reminds us, we are (to varying degrees, depending upon the exact system of thought) responsible for our minds' contents and processes – barring injury or organic dysfunction. Having dealt with cyclothymia as long as I have, I have little sympathy for the self-neglect that produces uncultivated, undisciplined minds. If I can focus my thoughts (or diffuse them, as the situation requires) examine my own beliefs and emotions, expand the scope of my knowledge, and resist the urge to act on impulse – with my endocrine system in "code red fucked-up mode" 50% of the time – how much easier must it be for a "normal" person to do so?

This brings us to the booze remark. In truth (and I've tested this -- I have some weird-ass hobbies…), my functional IQ drops by 2 points for every beer or shot I consume beyond the third. With three under my belt, I actually score higher on tests, as I'm more relaxed. (As a side note, I'll also mention that I write better, for the same reason. When the "inner critic" is told to shut the fuck up, the process becomes much easier.) If this sounds contradictory, consider the fact that alcohol, while a depressant is also a stimulant, in small doses. Then consider the findings of Herbert Bless (University of Mannheim, FRG) and Kay Redfield Jamison (Johns-Hopkins University, USA) on the effects of minor depressive and hypomanic episodes on analytical thinking and creativity, respectively.

The "three beer limit," incidentally, is probably due to heredity and tolerance: like many Celts, Teutons and eastern- and western Slavs (all of whom are noted for their capacity for booze), I drink beer throughout the day when I'm not working, much as others drink water or soda. Ergo, I don't tout plowing through a sixpack as the poor man's gateway to higher consciousness. Just thought I'd add that…

I can still regurgitate information when I'm shitfaced, but that's not the same as processing or applying it. As for my sensory acuity: It's actually diminished, as one would expect. I'm simply more attuned to what I perceive as aggressive or unusual behavior when I've had a few – the legacy of many years spent in seedy bars, observing the critter yclept H. sapiens at its worst.

Let's see…What else? Oh, the "You don't love me," bit. Damn Skippy it doesn't work in this household – for a very good reason. My own, one-time use of this cheap tactic notwithstanding, it's a bad idea. Suggestion is a very powerful tool (see Violet Firth, Jacques Ellul, Richard Bandler and John Grinder for further clarification), so squalling "You don't love me" may actually result in the accused party ceasing to love the accuser.

Como se dice "counterproductive?" Besides, I know my feelings better than anyone else, so the accusation usually doesn't work on me – unless I'm consciously aware of having been remiss in certain spousal duties of late.

In closing, I'll address the "good old days." What "good old days"? Change is a constant, even in relationships. If, in this case, the "passion" side of Robert Sternberg's "love triangle" has shortened, I'd like to believe that the "commitment" and "intimacy" sides have lengthened. They have in my case, at any rate.

And my wife is passionately dedicated to being a pain in a rather intimate portion of my anatomy. I'm still committed to her, though…

What’s Mine is Mine, and What’s Yours is Mine

A few months ago, Jeff and I were bumming around downtown Atlanta with nothing to do and "no particular place to go." We had just run into yet another "brick wall" at the Fulton County Courthouse (it's a long story), but "Oscar the Grouch" was in a (rare!) good mood, so he decided to salvage an otherwise bad day.

"Long as we're down here..." he said as we exited a drugstore.

Oh, great! I thought. Now he's gonna drag my ass all around the damn city…

He did, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. He showed me around the GSU campus, CNN Center, the Omni International Hotel, the World Congress Center, Centennial Olympic Park, and several other places. We wandered all over the downtown are, while he showed me this or that place and shared his anecdotes and reminiscences with me.

We were dodging the perils of a construction site near the Inforum --we were both thinking "Indiana Jones" the whole time -- when Jeff, who notices everything (it's kinda scary at times), said, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I asked.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, he said, "Those two broads who just went by."

I hadn't heard a word, and told him so.

"Takin' aw' de jawps ain't enough fo' de Messykins," he said, mimicking their accents, "Now dey be takin' de white boys, too."

Now I can take things like that in stride. Who cares what a few bitter jerks think? If they had lives, they'd be focusing on them instead of us, right? Jeff, though, has that stereotypical "Celtic temper." It really raised his hackles, so after he finished ranting and raving, he said, "You know, darlin', we oughtta write a column so politically incorrect; it'll piss everyone off. And I've got just the thing: Let's call it "The Mick and the Spic."

I thought it was a great idea, so without further ado….

The Spic:

Learning how to share is one of the earliest lessons I remember learning. With six children, my parents didn't have an easy time of it, either. A daily snag to every chore was the incessant bickering over clothing, food, toys, records, etc.

"That's mine!"

"No it's not, it's mine."

"Give it to me! It's mine."

Back and forth, back and forth, until my parents were at their wits end and the paddle materialized in my father's right hand. The price to pay for my selfishness, then, was having the item in question confiscated.

But now – now – I never even get to verbalize the "mine."

Two or three times a week, Jeff purchases snacks: Doritos©, potato chips, pork rinds for instance. Each time I see the colorful bags in his hands, I say, "Oooo, whatcha got there, honey?" As he holds up each bag for me to see, the words FIRE, EXTREME, or HOT jump off the package. We've been together well over a year and it has taken me this long to realize the same scenario occurs during each snack-time.

Though I am half Mexican, "hot" is not very appetizing; "extreme" – unless it refers to penis size—turns me off (one automatically knows it means "inedible"); and "fire" is the last word a convicted murderer in Utah hears – for a good reason…

And this, my dear reader, Jeff knows all too well.

So, what does he buy? Every time! The damned shit I said I can't stand! What the fuck is that all about?

Oh, he often comes up with a plausible excuse or two: "I like 'em; I was cravin' somethin' hot; these are great!"

Of course, time after time, there were never any purchases that appealed to my palate.

And two nights ago was no exception when a Pringles© can miraculously appeared in his hand. I thought: "A snack sounds pretty good, right about now." So, again, I say, "Oooo, whatcha got there, honey?" As soon as these words left my mouth, he turned towards me, can in hand, and with the biggest "Muttley" grin I've seen since childhood (I'm sure if I listened closely, I'd have heard that high-pitched, whistling laugh). On the front, in big red and orange letters, running the whole length of the can from bottom to top is EXTREME.

"Damn honey, I wanted to share," was what I said next.

His answer: "We can share," with that same shit-eatin' grin.

Color me "red" at this point. For it was at this very moment that I knew his "hot" purchases were intentional. I suppose the "love is blind" idiom was derived from such circumstances.

It is truly difficult to comprehend that any selfishness is hiding behind those "baby blues." We spend almost every moment together. There aren't many things we don't share: It seems to come with the territory when one walks beside another minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day.

But after that little stunt, I now envision him crouching in closets with candy bars; hiding under the bed with popsicles; even hidden among the grove of trees in the backyard with mesquite-flavored potato chips. My mind is whirling with possibilities.

"I've got my eye on you and your sneaky, little junk food rebellion" is what I was thinking when images of bludgeoning his face with that elongated can and takin' a sledge hammer to them there pearly whites of his came to mind (amongst other things). I was hurt – heartbroken. The man by my side; the man I trust with my very life; the man I sleep next to every night is a gastronomic Benedict Arnold!

What does one do with such a man, I ask? He's down-right infuriating, yet utterly adorable. In one breath he breathes fire and blows loving kisses with the next. His touch can be as hard as iron, and within seconds spin into the softest silk.

Well, I ain't fallin' for his shit this time!

From this day forth, there's a NEW HOUSE RULE!

No more snack- buying unless it includes an item for both of us, or at least one we both enjoy.

Keep in mind, my dear, a woman's vengeance can be just as threatening as a Redneck's fury.

En garde!

The Mick:

Let's get one thing straight, from the get-go: My wife's (and she's busting my balls for not wearing my wedding ring, even as I type. Just thought I'd add that for the sake of establishing the proper perspective) allegations, upon even cursory examination, are top-to-bottom bullshit. Nary a one of 'em would hold up in a court of law, and she damned well knows it. Were she to file suit, as a matter of fact, the judge would pat me on the head, apologize for the waste of my time, award me my legal expenses plus punitive damages, and send her to Guantanamo for "terroristic barratry." (Then I'd have to launch a daring commando raid and risk getting my Hillbilly ass shot off in the process of freeing her, 'cause not getting laid regularly would really suck.)

I know the sharing game, too. My brother and I were as selfish a pair of little shits as any, and bickered over toys, records, etc. so often; my parents ended up buying us identical Christmas/birthday presents. When this failed (and it often did – having broken something of his, my brother would sneak into my room and try to pull the old "switcheroo"), they tried a new approach. Said approach consisted of buying us such radically different gifts; we had no choice but to bargain with one another. This state of affairs lasted until a year or two after we reached puberty, and profoundly influenced our subsequent dealings with each other.

"Uh, OK. You can read my Penthouse magazine if you'll spot me a few smokes."

"Dub me a copy of that new Motorhead album, and you got a deal."

(The Spic, interrupting: See, he often got his own way then, as well!)

Not long afterward, we'd outgrown even the Let's Make a Deal phase. A simple, "Hey, dude, can I borrow your _____?" sufficed. During our late teens, most of our belongings had become de facto common property, although we usually did one another the courtesy of leaving notes:

Jeff,

Borrowed your slingshot. Will return it when I finish breaking dickhead Wilson's windows.

Love,

Chris

PS: Will buy you more ball-bearings on payday.

In the two years preceding his death, we shared everything: weapons, booze, dope, guitars, grudges – everything but girlfriends and hookers ('cause it's gross and unhygienic; and the very sight of a sibling's pecker guarantees eternal damnation. There are some things even God won't forgive…). By that time, we'd lent each other so much money; we'd stopped keeping track of who owed what to whom.

This isn't utopian bullshit, by the way: We both loathed and despised communism/socialism as viscerally as we loathed and despised skate-punks, jocks, preppies, and the goofy schmoes whose hairstyles and attire mimicked A Flock of Seagulls, Kajagoogoo and similarly useless, androgynous ankle-grabber bands. I suppose our "system" is best described as a mixture of capitalism and clannishness: One knew he'd get his investment back – with interest – sooner or later. And if not?

Fuck it. He's family…

So as you, the Gentle Reader, can see, this "selfishness" bit is –putting it mildly – a fib (The Spic, interrupting again: "fib" is an acronym for "foot in butt," should one dare disagree with this petty tyrant. It's also an acronym for "fuckin' inbred bogtrotters"). To be sure, Chris and I may have skirmished over the odd bag of Doritos, but we seldom resorted to stompings or beat-downs over anything less serious than his ludicrous contention that Judas Priest was better than Black Sabbath. We may have squabbled half-heartedly over things crude and material, but our actual wars were reserved for matters of principle.

"Gimme some o' them chips, fucknut," might have been worth a swat or two, but only moral outrages of "K.K. Downing-could-be-in-a-coma-and-still-blow-that-southpaw-Wop-Iommi-away!" magnitude demanded actual bloodshed.

In the long run, our bickering over junk-food was as ephemeral as it was inconsequential, and I suppose being stuck in Europe as long as we were had something to do with it. Unlike many "brats," my brother, my best friend, Sam, and I fell in love with Euro-chow. As a result of this sinful and profoundly abnormal affair with "exotic" foods, each of us sought out the purveyor of the best bratwurst, currywurst, goulash soup or Italian ice in the area. To a certain extent, there was an element of actual competition in the quest for the perfect pommes frites or Pichelsteiner.

Granted, I was the only one with balls enough to eat at Nordsee (p'raps Ma Bean's Catholicism rubbed off on me a bit more than it did on my brother), but finding the best "dog-cart," Gasthaus, or ice cream stand and turning the other guys onto it actually boosted one's prestige. This presupposes a certain degree of dick-waving – but also a genuine desire to share a new discovery with one's friends. In short, it was a "win/win" situation: Good friends sharing good food.

What's not to like?

Chris and I brought this attitude back to the "Land of the Big PX" in '84, and held onto it for dear life. Sure and we ate our share of pizzas and burgers, but when we had a few bucks between us, we'd spend 'em in "hole-in-the-wall" Greek or Italian eateries. ("Four star" restaurants be damned: "Mom and Pop" operations always serve better food.) Discovering fiery, chile-laden Mexican grub, though (for all that we did so via the Godawful fast-food route), opened our eyes and craws as surely as it did our sweat glands.

Chris, alas and alack, dropped the hammer on himself twenty years ago. Therefore, he didn't live long enough to "graduate" to Cajun, Korean, Hunan, Szechuan, Thai, Vietnamese and similarly spicy cuisines. Had he lived, though, he'd doubtless be exploring the jungle of "four alarm," sweat-inducing delicacies right alongside me. It's just an integral part of our nature, something inborn. As a matter of fact, I've long believed that a Southerner comes closest to communing with the Almighty when he slathers his greens and hocks with a semi-lethal dose of Tabasco sauce -- especially when he has someone with whom to share them.

Contrary to my wife's libelous assertions, I do share my food with her – every day. I cook breakfast (provided that I'm not working an early shift), lunch and dinner for her four days a week. It's hardly bullshit fare, and certainly not fast food -- we're talking skillet-fried chicken, Viennese fried chicken, pan-fried catfish in cornmeal, coq au vin rouge, choucroute garnie a l'Alsacienne, chicken cacciatore, cassoulet, sardenaira, Cantonese seafood chow mein – the list goes on and on. Why, last Christmas, I actually served her a roast duck (crispy skin and juicy flesh -- just the way she likes it) with braised quails and new potatoes (the appetizer), tomato/beef broth, steamed Brussels sprouts with slivered almonds and lemon-butter, and a selection of crudites, for the love of God!

And that doesn't include weekend cookouts or midnight snacks (how many other guys would make their wives chili-cheese dogs, pa jon, okonomiyaki, Malaysian corn fritters, spring rolls, or even steamed pork-and-shrimp dumplings in the wee, sma' hours?). Nor does it include a "ladies' night" or two: Mags invites her friends from work over, while I cook dinner (usually on the grill) for the entire bunch. (Ever tried cooking dinner for six women who are well into their second or third pitcher of mojitos, by the way? I have, as a result of which I'm now paying installments on a full suit of Milanese plate armor – with extra-long tassets.)

I do all this for her, and now she's gonna begrudge me the odd bag o' "Chernobyl Chips" when I get a case of the munchies? Jesus H. McGillicuddy! How's that for cheek?

The truth is: I've never failed to offer her a taste of anything I've ever eaten. Is it my fault that she's gastronomically squeamish/a "food wimp"?

Hardly.

Hell, I actually offered her $200.00 cash if she'd only try a bit of jellyfish salad. Needless to say, she declined – even as she routinely declines my generous offers of "Satanically Searing Scotch Bonnet" cheese-pukies, "Habanero Hiroshima" potato chips, and "Plutonium Poblano" pork rinds. Does this sorry state of affairs owe itself to stinginess on my part?

I think not.

In my not-so-humble opinion, 'twould be better for my wife to "rock up" and deal with the Scoville Units than for me to compromise principle and established tradition by settling for wimpy, flavorless snacks.

"An' that's all I have to say 'bout that," as noted sage Forrest Gump once remarked.

The defense rests.

The Mick And The Spic: Time And Space Continuum

Wanting to spend a little “quality time” with one’s significant other shouldn’t be this difficult, should it?

I am leaving on Monday for a week. Because of this, I began to feel time slipping away from me yesterday. I wanted to spend a little time with Dave without doing chores, without reading, without writing, without sarcasm.

Granted, I’m a woman. So, I’ll translate the above sentence for my male readers.

I wanted to cuddle, look wantingly into each other’s eyes while whispering sweet nothings into one another’s ears, hold hands as we walk anywhere, and/or bedroom Olympics were on my mind.

Dave was reading G.K. Chesterton when I asked for the third time.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, interrupting Bean when he’s reading is monumentally stupid. Interrupting him whilst he’s reading Chesterton is tantamount to suicide – for all his professed disdain for Roman Catholicism.

The above sentence is an interjection from my other half. Now that he has walked into the other room, I’ll respond with, “But, love is blind, honey.”

So, moving right along…

I lean on his lap and say, “Honey, I would like to spend some time with you.” Of course, this request was accompanied by a loving look and an affectionate tone.

Dave’s reply started with, “Okay. Just lay right there quietly while I read.” This sarcastic come back was followed by a sneering smile as he tilted his head over the top edge of the book to witness my reaction. After seeing my displeased expression, he said, “What? According to Einstein, time and space are a continuum. If, therefore, you lie next to me – quietly, mind you -- while I read, we’re simultaneously occupying contiguous coordinates of said continuum, which constitutes ‘spending time together,’ as you put it.”

WTF!

To myself, I think, This will never do. I cast an evil stare in the direction of our dear Mr. Bean and say, “According to my female way of thinking, Einstein’s continuum applies to you, not us. Get your ass up and do something with me!”

And Dave, well Dave adds, “The exact spatial coordinates are from here (his hand extends to the right of him about a foot) to here (his other hand points to left about another foot), and are from here (his arm rises into the air) to here (as he touches the floor). Therefore, you are included, assuming that you choose to occupy them with me.”

So, how does one win this argument? Well if one is an Italian/Mexican female and prone to emotional outbursts, one might say, “If your ass doesn’t quickly grasp the notion of ‘quality time,’ your coordinates are gonna be an awfully lonely place for a long time to come.”

 

“Promises, promises,” says he, before putting the book aside. “This is blackmail, you know. Pure extortion. There’s no sense in claiming otherwise. Now can we have sex?”

Wanting to spend a little “quality time” with one’s significant other shouldn’t be this difficult, should it?

Dave & Maggie