Behind Every Great Man

BOULDER DAY!


It was Boulder Day, the day the local landscaping company was delivering boulders. Two of them, for backyard décor. I’m not sure what the land-clearing pioneers of the West would have thought of this, but there we were.

The “we” was four of us: Nancy and I, our (female) landscaper, and the (male) Boulder Delivery Guy (BDG). Being a professional BDG (and a really big one), he had no trouble sliding a dolly under Boulder #1 and rolling it toward our main gate.

That’s where the fun began.

“Do you think we should use the side gate?” Nancy asked. The hinges on the side gate are all messed up, and it’s transformed into a support structure for some kind of giant shrub. So naturally I said, “No, no, no, too much hassle. This’ll work fine.”

I was wrong. Boulder #1 was too wide to fit through the main gate, from every angle – and believe me, we tried them all. So the BDG rolled Boulder #1 back to the front yard and all the way around the house to the side gate.

After some serious wrenching and a lot of comments like, “That’s OK, we can paint that,” the gate was open and the BDG rolled on through. BANG! Well, almost through. The boulder was too wide. Again.

“Let’s stand it up on the dolly,” the BDG suggested. Seemed logical to me.

For some reason, Nancy had another idea. “Why don’t we try turning it around and rolling it through this way?” she offered.

“No, no, no, too much hassle. This’ll work fine,” both of us (males) agreed.

We bent down to lift together.
“OK, on my mark,” said the BDG confidently.
“Aye, aye,” I replied confidently.
“You know,” the (female) landscaper said, “I really think Nancy’s suggestion – ”
“Nope,” we (males) cut her off. “We got it.”

The BDG took a deep breath. I followed suit.
“OK, lift!” he said, and we put all our (male) strength into it.
“Lift!” he said again.
“I am!” I replied.
But the boulder didn’t. It just stood there, like one of those cosmic meteorites of the same size, that the museum docents tell us weigh 2 gazillion pounds.
Now I believe them.

“You know, if we try turning it around and rolling it – ” Nancy tried again.
“Nope, won’t work,” we (males) insisted, as we strategized our next attack.
“Yeah,” the landscaper tried, “I’m sure Nancy’s way is right – ”
“No,” we assured her. “It won’t.”

So we tried our ways about 6 more times, digging new grooves into the ground, shaving new grooves into the gate, etc. – all without success. Boulder #1 was still outside the gate.
Time elapsed: an hour.

Finally, we (males) were too pooped to push. As we stood off to the side panting and nursing our blisters, the ladies bent over, turned the boulder around, and rolled it . . . through the gate. I almost asked, “Why didn’t you suggest that?” but fortunately I was too tired.
Time elapsed: 75 seconds.

Undaunted, the BDG went back to the truck for Boulder #2. It was even bigger and more misshapen. At the gate, we two men tried again, unsuccessfully, for about 3 minutes.

“You know,” Nancy began, “I really think – ” but I cut her off immediately.

“Yes, yes!” I said, “Great idea! Whatever it is, it’s a great idea.”

“Well, see,” the BDG began, “that’s not gonna work because – ” so I cut HIM off.

“Yeah, that’s gonna work fine. Let’s go, ladies,” I insisted.

The BDG consented, and working together this time, Boulder #2 entered the Promised Land.
Time elapsed (including the BDG’s attempt at sabotage): 48 seconds.

Someone once said, “Behind every great man stands a woman . . . rolling her eyes.”

I don’t doubt it a bit. But today, they’re also rolling boulders.

A Tisket, A Tasket, Just Not Another Basket!

My wife is the Queen of Storage. I’ll walk out of a room full of items in our tiny house as she sighs, “Where am I gonna put all this stuff?” Moments later I’ll return and everything’s gone.

I have no idea where some of it goes. I leave large vases on the back room counter because there’s just nowhere to put them. I come back later and they’ve disappeared without a trace. I’ll search every cabinet high and low, twice, with no luck. Then I’ll bring home flowers, and Nancy will say, “Oh, yea!” step into the back room, and return seconds later with three large vases in hand.

“Where the heck were those?” I demand.
“In the cabinet,” she says.

Right. The hidden, secret spy false-wall cabinet built by moonshiners during the Prohibition, I suppose. It’s like turning your back on David Copperfield at Ellis Island, then looking back and *poof!* the Statue of Liberty is gone. Then your turn around once more, and it’s back again.

But my wife can do it with everything.
Well, almost everything.

There is one item she hasn’t conquered, one trick she has yet to master. The ultimate disappearing trick of them all: the Mystery of the Vanishing Wicker Baskets.

If you have even one, you can imagine. If you have several, you know my pain:

They can’t go on the shelf cuz they’re just too tall.
They can’t go in the cabinet cuz they’re wider than the wall.
Forget about the closet cuz the door won’t close.
Can’t hang them from the ceiling cuz they’ll smack you in the nose.

And you can’t get rid of any of them, because this one was expensive, and that one was a gift, and we actually used the brown one once about six years ago.

“Just put them in the garage,” comes the voice of wisdom.

Ah, yes, the Room of Impossibly Shaped Items, where the lawn mower and the bikes and the 16-foot tall, 200-pound patio umbrella all dwell in lonely, motionless silence.

But not the baskets. Their shapes and sizes (and handles!) refuse to cooperate. The first three let you stack them easily on the ledge, so that when you push your luck and set the fourth one on top, they can all leap off and bounce around to the ground together. You’re sure you hear them whisper, “Yee-haw!” and “Kowabunga!” and “Aim for his nose!”

So if anyone can get me in touch with David Copperfield, I’ll send you a gift basket.

The Other Ladies of the House

I used to think of my wife and me as masters of our dwelling, and myself as Lord of the Castle.

But the truth is: we are not alone.

Side by side with us dwell The Dress Forms, more properly known as The Other Ladies of the House.

I only recently learned this about them. I had always thought they were just dummies. Then I learned otherwise.

“Where do you want that thing?” I asked one day, as we re-arranged furniture.
“What thing?” my wife inquired.
“That thing in the other room.”
“What thing in the other room?”
“You know, that tall standy thing you put dresses on. The dummy.”
“Oh,” she said, indignantly. “You mean Colette?”
Colette. She has a name? She doesn’t even have a head.



But I have to admit, she does have a presence. I discover it late at night when I walk past her in the dark, and nearly jump out of my skin with fright.
I see it when she’s dressed to impress in the latest garb and accessories my wife has adorned her with.
And I sense it when I stand near her, worn out from a long day of cleaning, and especially from a long day of moving her from place to place. Lifting her from place to place. She weighs a ton, and her stiff, scratchy metal wheels aren’t nice to our wood floors.

So I stand there, sensing her presence, huffing and puffing as we accost each other.
I glare at her in my indignation, trying to make her feel bad for doing nothing to help me.
But she is unimpressed, unphased whatsoever. She simply stands there, proud and tall, disdaining me utterly, then seems to end our standoff with a simple air of “Hmph!”

And I am beaten once again, humbled out of my imagined title of Lord of the Castle and back into Colette’s view of the guy around the house.
So I slink off to take out the trash.

But I have one consolation: she also is not alone. She has some competition:

Meet Della . . .



. . . and this is Marie.



What’s that, Colette dear? You’d like me to move you – that is, lift you – across the room, so you can better watch the sunset? Golly, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged: Della needs a dusting. You’ll just to have to imagine it. Ta!

That’ll show her. Putting on my own airs, I turn my back and saunter away, to go and serve – another dress form?

OK, so who’s the real dummy? You don’t have to answer that . . .

(Sorry for my long absence. Thanks for coming back! ~BILL)

Taa DAAA!

Ah, brilliant!

Thank you all exceedingly. We can't wait to get out and strut. See you all this weekend! I'll respond to you all soon!
Blessings,
BILL

Easter Parade

Hi ya, Gang!

My dear gal was most insistent that she be properly escorted to this gala event – and who better for that task than yours truly?

And as long as you all are helping her choose just the right Easter Bonnet, perhaps you can help me as well.

I’m stuck on these four:

Here’s a dapper twist on a classic look: an extra bit of tweak on the brim, and that dashing gray . . .

Here’s the reverse of the first, complete with accessories . . .

My wife’s personal favorite for me. (Is she trying to tell me something?)

And of course, The Classic.

By the way, I’ve been told I bear a remarkable resemblance to this man.

Does anybody know who he is?

Happy Easter!

I’m Thankful

We walk up to the checkout stand with our cart full of food – and I realize I left the checkbook at home.

“Oops!” I smile sheepishly at my patient wife, and race out the door toward home.

At the edge of the parking lot with her sign, that woman is there again, with her now familiar long scraggly hair, one bad eye, and a nice smile. I’m not sure she knows she’s smiling. Suddenly, I’m a bit annoyed. My dad and I gave you gloves and socks last Christmas, I recall. That was a long time ago. Now I’m really annoyed. Angry, even. Why are you still here?

No, I say to myself, just let it go. You’re not thinking nice. Just let it go.

Well, wait, I say. You’re REALLY angry! What’s that about? Let’s mull this over for a moment.

So I begin to assess the situation critically. Then I notice my car. Or in truth, the car I was driving. A beautiful four-seater, still the nicest car I’ve ever owned. Only, I DIDN’T own it. Some dear friends at church, who’d only known us a short time, showed up at our door the very day I turned our only car into the junk yard – and lent us this one. “But I have no idea when I’ll be able to get my own!” I tried. “No problem,” they smiled. We had it for almost a year.

Then I remember the house we’d lived in just prior to the one that now held my checkbook. Again, we didn’t own it. The two ladies who did were going to be away for several months before moving in. My mom was their realtor, and Nancy and I had just moved in temporarily with my parents as we prepared to settle in the area. The ladies asked my mom, “Do you know anyone who’d like to live in our house while we’re gone – for free?” Did she ever! We were there for four months. It’s still the biggest house we’ve ever lived in.

When I get home for my checkbook, I remember the woman, but not my anger. I grab my checkbook and something else…

I pull back into the parking lot, and walk over to the lady. I hand her a shopping bag, stuffed full of everything I could find that she might be able to eat for a while. “I hope this helps.” She smiles at me, whether or not she knows why. I smile back, and I know exactly why.

Because I’m thankful.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY

This was one of my Father's favorite Irish Tunes

There's a tear in your eye,
And I'm wondering why,
For it never should be there at all.
With such pow'r in your smile,
Sure a stone you'd beguile,
So there's never a teardrop should fall.
When your sweet lilting laughter's
Like some fairy song,
And your eyes twinkle bright as can be;
You should laugh all the while
And all other times smile,
And now, smile a smile for me.

When Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring.
In the lilt of Irish laughter
You can hear the angels sing.
When Irish hearts are happy,
All the world seems bright and gay.
And when Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, they steal your heart away.

For your smile is a part
Of the love in your heart,
And it makes even sunshine more bright.
Like the linnet's sweet song,
Crooning all the day long,
Comes your laughter and light.
For the springtime of life
Is the sweetest of all
There is ne'er a real care or regret;
And while springtime is ours
Throughout all of youth's hours,
Let us smile each chance we get.

When Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring.
In the lilt of Irish laughter
You can hear the angels sing.
When Irish hearts are happy,
All the world seems bright and gay.
And when Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, they steal your heart away.

My Irish dad loved the fact that he was born on St. Patty's Day. Dad, we're all singing this with you today, along with Happy Birthday. I'm sure the angels are singing with you also -- I wonder if they're wearing green? If not, no pinching!

BILL

All I Really Need to Know About Marriage I Learned from My Chiropractor

You never know where you’ll find life’s wisdom. But for marriage advice, I do know a great source: my friendly neighborhood chiropractor.

I’ve picked up some real gems over the years from a couple of these smart ladies. Here are my favorites:

The Top Three Chiropractic Marriage Tips

Tip #3: Straighten up.
When I deal with my back, I don’t look like a slouch. And when I deal with my stuff, I don’t act like a slouch. My wife digs that.

Tip #2: Learn to give a great massage.
Flowers are always a good idea, but once you’ve learned the basics of the backrub, you’re a keeper.

Tip #1: Let your wife have her way.
“As I watch and listen to clients,” she told us at one visit, “I’ve noticed this: in the happiest marriages, the husband lets the wife have her way.”
After 18 years of marriage, I know she’s right. My wife not only knows what’s best for her, but what’s best for us. When I listen, we succeed. We both dig that.

And I guess that’s what finding life’s wisdom is all about.

Have a great weekend . . .

Mirror, Mirror, Off the Wall – Part 2

At last (the Husband believes), The Wife – his Wife – has a beautiful, large French Mirror with which to adorn her wall, and further France-ify her room, and check both her hair AND her outfit. Together. At the same time.

But this Mirror will never make it to the wall. Because it’s not about The Mirror: it’s about The Frame.



They arrive home at dinnertime. “Oh, I’m starving,” she says. It’s been a long day. He leans The Mirror against the wall. Clearly, she doesn’t want to deal with it till later.

“No problem,” he replies. “I’ll make dinner tonight.”

“Thank you,” she sighs wearily. The Hunt is always draining. “But could you bring The Mirror in here? Just so I can see it.” He does, then heads for the kitchen. Then:

“Can you bring me the glass cleaner and a rag?” she asks.

“Uh,” he begins, “I thought you said –“

“I just want to clean it up a bit. Just real quick,” she explains.

"OK, sure,” he says, bringing her the items, then heading back for the kitchen, still not clueing in.

“And a screwdriver.”

Now he gets it. It’s no longer dinnertime: it’s Project Night.

********

After quickly going through the motions of “cleaning The Mirror,” she flips it over, face down on the carpet, cleaning rag cast aside, glass cleaner pushed under the table, hunger forgotten. She grabs the screwdriver. Like a one-woman pit crew, she deftly works her way around all four sides, prying up rusty nails and old staples. One of them snaps. “Pliers,” she says. “You get the bad ones.” And without breaking stride, she moves to the next fastener, while The Husband, the rookie, has at it.

“No, no, no,” she says immediately, “you’re doing it wrong, you’re gonna lose it.”

“No, I’m not,” he assures her. “I’ve done this a million times. I’m a guy.”

“You’re gonna –“ the pliers slip off, and he nearly knocks her in the teeth.

“– lose it,” she glares.

He hands her the pliers. She pulls out the shard.

In moments, the backing is freed and removed. She picks up The Frame, turning it over and around, eyeing it thoroughly. “Oh, yeah,” she says, “it’s in great shape.”

The Husband picks up the backing.

“You can toss that,” she says, not even looking at it.

“But how will you support the mirror?” he says, still not clueing in.

“The what?”

Now he gets it. The Mirror will never again reflect a human face. It is now referred to only as “the glass.” It will spend eternity in the garage. Or, on trash day, it will . . . (the poor thing: I can’t even say it.)

Meanwhile, back in the house. A few turns around the room, some re-arranged furniture and relocated wall hangings, and The Frame has found a home.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Gorgeous,” he responds admiringly, once again. “I had my doubts, but you certainly know what you’re doing.”

“I told you,” she reminds him simply, once again. “Oh, I’m starving,” she says.

Mirror, Mirror, Off the Wall: Part 1

This work of art adorns our bedroom wall:

I call it simply, The Print.

As we lay in bed gazing at it, our recurring conversation always goes like this:

NANCY: Is that not gorgeous, or what?

BILL: It’s one of the most beautiful and magical prints I’ve ever seen. Look at the detail in those linens!

NANCY: I was talking about The Frame.

BILL: Oh, that’s right. I forgot.

THE FRAME: Yeah, baby!

THE PRINT: *sigh*


I do feel bad for The Print. But it could be worse: The Print could be a Mirror . . .


The Setting:

A local antique store

The Characters:

The Wife, Nancy “The Artist All the Time” Burns
The Husband, Bill “I Thought You Said They Had Free Snacks Here” Burns

The Prop:

A large framed mirror, referred to as The Hunted

The Situation:

The Hunt

The couple enters the building. The Wife’s smile and friendly greeting to the clerk expertly camouflage the intensity of her mission, while her trained eye immediately assesses all, not missing a single element. If you listen closely, you can just pick up the theme from Mission Impossible.

Meanwhile, The Husband has located and begun leafing through a small scientific booklet from early last century, titled Why Not Eat Bugs? (this really happened).

“Instead of filling our fields with destructive chemicals which wreak destruction upon flora, fauna and animals alike for the purpose of hindering what we call insect pests from devouring our crops, we ought instead to spend our mornings as so many tribal peoples do, strolling through those same crops, picking off the juicy, nutritious, crawling larvae one by one and ingesting them, as we often do with a fresh juicy tomato . . .” (from The Small Scientific Booklet)

Fascinating, The Husband muses. Let’s see: a Starbuck’s Double Chocolate Marble Macchiato grande with Danish, or live worms. Hmm…

Beep beep, beep beep – only moments later, the Wife-Fi Wireless signal sounds in his head, and he immediately kicks in to Back-up Mode.

“I’m on my way,” he says into his wristwatch comlink device. (Or, would, if he had one.)

He finds her in one of the countless tiny stalls in the giant maze of the place. The Hunted is displayed helplessly against a large brown wing-back chair, and has, of course, already been searched and questioned thoroughly. How ever well hidden, nobody escapes The Determinator. Nobody.

The Husband begins the exchange. “What have we got?” he asks, professionally and detachedly.

In her practiced way, perfected on so many other Hunteds, The Wife provides the details.
“Well, it’s a bit ghosted in the upper right, we’ve got some chips on the lower edge, looks like someone scratched it during shipping, a few dings on the corners, that’s to be expected with age, so I’m thinkin’ mid, late 1800s. And it’s definitely French.”

“Uh, huh,” replies The Husband, still professional and detached.

Then The Wife looks up at The Husband, and she is transformed. Her eyes, her face, her voice shine at him. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she breathes.

“Yes,” is all The Husband can say. “You are. I mean, it is, yeah.”

“It’s perfect,” she adds. “I love it.” (Code for: Hunt Successful, Target Secured.)

“Great,” he closes. “Let’s move out.”

And they do, to the register and then to home. At last, The Husband muses contentedly, The Wife – MY Wife – will adorn her wall with the beautiful large French mirror she’s always wanted.

He smiles. Mission accomplished, he thinks.

But he’s wrong . . .

More next time!