Monday, November 21, 2011

You Scratch My Back....I'll Go Watch TV

Morning Readers,

     A few days ago, I felt the tension building in my shoulders. Usually, I just ignore it, but after I marched next door, pulled the neighbor's mailbox out of ground and threw it through their window, shouting, "Hulk smash neighborhood, without regard for personal property or insurance deductibles," I knew I had to do something. That night, I pointed to the knots in my shoulders and asked Husband if he'd help me out. He nodded. "Sure, but you have to rub my back, first." This doesn't sound so bad, if you don't know he's a dirty double-crosser...

     I stomped my foot. "I will not."


     "Because, you always say that, and as soon as I rub your shoulders, you come up with some excuse why you can't reciprocate."

     He rolled his eyes. " I do not."

     The gall of the man. Two years ago, he'd told me he didn't have time to give me a back rub because, if he didn't leave right then, the Russians would figure out his location, and I didn't "want him to die due to a botched mission."

     "I didn't know you even spoke Russian."

     He kissed me on the forehead. "You also don't know I ate the last cookie. Do you ever really know a person?"

     A year ago, just as I'd finished a superior Ginsu to his shoulder blades, he looked me straight in the eye and said. "I'd love to help you out, but I lost the use of my hands in a terrible accident."

     "But you're changing channels, with the remote control." I protested.

     He sighed. "The feeling comes and goes. Who knows how long it'll last? Best not to risk it." 

     In the last six months, my poor back's been passed over due to all our electrical outlets needing to be rewired at midnight, the neighbor's dog demanding someone to talk to, the mailman asking for directions to the neighbor's house, and all the bread needing to be unwrapped and each slice re-wrapped individually. So, this time, I was prepared....

     "I refuse to go second. I need a back rub, and you're going to give it to me. You may go second. And no business about Russians or pigmies, or having to go to an emergency autograph signing...because, I Googled it; You're not famous and you never released a country album. No one uses Rusty Tractor as a stage name. So there."

     Husband smiled. "You're right, I'll give you a back rub. You deserve it."

     I slapped my knee. "Now we're talking. Thank you for seeing reason."

     He hopped off the couch. "I'm gonna grab something to drink. Want anything?"

     I told him no and patiently waited on the couch....and waited...and waited. A few hours later, a note was slipped under the front door:

Dear Paige,

     When I opened the refrigerator, I was captured by the pygmies living behind the old casserole. Please don't think I didn't come back on purpose. They want  to teach me their ways, and I, having developed a great fondness for them, have decided to stay and learn more about their basket-weaving and skill with cross breeding whales as racing animals. I can only hope that I will see you again, my love. Or, as the pygmies say, "Acha Oo oop, chechna bangalo.".



     As soon as he gets back, he's in so much trouble...

Until Next Time, Readers!