Friday, April 08, 2011
A Nightmare on Ironwood Drive
I read this Herman cartoon, laughed all over the place, but then my hands began to tremble. And my feet. And my arms and legs. Pretty soon all of me was trembling; I was having a nightmare, during the day, while I was fully awake—
Unless he has a serious death wish, no man ever, ever, ever jokes about his beloved's beauty. Even if she looks, sounds, and smells like a fishwife. Martha is nothing of the sort, but the result would be exactly the same: suicide by beloved with our good cast iron frying pan.
During all our years together, I've only slipped up once.
"You know, I don't understand it," she said one evening while taking inventory in the mirror. "My boobs keep getting smaller while my ass keeps getting bigger."
I didn't have the stupidity to tell her that spring was over for the chickens a loooong time ago, so I tried logic. "You can blame it on gravitational pull," I told her in my best scientific voice. "It rearranges your body, and even makes you shorter as your bones scrunch up." Geeze, I'm full of shit sometimes.
"You're full of shit," she told me, putting on her flannel PJs with the footies in them but no back door, which meant only one thing:
Flannel jammies in the desert in the middle of August → No nookie until winter comes, which it never does → A nightmare on Ironwood Drive.
Herman © by Jim Unger