JOYS & HEADACHES OF by by Nan D. Arnold
There are many pluses, of course, ones that spring to mind are: Lets me sleep late most days, and brings me coffee in bed!!! Even though I’m now on the other side of the big five-oh, his drive-by kisses on the back of my neck still make me crazy amorous. Charming when he wants to be. Kills flies using a swatter with the dexterity of a tennis pro at Wimbledon, ditto other creepy crawlies. Perhaps best of all, he can program the remote control.
Hogging the remote control. This is a universal complaint. I’ve often speculated on forming an international organization: WAR (Women Against Remote Control) but between friends, family, writing, etc., haven’t gotten around to it. Bought My Guy a rocking chair as a joke upon his retirement. Turns out joke’s on me. My Guy never leaves it. Back to the remote control problem, ours sits on end table next to The Rocking Chair. If I even think about grabbing it to change channels, My Guy’s left hand whips out and retrieves the device faster than Matt Dillon drawing on a bad guy. And, My Guy’s right handed.
Holiday lighting. Takes My Guy forever to put up and longer to take lights down. If only there was a combined holiday for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. You know, Merry- Thank-o-Ween? We could have a single strand of lights which could be put up once and left). Say, three twinkly red and green miniature lights, followed by a neon jack o’ lantern, followed by a glowing turkey. (Surely an enterprising fabricator somewhere offshore is working on this).
Recently when I couldn’t persuade My Guy to leave The Rocking Chair for some (what seemed vital at the moment) project, I contemplated taking down one of my Le Creuset skillets from the pot rack and fracturing his skull. But. Fortunately, my writing instinct took over. I stepped back and allowed the old What If crank to turn. What if instead of dispatching My Guy to The Big Rocking Chair In The Sky, and me to a local police precinct for bad mug shots and panicked search for a high-priced criminal defense attorney, I changed the situation to another woman with a retired husband. What if I changed the locale from my family room to a retirement community…in Florida? What if women there had secrets in their marriages so egregious only murder could make amends? Voila. Merry Acres Widows Waltz was born.
***Thanks to my crit pard, writer Cheryl Dale, for use of “My Guy”.
Nan D. Arnold