For some mysterious reason, I have successfully fooled the kind folks over at Sweatpants and Coffee into thinking I’m a real writer. I’ve somehow become a bit of a regular. Here is my latest creation that they have posted . . . . (If you go check it out, don’t let on that I’m only a pretend writer).
As I walked in the door after my long day at work, I was met by my two daughters.
“How was your day, dad?” they both asked as they gave me a big hug.
“It wasn’t too bad” I replied, “What smells so good?”
“Oh, Natalie and I made nachos, tacos and burritos for dinner . . . after we finished cleaning our rooms and doing our homework.”
“That’s wonderful girls!” I said, giving each a big hug.
After a quick shower, I returned to the dining room where we all sat down to one of the best meals I had eaten in quite some time. In fact, it was so good, that after eating each delicious taco, I would get up and hug my wife and daughters and they would hug me back, telling me how wonderful my taco breath smelled.
Upon finishing the excellent dinner, the girls cleared the table and washed the dishes, and then the four of us retired to the living room to relax and watch a little TV. My wife brought out a heavenly double chocolate cake that had been made for desert.
“What should we watch?” I asked.
“How about something with rocket launchers and zombies!” replied my daughter, Hannah.
“Yes!” added Natalie, “and with fast cars and explosions!”
“Are you sure?” I asked, “Don’t you girls want to watch your stupid teenage drama shows?”
“No father, you have worked hard all day, we want to watch your show.”
“That sounds wonderful” I said as I hugged and kissed both girls.”
As I turned on the TV, my wife brought me a huge piece of the chocolate cake and my slippers.
“Thank you my lov- . . .”
Before I could finish my sentence, I was interrupted by a loud crash and a sharp pain in my nose. I winced in agony.
When I opened my eyes, my wife was gone . . . and there was no sign of the chocolate cake she was about to hand me before the loud noise and the pain. Instead, I was lying on the couch with my daughter Natalie sitting on my chest. My daughter Hannah was standing at the end of the couch near my head, violently swatting at her sister with a tennis racket. Natalie was kicking back at her with her feet, in an attempt to ward off the blows. And with every second or third kick, her leg would come down with a thump on my face. Hannah’s racket aim left much to be desired as well, in that every other swat would crack me on the nose with the follow through. There was also a half-eaten piece of pizza lying face down on my forehead.
“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?!!!!” I demanded.
“Hannah stole the last piece of pizza!”
“Well Natalie keeps changing the channel from my show!” Hannah answered.
“I thought you girls wanted me to watch my zombie movie . . .” I said, somewhat confused.
Both girls looked at each other as if I had just spoken to them in Latin.
“Where did you get pizza? Aren’t you both full from the dinner you made me after you cleaned your rooms?” I asked.
Again they looked at each other and then both broke out in loud maniacal laughter.
“Made dinner? Cleaned our rooms? HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
I was more confused.
“Remember? You said I had worked hard today, so I could watch my show, and you guys made tacos and nachos and burritos for dinner, and we were hugging, and you said how wonderful my taco breath smelled . . .” I sputtered.
I stopped talking as my brain began to piece together the facts.
The girls started in with their wild laughter again, “HAHAHAHAHA! You’ve been a dead lump on the couch since you got home! HAHAHAHAH, he said his breath smelled good! HAHAHAHA!”
As the girls walked off, laughing hysterically, I began to realize that it had all been a dream. There was no taco dinner, or hugging or even chocolate cake.
My wife sat across the room with an amused smile on her face. I tried telling her about my dream, but had to stop when she began laughing as hard as the girls had been.
Being disappointed about not actually having a taco dinner or hugging, I decided that I wasn’t going to miss out on the chocolate cake. I rose from the couch and went to the little diner down the road from us, where I ordered a large piece of double chocolate cake . . . a man can only handle so much disappointment in one evening.
I can’t figure out if my wife is trying to kill me, or if my near death incidents due to drug overdoses are simply accidents. I don’t have a large life insurance policy, so I can’t figure out why she would want me dead, but there have been incidents that would make a person wonder.
One such incident occurred when I had developed an extremely agonizing kidney stone. After a flying trip to the hospital, I was given a powerful pain medication and sent on my way. My wife, who is a nurse, took charge of my pill bottle. Upon arriving home, she handed me my first dose to take before the morphine that I had been given at the hospital had a chance to wear off.
Since there was nothing for me to do other than take the pain medication and wait for the kidney stone to run its course, we decided not to cancel the dinner plans we had made with another couple earlier that week.
By the time we had arrived at the restaurant where our dinner engagement was to take place, the pain medication had begun to take effect. I not only was pain-free, but I felt good. I felt REALLY good. We greeted our friends in the parking lot and went inside.
The hostess who looked remarkably like a female version of the Joker from Batman, showed us to our table where a waiter who looked remarkably like the Penguin brought us menus and drinks.
It was at this time that I suddenly realized what a funny guy I was. I made myself laugh just thinking about it. Everyone else was remarkably funny as well, so I laughed even harder. My wife gave me a frown, a very funny frown.
I could hear the voice of our friend, only it sounded like his head was in a steel barrel submerged somewhere in the sea.
“Is he alright?” the voice said.
“He’s fine,” said the walrus that was now seated between me and my wife.
Removing my shirt, I wrapped it tightly around my head and ears to block out the ringing and the obnoxious sound of the Christmas carol singing unicorns. The last thing I remember was biting the waiter’s leg from under the table.
As I slowly opened my eyes, they focused on one of our friends leaning over me and fanning my face with her small handbag. I could tell that I was in the passenger seat of our car in the parking lot of the restaurant.
“His eyes are opening!”
I turned to see my wife looking intently at my bottle of pain pills and talking to the husband of the woman fanning my face.
“He’s lucky to be alive! He’s only supposed to be taking two pills every four hours,” I heard my friend say emphatically to my wife.
“I thought it said four pills every two hours!” answered my wife’s voice.
As I recalled later that day, I remembered thinking it was odd that a prescription required me to take four pills all at once. I don’t ever remember taking more than two of any medication at a time.
My wife had nearly killed me.
Now if this had been the only time that medication handed out by my wife had almost killed me, it would be easier to assume that it was a simple mistake. But a very similar incident occurred just a few months later.
My wife and I had always dreamed of taking an Alaskan cruise and this was the year that we were finally able to afford to do it. So along with a few other friends of ours, we booked our trip. To begin the cruise meant taking a flight from Detroit to Seattle. This presented a problem, as I do not like flying at all.
As the day of our flight grew closer, I became more and more panicked. My wife decided to talk to my doctor about my phobia, and he prescribed a rather powerful anti-anxiety medication to make the trip less stressful for both me and my wife who would be sitting next to me.
On the morning we were due to fly out to Seattle, we arrived at the airport and found our places in the luggage check-in line. My nervousness was beginning to make me sweat and act in a fashion that was described by my wife as “flakey.” While we stood waiting, my wife handed me one of the pills which I quickly swallowed.
The pill had definitely calmed my anxiety. I experienced the entire flight in slow motion, or at least the parts of the flight that I was not unconscious. The drug seemed like a bit of over kill, but they did get me to Seattle without a complete nervous breakdown.
After an amazing week-long vacation that went by entirely too fast, we found ourselves once again waiting in an amazingly long line at the airport. And once again, I began to feel nervous and flakey.
“Do you want a whole one?” my wife asked me referring to the medication.
“Yes!” I replied hoping it would take the edge off.
I quickly took the pill and continued our hour long wait in the security screening line.
I was surprised at how much faster the tranquilizer took effect compared to the morning of our flight out to Seattle. I soon found it difficult to stand in line without swaying.
“Wow, I must be tired. It seems like the pill is hitting me a little harder than last time,” I said to my wife in a voice that sounded like a record being played at too slow of a speed.
“Well yeah, you only took a half of one last time.”
I suddenly became aware of my wife using the word “whole” when she asked me if I wanted a “whole” pill . . . as opposed to the half pill I took a week ago. The half pill had bordered on too much. Now I had taken a whole pill and I still had to stand in line for at least an hour before we could board the plane.
I turned towards my wife with heavy eyes and informed her that I may be in trouble. The now familiar sound of Christmas carols began to fill the air as the unicorns floated down from the ceiling and formed a circle around me. I tried sitting on one our larger suitcases when the line wasn’t moving, but I kept fading out, only to return when the large man behind me would smack me in the head for leaning and drooling on him. The unicorns were joined by Richard Nixon who was wearing a beautiful sun dress and together they kept me entertained with their festive music.
By the time we neared the security check point, one of our friends who had accompanied us on the cruise had found an airport wheelchair to push me in as we moved up the line because it was easier than dragging me. I sat and happily sang Silent Night with the unicorns and faded in and out of consciousness.
Finally reaching the security screening check point, the man checking passengers’ identification looked down at me and asked, “Is he ok? Do I need to call the medics?”
“Oh I’m wonderful,” I heard myself say, “I’m on drugs and my wife is trying to kill me.”
Fortunately, I faded away at this point, and slept blissfully through the additional two hours of questioning that my statement had caused us.
Now I suppose I could just assume that another dosage miscalculation had taken place, but two, in the same year? Until I can determine whether my wife is out to get me or not, I am assuming full and complete control of all my medication.
If she doesn’t actually want me dead, she must certainly be gaining some sort of amusement by sending me to sing with the unicorns.
One thing that annoys me to no end is poor quality control in the condiment application department at fast food places.
My double cheeseburger had so much ketchup on it that the inside of my truck now looks like a gruesome murder scene . . . Including the bloody footprints and the red sliding hand print on the window.
I think I can even see some ketchup on the windshield of the car behind me.
Hello, my name is Jon, and I am a taco-holic.
Living with a taco addiction is terrible. It affects your ability to make rational decisions.
Sunday night we ate at my favorite taco place. That night I became deathly ill. This of course raises the question of wether it was the food or the flu.
Today, I took the taco leftovers out to throw them away just in case they were the culprit . . . . But I couldn’t do it. I decided that risking grave illness was better than throwing tacos away,
So I ate them.
I’m sitting on the toilet waiting . . . Just in case.
As I slowly inched closer and closer to the speaker box, at which I would place my order, I felt a drip of nervous perspiration roll off my forehead.
“Do you know what you want?” I asked my wife.
“I can’t see the menu,,” was the reply.
I could have told you that this was going to be the answer. It is always the answer. And as usual, I began thinking to myself, “How can she not know what’s on the McDonalds menu by now? Every American can quote the McDonalds menu by heart even if you don’t even eat there, some can even quote prices as well. The McDonalds menu is as old as time, penned by our forefathers shortly after the completion of The Declaration of Independence.”
But I keep these thoughts to myself, because I have learned that to verbalize them only creates an episode and prolongs the decision making process. I instead turn to my darling children and ask the same question. The answer came at me from two mouths simultaneously, making it impossible to determine who said what, but it sounded like this:
“I want a cheeseburger Happy Meal, I want a chicken nugget big kid meal, and the purple toy, with mustard sauce, no wait make it a blue toy, and root beer, but I don’t want the same toy as her, I think I want nuggets instead, and ketchup, but I already have that toy, can we go to the taco place?”
As I try to comprehend the rat’s nest of words that had just come from the back seat, I pull the car forward. It is now my turn at the speaker. My palms are sweating and I’m having trouble breathing, for I know what is about to happen.
“I’ll have the Quarter Pounder with cheese meal with a Coke and . . .”
I always say ‘and’ in a prolonged and exaggerated way, as an attempt to cue my wife to jump in with her order, but I am met only with silence as she studies the menu. I divert back to the kids, noticing that the little old lady behind me is beginning to look a little impatient.
“I also need two Happy Meals, one cheeseburger and one chicken nugget, with blue and purple toys.”
“NO, I want a red toy.”
“What to drink with those, sir?”
“Lemonades and make it a red toy.”
“I want a cheeseburger instead”
“I’m sorry, sir, we are all out of red toys.”
“Mustard sauce, dad, and I don’t like lemonade.”
“Make the nugget a cheeseburger and change the lemonade to a Coke and the red toy to a green toy.”
“I want curly fries, dad.”
“They don’t have curly fries here, Natalie.”
“What was that, sir?”
“I was just telling my kid that you don’t have curly fries here.”
.” . . . We don’t have curly fries here, sir.”
“I know that, you idiot!”
.” . . Your total comes to . . .”
“WAIT! I’m not done,,” I say, turning to my wife. The little old lady behind me is now honking every ten seconds or so and my right eye has begun to twitch a bit.
“Well? . . . . .” I ask, as my voice raises a notch in intensity.
“What did I get last time?” she asked in a tone that would suggest that she was in no hurry.
“I don’t know; does it matter?”
“Can I get the Garden salad with chicken on it?”
“Can she get the Garden salad with chicken on it?”
“Yes, but we will have to charge you more,,” answered the voice on the speaker.
“Ask if I can trade the tomato for the chicken?”
“Can we trade the tomato for the chicken?”
“We’ll still have to charge extra.”
“Well then I don’t want the garden salad, tell her I need another minute.”
The little old lady behind me has gotten the whole drive through line honking and has begun throwing what appears to be Rolaids at the back of my car as, two more minutes of menu studying pass.
“Just get me a Big Mack meal and a diet.”
“Uh, I guess we’ll have the Big Mack meal with a diet and that’s it.”
Silence is coming from the speaker.
More silence is coming from the speaker.
“I’m sorry sir, but can you repeat your order?”
WHAT? REPEAT MY ORDER? I don’t think that’s possible! Sobbing, I look up to the heavens and plead, “Lord! Spare me this shame and take me now!”
I looked at my family. Their mouths were moving as they attempted to repeat their orders to me, but I couldn’t hear any words, just the sound of my labored breathing and my heart beating like a drum. The little old lady behind me was getting out of her car and walking towards me. What if she has a gun in her purse?
The speaker box was getting louder and louder, “SIR? DID YOU HEAR ME? COULD YOU REPEAT YOUR ORDER? . . . SIR? . . . SIR?”
I turned to my wife and pitifully stated, “I . . . I can’t do this.”
With smoke rolling off of the tires, I peeled out of the drive through line, bounced over the curb, across the lawn and back onto the street.
Once home I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for all despite the wailing protests and an unrelenting dirty looks from my wife. A new rule was also proclaimed as we all enjoyed our sandwiches, and that is that NO fast food trips will be made until ALL car occupants have decided and written down their orders.
Go ahead, present your case. Tell me why that last piece of bacon sitting on the grease soaked paper towel should be yours. Tell me how you managed to get mom and your sister to agree that you could have it. Try to bribe me for it.
Lust all you want, but I worked for the money that bought it, I cooked it, and I’m bigger than you.
Fairness matters not when bacon is involved.
That last piece is mine.
I have a hobby of coming up with creative answers to, “What’s for dinner, Dad?”
Some of my favorite answers:
“I got you a ‘punch on the nose supreme with extra fat lip sauce’.”
“I haven’t decided yet. Which one of the cats do you think would taste better?”
“Nothing, it’s Food Appreciation Day.”