January 2007 Archives

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Clean Eggs

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During the year after Nancy moved to the new job in Vermont and I stayed behind on Long Island to sell the house and finish off my last year at work, I became by necessity, somewhat anal about cleaning up after myself. It’s a big no-no that have that pile of dirty dishes crawling with vermin in the sink when the real estate agent walks in with the prim young couple looking for their dream house. Four pair of used underwear flung haphazardly about the bedroom leaves a similarly bad impression to some, I’ve been told.

Once done with the house I was in a little apartment where I spent weekdays working and weekends in Vermont. Here again, leaving crap on the counter only resulted in bad smells and the thought that the landlords were going to soak me for every dime of my deposit if they had to so much as wipe some dust from the floor after I left kept me channeling Felix Unger for the better part of six months.

This has, to a large extent, carried over to the present day. I clean up my dishes immediately after each meal, almost always throw my dirty socks in the hamper, and by and large lead a much more virtuous life than in my profligate youth - which leads me to this morning. On the mornings when Nancy goes to work I get up and make coffee and read the newspaper. Nancy arrives in the kitchen a little later and prepares her breakfast. After my coffee I go downstairs to work out. Before I go, I clean my mug and most anything else that is lying around the sink.

But the spirit of Felix waxed strong in me this morning. Not only did I clean my mug but I also washed the frying pan, spatula, and mixing bowl Nancy had used to prepare her eggs. Then, rapt in this possession, with a smug, self satisfied smile on my face, I wiped and arranged the pan, spatula, and bowl back on the stove and counter so that they would be exactly where they should be when I came back upstairs to make my own breakfast.

I climbed the stairs after my workout beaming with haughty conceit. I was an efficiency god. I’d crank up the espresso machine and scramble up those eggs. Everything would taste just a bit better this morning. Everything would taste, hmm - virtuously good. Nancy however, had been more in the “gotta make the doughnuts” mode. In the 30 minutes she has allotted, she ate her eggs, drank her coffee, and completely on morning autopilot, grabbed the pan, the spatula, and the bowl and dutifully washed them. And so I found them, stacked to dry next to the sink, double washed, sparkling clean. I made my eggs and ate my breakfast. The spirit of Felix Unger, now disengaged, once again floats free in the netherworld. I finished eating 45 minutes ago and the pan, spatula, and bowl lie dirty on the counter. I’ll get up soon and wash everything, but it’s not the same. My eggs tasted okay, maybe good, certainly not virtuous – more, I’d have to say – clean.

Whine

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I have a head cold and Nancy isn't around today. That means you have to listen to me whine.

When the symptoms started on Sunday I thought it was one of those really minor sniffles that would fade away in a day or so. That's because I rarely ever get colds and didn't remember that there are no such things as "really minor sniffles" and that all the colds I get evolve into those huge, sloppy, runny, sneezy, snotty messes that force you to whine.

The good news is that the sore throat has faded. But you're not getting off that easy. My nose has reached runny perfection - that state where the temperature of the runny stuff exactly matches the temperature of your upper lip so that you can't tell that anything is emerging until the first drip splatters on your (choose one): (a) hand [I should be so lucky]; (b) library book; (c) tea mug; or (d) cat.

I'm trying to be a good spouse about this. I made Nancy go out and buy a pump bottle of Purell. I goop it up every time I blow my nose (or just rub it with the back of my hand). I smell like my grandmother's house. I've wiped down the mouse on the kitchen laptop so many times that it turned and snapped at me this morning.

The cats sense my pain but have started to avoid me because whenever they get close I whine to them in my new, Barry White /chest cold baritone. It scares them. I was hoping that Nancy would find it sexy, but even though I can now do a really fine, "Ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh...ooh... We better try, Try to get ourselves together, baby..." she just shakes her head and leaves the room.

Ususally I end these peices by saying something like, "There, I feel better now". But I don't. So I won't.

For your sake, I hope I'm feeling better tomorrow.

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This page is an archive of entries from January 2007 listed from newest to oldest.

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