The husband and me
June 07, 2008
If the husband tells me one more time to close this or that door on the camper, to make sure of this or that, to stop what I am doing and hand him this or that… You know, I start a lot of sentences that way. “If this happens, if that happens, if somebody asks me.... But really, what am I gonna do?
Pack up and go home? Kill him? Make life miserable for him? Ok, some things are within reason.
I have thought to maybe round up just 1 percent of all the grasshoppers in the campground and blend them with his morning protein powder drink. More protein, right? Right personal trainer Joe? I am thinking something like locusts and the plague. Something biblical and justified. Anyway, I wonder if, as more people have moved into the campgrounds, man has shifted the pests toward the woods. That is, over our way.
I know you wish I’d shut up already about it. The grasshoppers. It’s just nothing you can imagine. I’d like to ask for a miracle and see the grasshoppers turned into ice or water.
Normally when the husband and I camp, we are on a pure vacation or we have the Harley in the back and there will be riding involved. Florida is usually also involved. We opted to leave the bike at home this time and it was just as well.... I got too much to do and the elements are not that conducive to riding.
The husband just mumbled something about how I need to try and have more fun today and if we HAD the bike then we could relax a bit. There’s something about the sun and the wind and the open road. Can anybody scream “Free bird?!”
Closely confined quarters sure has a way of bringing a couple closer.
“Did you bring your ‘pills?’” the husband asks.
Mean, ugly look.
“Did you TAKE them?” he persists.
“Why don’t you go meet some new friends,” I instruct.
He lights up another cigarette. He’s been smoking a lot the last two days. I hope all the smokers are careful.... this field could go up like a fat lighter house.
I open the camper door to ask him if “fat lighter” is indeed the right word. If that’s what you use to make fires with. He is visiting with the newest neighbor who set up shortly before midnight last night. The couple from Columbus, Ga., slept in a tent.
“Hey, baby! Cousin here!” he yells excitedly, pointing to a short guy in a red T-shirt.
“Trey Ward,” he says. “Cousin Ward!”
That’s nice baby. They are comparing Dodge trucks. Talking engines and things under the hood and gas mileage and such.
I duck back inside.
“Be sure and close that door,” I hear just before the door slams.
Yep. Closely confined quarters alright.
