My Secret Liaison

"Renee", is the name I sprawl on the dust of my window sill as I sigh and lean my forehead against the cool and grimy pane. How I miss my Renee. Our separation has dishearten me. While Renee is cavorting on vacation in the Caribbean surf, I am languishing here in my own filth.

I try not to remember my life before Renee saved me, the dark putrid hole that was my home. She came into my world about the time my first child arrived. She invaded my personal space like a slightly caustic pint sized Mr. Clean. Renee is my cleaning faerie.

My hubby, bless his obliviousness to dirt, has never noticed I have Renee. Nor do I bother to point out this fact. You would think he would have if anything noticed, a reduction in my nag time. My mantra of "take off your boots, take off your boots, pick it up!", is less often uttered from my exasperated overworked lips. How he thinks I manage to clean the entire house on the days I work, plus all the errands thrown in, sans any industrial cleaning fluids, I'll never know. And I flat out don't care. I don't like keeping things from my husband. But it would upset the man greatly if he knew I payed for her services.

Back in the day, I resisted hiring someone to clean my house. That was something that I felt I should have been able to do myself. I come from a strong line of tidy ancestors. Some who would clean the rafters in their attics every spring and the power lines that lead into their homes. Some even had to be medicated to suppress their cleaning hard drive. I can clean, mind you. I just happen to fill my time with other things. But a woman's home is often thought of as a reflection of themselves, so that is when Renee became part, if not a secret part of my family.

"Come home soon", I whisper to myself. I can't find my car keys.

Because a Scientist Said So

Today has been deemed as the years most depressing day. Some scientist hatched up the equation to formulate it as being so. Time of year, weather, self esteem, financial debt and sunlight all factored into his equation. Just when I was feeling really great about marking yet another revaluation around the sun.
You got to fight fire, with fire. My my case, cold with cold. To beat cabin fever, and to also celebrate my son's birthday, I decided to kick the old thermostat down a notch. I found an even colder, smaller and darker place to party. It will be in a fish house up north. Take that, old man winter. We are biting back.
I am pulling the boys out of school, with a couple of friends, for a long weekend in a deluxe sleeper fish house on Mille Lacs. Deluxe means it has beds, a bathroom, and a stove. Mille Lacs is Native American for "Freezes Ass for Fish". Good times. Good times. I am packing cards, movies and lots of food, along with the game hnefatefl. (Viking chess) The biggest surprise will be when the sled dog team I found pulls up in front of our ice shack to surprise my son and his friends with a ride across the frozen tundra.
When I heard the 6 o'clock news that I should just be sobbing or drinking, instead of in my happy little buzz, I picked up the phone and called the resort we will be staying at.
"How much ice do you have on the lake?"
"Twenty-two inches on our bay right now."
Asking if the fish are biting is just redundant.
"Happy Birthday!!", I yelled into the phone before hanging up.

My formula for happy is this,
Pi, or cake for that matter times six, frozen, add goofy infinity minus reason, plus a fraction of adventure.
Maybe we will pee that into the snow and send that scientist a picture of my equation.

The Man Hater Woman Club

So. Storm out of here with your bags packed with out even say good bye, will you? All because you didn't get your way. Too bad I didn't notice until all day after the movie that you left.

You can lead a man to water, but you can't make him think.

How ridiculously childish. Do you think you are punishing me by withholding your grouchy coot like demeanor? I refuse to call you first this time and say,"You are what? you are what?", until you say you are sorry. Ain't gonna happen.

If you build a man a fire, you keep him warm for a night. If you set a man on fire, you keep him warm for the rest of his life.

This is hurting you more than it is me. You are out of town surrounded by strangers. Ponder that one as you deprive yourself from my company. You gotta crawl back sooner or later. After all, the pay check always comes to this address.

Men. You can't live with them, you can't bludgeon them in the back of the head and bury them under the deck in your back yard. Often.

A Waste of Breath

As we lie in bed together, I would snuggle up behind him and wrap my arms around him before whispering a silent "I love you", against his back. He wasn't a very good listener. And I, an even worse talker.

Casting Call

"Ok now, Quinten, Spielberg, I'm ready to do this. Is the talent here?"
"Some are. Not a lot will show up until you send them the script tho, Munkay."
"The time is now boys, now. Who we got to play my hubby? Rock show up yet?"
"He can't audition for you. Not with that restraining order he has against you and all."
"Shut up Q. Shut your pretty mouth. Or I'll make you wish for a face as bad as that gore you use to shock the public with in your flicks."
"Nicholas Cage. Jeff Goldblum?"
" Good but you use them a lot there Spielberg. I think Mel Gibson. John Travolta would be perfect except I hate him. He's fucking nuts. Vain nuts."
"Mel Gibson it is."
Yes, perfect, then he can get Heath Ledger to play is own son. Heath would rock as K1."
"True but Gibson won't work with his own kid."
"Seann William Scott?"
"Ok, that's somewhat of a stretch, K1 does have those beautiful blue eyes and Sean has dark. I dunno if Sean can pull of sensitive. Not after that Duke's garbage."
"If it's looks then it is the original, "Home Alone" kid. Cept him and Michael...and he is now old enough to be K1's dad..."
Ok, so keep that role open ok?"
"K2. K2. Alfred E Newman from mad comic's. Can an animated dude play real?"
"No. I'm thinking Russell Pickering, with all his curls in "Chronicles of Narnia."
"Yes. Perfect. Make him lose the goat nose. Or the guy who played in Spiderman. Six of one..."
"Sis will be played by Annie Lennox. Or Renee Zellwiger."
"I don't think Annie acts."
"Thats good. My sister doesn't sing."
"Who is Colorado sister then?"
"Sally Field. No, Susan Serandon doing Sally Field will play her."
"Um."
"And I want Chis Reeves before his accident to play my brother. Think he can pull off playing an amputee?"
"Um. You need to talk to Travolta's shrink now Munkay."
"My parents are dead, but we need someone to play them none the less. Cross Ingred
Bergman with Jane Fonda and throw in a lot of Jackie O's grace for Mum will you?"
"Yes, I'll call special effects.."
"Dad is John Wayne/David Soul/John Boy Walton. Add Willy Nelsens love of intoxicating beverages."
"What about you Munkay? Who plays you?"
"That monkey from "Every which Way But Lose", available?"
"You do have a kinda Kristin Johnson from Third Rock thing happening."
"I think I'm more Kate Hudson or Bette Middler."
"Ugg boots does not make you Kate Hudson."
"Yeah, but I like rock stars. Lenny Kravitz care to polish my casting couch?"
"Does Mel know you talk like this?"
"Munkay you could use some extra's. Who else would we cast in your life..........

A Boyfriend, a Lover, a Husband, and a Stranger

Our knees touched beneath the table in that dark local bar. His shoulders where bigger than the table that held our beer. The locals were getting wild, happy hour had just begun. One of the regulars, who had coins left over from his brew, fed the jute box. Old country rock poured out and increased the volume of the joint, along with the anticipation in that smoky room. Momentary silence surprised everyone when the song ended, leaving conversations, now able to be heard, dangling in the air, absorbed by ears they were not intended for. As the opening rift to my favorite old Stones song fills the air, he leans in towards me and grabbing my hand, yells. "Dance!" There was no dance floor. There was barely room to squeeze in between tables, but he stood up, and pushed everything he could out of our way to make room. He only had space to move his upper torso to the rhythm as I jumped to the beat. He danced with grace, for such a large man, and would peek shyly from underneath his cowboy hat for my reaction. I threw back my head and laughed with joy as I perspired and bounced. When my girlfriend walked in, he motioned to her, with a nod of his head to join us, but she was unable to weave across the crowded room. So she danced with us from where she was. I remember wishing the music would never end and the endless possibilities, if only we had a dance floor.

I was freezing cold and I was wanting to call it quits, and pack up for the day, when the band struck up. "Dance with me?", I implored him in front of his fair weather friends and began dancing where I without walking to the pit. I knew if he turned his back on me, I would loose him to some buddy, or sale, or simply be forgotten. "C'mon, one dance", I taunted dancing inbetween him and his marks. If he was foolish enough to turn me down, one of his so called cohorts would take me up on it, and I knew his ego would not allow that. "Ok, ok, let me find someone to watch my stuff." I followed him into the front of the band, and tried to dance with him. He did not look at me once. He faced the band and jerked his body in an ungainly manner as ifhe were an epileptic trying to strike a wressling pose. When I danced in front of him, back into his line of vision, he turned away again, to look to see who might else be in the crowd. By that time, I was so embarrassed by his dicombobulated movements, it did not bother me a bit to be ignored by this man to was so intent on seeing who was watching him. He never noticed me slip away into the crowd. I was wishing no one thought I was his partner, I knew I would never be warm with him.

The ball room was lit with holiday sparkle and my heels along with my boredom were killing me. We were having yet another conversation on a subject I knew nothing off, with some faceless suits and their partners, when the orchestra switched from classical to dance. Our group disapates, some to the bar, but most to the dance floor. "Dance with me?" I beg him, heading him off as I know he is heading to a table. "No, I want to sit down." "Please dance with me?", I try one more time without shame. "Come one buddy, get out there on the floor." I am saved by one of his associates who sees how bad I want to dance, but understands how inappropriate it would be to ask me himself. Once on the floor he closes his eyes, to better concentrate on getting his own dance moves right, shutting me out to dance by myself. So I study him, knowing he is self conscious and wanting to make him more so. As I watch him, taking his measured and timed steps, I wonder how much fun he could be, if he were to cut the corporate marionette strings that choreograph his footwork.

It is late and I don't want to be there. I put in my face time, made my appearance with the girls and am ready to go home. It is now to loud and dark in the club to hold anything close to a conversation and the everyone here is at the stage where they are vieing for attention by trying to be the funniest and wildest in the place. I am done, and push back my chair from the table and stand, planning on yelling my goodnights and running off before any of them can protest my leaving, and there he is, standing at my elbow. "Will you dance with me?" he asks. Surprised, I think what the heck, as he leads me by the hand to the floor. We dance together easily, as if we had both done this all our lives. When the crowd became thick on the dance floor, he simply placed one of his hands on my waist to keep us in synch without any interference. His touch was not needed but apreaciated. I do not know what I thought during that dance, I only felt apart of warm perfection in union.

Or if Hell Just Up and Froze Over

I could like him, I think,

If he just wasn't so damn annoying.
Or he knew what he was doing.
All he would have to do is just shut up.
Or if he weren't such a know it all.
Or a pervert for that matter.
Maybe if he was even slightly attractive.
Or had some money.
And ambition.
Probley if he were in a debilitating car wreck that left him comatose.
For sure if he moved to a third world country to build homes for orphans.
Possibly if he got a good raucous alien probing.
Or if the sewage being dumped from an over head jet smothered him.
And if he fell down and the pigs ate him.
Or if he tripped on his own tongue and ripped it out and bled to death while panting over the skirts.
Or donated his heart to an ailing orangutan.
And if he spontaneously combusted and left nothing but a bad smell.

Then, maybe, I might like him.
But until then, I don't. And probley never will.