de Vos: Have a nice weekend
April 19, 2012
My wife went out of town for a few days and left me a note that said, “Have A Nice Weekend”. Well, with clear directions like those, what else is a guy to do?
I should pause here and tell you that, in hindsight, it may be only fair to mention that there were a few other words written below her cheery greeting, but who has time for all that reading when Chinese carry-out and Netflix are clamoring for your attention?
Did you ask, “Where was your wife? If you didn’t know what was going on, it was kinda’ weird. All over the Southwest, packs of women are banding together, sharing food and shelter and heading out on an arduous trek, inexorably drawn like magnets to a small Colorado town – in other words, just like a Stephen King novel right down to the 90-year-old black lady rocking on her porch. Only instead of speaking wisdom and dire prophecy, this one’s shrieking, “Get the hell off my lawn, the bowling alley is down thatways a block!”
Yessir! It’s time for the Colorado USBC 59th Annual Women’s Handicap Championship, held this year, April 14 – May 6, at the Harmony Bowl in Colorado Springs. The Golf Widow is a cliche, perhaps the Bowling Widower a bit less so, but that’s what I was last weekend. My wife and her pack joined other packs, ganging into a literal herd of women all in quest of fame and prize money. Did I mention shopping and partying? Because if I didn’t, I believe that overlooks the real point of it all, said the cranky, left-behind Widower.
Firstly, because she failed to hire a skywriter, and secondly, because I overlooked a tiny voicemail, I did not know that her posse was headed back to town a couple hours early. So I was taken unawares when she walked in the door and caught me balancing a bucket of KFC on my stomach with Robert De Niro saying calmly in the background, “You talking to me?”
Greetings died on her lips as she brushed past me straight out to the sunroom and stood there, staring at her dead basil plant. Boy, if you think women get mad when you cheat on ’em, you ought to try forgetting to water the basil.
“I told you to water it while I was gone,” she said carefully enunciating each syllable and still staring in disbelief at the shriveled leaves.
“Nuh-uh. I’d remember.”
“Right there in the note,” she finally looked up and began to take in the chaos around the house, pausing at the stack of pizza and Styrofoam pagoda boxes before moving on to the dogs ripping up the Chubby Hubby container on the floor. My token attempt at order, the vacuum cleaner, cord still tightly wrapped, stood upright in the middle of the room like an accusatory totem pole.
“In fact,” she continued, “that same note is still right there on the counter along with all the rest of the things you haven’t touched since I left.”
I picked up the note and read through it. Sure enough, it was there all right, but it was underneath the “nice weekend” part, not high-lighted, underlined or anything. No exclamation marks, nothing to call attention to it.
Sheesh! What do they expect us to do, read their minds?
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