Blithe Spirit

          I can’t wait!  The Calmar Prairie Players are having their final rehearsals before the big opening on May 6th.  Our small but vital volunteer theatre troupe annually presents a weekend of dinner theatre and this year’s performance will be more entertaining than anything discussed on Entertainment Tonight. (Not that I watch it, of course but Cupcake likes to keep up on important current events and Mary Hart’s practically impossible to completely shut out).
         The play is the classic ‘Blithe Spirit’ written by Noel Coward; a terrific mix of supernatural thriller and British comedy. Sort of like a cross between ‘Ghost Whisperer’ and “Fawlty Towers” only without the hotel or Jennifer Love Hewitt (Dang!).
         The plot involves a fictitious, wealthy writer named Charles Condomine, played brilliantly by East of 60 stalwart, Andy Toms and his incredibly believable English accent. (Okay, so he is actually British.)  In the play, Charles sets out to have a séance with his current wife, Ruth, (wickedly portrayed by Calmar school teacher Angie Podgurny) along with another couple, Dr. and Mrs. Bradman (Calmar newbie Mike Keindel and Prairie Player veteran Tammy Bateman portray the pair to a ‘T’) Charles needs background material for a book he is planning about a homicidal medium. The working title of his anticipated tome is ‘The Unseen’, although I think he would be better served by; ‘Small Medium At Large’.
         During the séance, however, the psychic they hired, a Madame Arcati, (hysterically brought to life by Calmar Dart League’s ace shooter, Cindy Thornton) accidently brings back the spirit of Charles’ first wife who died tragically seven years before. Paula Bancroft, who in real life is a nurse at the Devon Hospital, brings a seductive edge to the role of ghostly first wife, Elvira. Much hilarity ensues as Charles is the only one who can see or hear his ectoplasmic ex. Kelly Ainsworth rounds out the cast as the Condomine’s young maid, Edith, who is injured when Elvira tries to kill off Charles so they can be reunited in the hereafter.
         The cast is a mixture of seasoned vets and those who are, shall we say, more lightly seasoned. At least half of the cast had their first taste of thespianism in the Devon play ‘A Christmas Carol’ just this past December. Having had such success with their small roles in that East of 60 production, they were bitten by the acting bug so severely, they needed calamine lotion. The only real cure for them, however, was to audition for the Prairie Players in January.
         Little did they know that being part of a seven person play is VERY different than the 42 character classic they’d experienced previously. Role size in theatre is measured by the number of lines you’re entrusted with and that yuletide extravaganza had a bigger cast than King Kong with a broken leg. Even with multiple roles, there were very few lines to go around, other than for Scrooge himself. For example, in that production, I got to play Marley’s ghost, Old Joe the Pawnbroker, and the butcher that Scrooge sends for to deliver the prize turkey. My total line count was maybe 30. Contrast that with ‘Blithe Spirit’ where the lead characters have hundreds of lines and it becomes a whole different ball game. If nerves were curves, the cast of ‘Blithe Spirit’ would resemble Catherine Zeta Jones… except Andy and Mike. Not that they’re not nervous too but I just can’t picture them as ‘curvy’.
        That’s the joy, however, of community theatre. No matter how professional-looking our shows have been described as, the actors are just ordinary folk from the area that have decided to try on acting as a life’s adventure. They are farther out of their comfort zone than Dave Chappelle at a Ku Klux Klan convention.
         I could go on about their enthusiasm, creativity and talent, blah blah blah, and every word would be true, but the real reason these people have stuck with it is the same reason I became addicted. The creative outlet is nice and providing a little culture to the hinterland is arguably laudable, but the main reason we act is that it is simply a ton of fun. Our practises never cease to fill the cavernous Calmar Legion with the sounds of mirth. We clap for each other and support each other as we struggle with our roles that we are valiantly trying to learn. In that way, it is like slow-pitch or hockey or choir or any pursuit adults engage in to escape television and sameness in their lives. It is about being part of a team of friends achieving goals together and becoming greater than the sum of its parts. Except with acting, there’s way less running and skating.
         Co-directing this play, along with ‘But Why Bump Off Barnaby’ alumnus, Leah Keller, has been an interesting experience. I admit I miss being up on stage but it is fascinating watching the play develop like a Polaroid pic. Each nuance the actors bring to their role is like a new colour in a magnificent portrait. Sadly, even Leah and I have to wait until opening night to see the image completed. For tickets, call SS Office Services in Calmar; 780-985-3600.

Red Green Saves the Day

          Do you remember that part in the Tom Hanks movie ‘Apollo 13’ when the oxygen tank ruptured and the astronauts in the ill-fated craft were doomed if Houston Control couldn’t figure out a way to save them? Three engineers were shut in a room and had four hours to devise a solution using the available materials they knew were aboard the ship. Almost like a Hollywood movie, the creative engineers at the mission control center devised a plan to staunch the leak and ensure an adequate atmosphere for the ride home.
Well, guess what? Hold onto your hockey helmets, folks, I have some news that’s bigger than Chef Gordon Ramsey’s ego. (Okay, maybe not that big but still...) The momentous news is that the engineers who helped save the day were with the Canadian Space Agency; as Canuckish as Alberta beef smothered in poutine and Saskatoon pie with a side of mussels! The trio were recently being honoured by NASA at the 40th anniversary of the near-disaster in a ceremony at the Canadian Air and Space Museum in Toronto.  (There’s a Canadian Air and Space Museum in Toronto?)
Well, actually, the engineers, Bernard Etkin, Barry French and Philip Sullivan, weren’t exactly the engineers in the movie. They were, however, a vital resource for the experts at NASA and in constant communication with them from their offices at the University of Toronto. The northern-based brainiacs were given the task of calculating the various internal and external pressures that would be at work in the perilous re-entry. Apparently, these calculations were extremely complicated and if wrong, would have caused the spaceship to either be crushed like an empty beer can in a redneck’s hand or blown to bits like rocket-powered rollerskates from Wile E. Coyote’s Acme catalogue.
What was not reported by any known sources internationally, or at least any I happened to notice while trolling the news sites, was that a special envoy was procured by the Houston brass to act as a liaison; bridging the gap between the U of T eggheads and the team NASA had working on the problem.
In a Pipestone Flyer exclusive, which I received in a brown envelope slipped under the door of my palatial office in the Pipestone Flyer Building in downtown Millet, we get to learn the identity of that unsung hero.
This advisor is such a giant in the annals (Ha! I said “annals”) of Canadian icons he practically bleeds maple syrup. He was the ideal individual for the job as he is recognized across the land for his expertise in crisis management.  His half hour documentaries were a rarity, indeed; a Canadian TV show that was actually popular with Canadian viewers. For the first time ever published, here is a transcript of the conversation between those brilliant Canadian scientists and those frantically trying to save those brave space pioneers in the crippled craft as facilitated by the eminent expert brought in as their go-between.

Canadian Engineers: According to the calculations, we have arrived at a figure of 73995.922 X (83462355.4876345) + 82622793.09436636/837652580(-9372562.9653792).
Red Green: Now here’s what you want to do, fellas; get yourself a good, sturdy roll of duct tape and start wrapping that oxygen tank. It might take quite a few wraps but it’ll hold. I once used duct tape to attach the chassis onto the frame on a ’59 Pontiac. It lasted over three weeks!
Canadian Engineers: Make sure they factor in the equilibrium constant of 7820298.8375/456453792.9373. This will be critical in maintaining the constants required during the shifting external pressures.
Red Green: Okay so now, if it gets hard to breath, just poke a hole in the duct tape over the oxygen leak. Still not enough? Make the hole bigger. If you feel light headed, though, put another wrap or two over part of the hole. Try and avoid smoking while doing this.
NASA Emergency Team: It’s okay, we warned them if they want to light up they have to stand outside the vessel.
Red Green: Make sure they don’t just stand just inside with the door opened a crack. That oxygen stuff is dangerous.
NASA Emergency Team: That’s a big ten four, there, Red. Anything else we should know?
Red Green:  Just one more thing. The coefficient of the Manheim variable is 97653.86/513447.82256.
NASA Emergency Team: Oh thank you so much for saving the day!
Red Green: Well, if the women don’t find you handsome, they better find you handy!

In the end, the Apollo 13 crewmen made it safely back for a splashdown in the Pacific. (The Atlantic was booked that day apparently.) It was nice to see the incident had a Canadian angle to it, as well. All too often our efforts are overlooked on the world stage. It was nice to see these Canadian mathematicians honoured for their contribution. Funny that it took forty years to do it.
Just a note to readers, parts of the above may have been slightly fictionalized for dramatic effect.

Broadzilla Vs. Mothra!

       The other day I was busy lounging on our bed, watching Cupcake put away our newly washed wearables. I was resting up in case I was needed for more male-oriented activities such as puttering in the yard, operating power tools and, defending our home from foreign invaders and/or dangerous four-legged predators such as mice. I find the bed is an excellent vantage point in which to observe the end of the laundering process, including the long shrouded mystery of how to fold T-shirts properly. I've watched Cupcake fold clothing hundreds of times and am no closer to acquiring the fabric flattening facility than when I first took a slight interest. I'm so bad at it; it is the one job my wife won't let me do. Shucks.
        Nonetheless, as she reached toward a stack of towels to remove a bit of laundry lint, all of a sudden she was filled with terror. The piece of fluff she had grabbed at turned out to be a great, big, fat hairy moth. The poor little lepidoptera instantly realized the threat from the descending attack and launched itself into the air; zigzagging like a drunken motorist, right at Cupcake’s horrified face. She could not have looked more alarmed had it been a giant blood-sucking bat. The screaming was awful; eardrum piercing, shatter-cheap-crystal pitched, loud-enough-to-be-heard-in-a-nearby-galaxy-type screaming. To add to the spectacle, amid the shrill shrieks, she mangled her hairdo; slapping and clawing at her head.
        Being the kind, caring, loving husband that I am, I began to laugh so hard I almost fell off the bed. I really wanted to help her and hold her and tell her everything was all right but that look on her face was so priceless, I couldn’t contain my mirth. I hadn't seen that wild a look in her eye since that time a giant dust-bunny blew across the living room floor and she thought it was the vanguard of a rat infestation. Unfortunately, I soon found out that only being a caring and supportive husband on the inside was of no value. I discovered that, not only should I not have laughed, but I should have taken measures to make sure moths could not enter our home EVER and that the whole incident was my fault.
        "But sugar-lump," I said in astonishment, "you're the one who tried to catch him in the first place. If you'd just leave them alone, they will leave you alone. Oh yeah, that's bees, isn't it? But still, it's not like the moth was going to hurt you. They don't bite, you know. They have no stinger or teeth. They just barf on fabric to dissolve it then suck up the pre-digested mush. You don’t need teeth for that."
        "I know moths don't sting," she raged, "but I'll have you know they lay eggs in your hair. And for your information, I wasn't trying to catch it. I thought I was picking up a piece of *&^% fluff."
        I was shocked by her vocabulary as she usually saves that sort of language for bingo. I thought it best if I tried to lighten her mood with jocularity.
        "Oh right," I laughed. "That’s a pretty tough environment to lay eggs in with all that yelling and hollering and whacking your head. Momma moth would have had to be pretty quick on her feet."
         My attempt at humour was not warmly welcomed. Her eyes appeared murderous. She spat her answer through clenched teeth.
         "It's not just the eggs but they leave that disgusting moth dust everywhere. If you were any kind of man you would have killed it instead of rolling on the floor laughing your fool head off."
         I sighed and apologised for not coming to her rescue. I knew I had been a bad boy. There is something about moths that a lot of women have feelings for that mere hatred doesn’t come close to describing. As soon as a moth comes anywhere near the average female, their first reaction is to utter shrill shrieks and begin slapping themselves upside the head. I find it odd that so many ladies take great pains to put highlights in their hair knowing full well moths are attracted to light.
         "Jeepers," I shook my head. "You should have seen how you carried on. What would you do if you were confronted with something really terrible?"
         “You mean, like your attitude?” she bit back.
         “Seriously, hon,” I tried to deflect her anger with a philosophical query. “If that is the reaction you give for something non-life threatening, how would you respond to a real danger?”
         "I guess we’ll never know until it happens,” she responded grimly. “One thing I do know is that I wouldn’t be able to count on you to save me. You couldn’t even rescue me from a moth. Now get up and shut the light off on your way out. I’m having a nap. Alone. And just so you know, I will still have this tension headache tonight.” As I glumly complied, it occurred to me that moths are a lot more dangerous than I thought.

April Awareness!

The April winds are magical, And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden-walks are passional To bachelors and dames. – Ralph Waldo Emerson


         Ahhhhh.... April. A month so vibrant and dynamic, it’s fresher than freshly squeezed milk. It is 31 days that promise warm afternoons to come and yet with the threat of the cold and snow recently passed. It is so sweet and delightful; some people even name their precious daughters after it. After all, you never hear of anyone naming their female offspring “February”, although heaven knows some women are frosty enough. (Present company excepted.)
         Most months are named after Roman gods; January, for example, was named for Janus, the god of gates and doorways and beginnings and endings. (Man, them Romans had a god for everything!), April, on the other hand has a much different lineage. It is named after Belleville, Ontario singing sensation Avril Lavigne who wowed the calendar decider committee with a stripped down, acoustic version of ‘Sk8ter Boi’.
         April has a lot going for it. It starts off with April Fool’s Day which is a quirky celebration of lame gags and impractical jokes. I only ever played one April Fools gag on Cupcake. It was early one April One and I woke Cupcake urgently.
         “I heard something in the porch,” I whispered hoarsely.
         “Well, go see what it is,” Cupcake mumbled, still half asleep, rising to the bait.
         “Stay here,” I said ominously. “Just in case.”
           I got out to the dining room and made scuffling noises. I then rapped an aluminum pot on the top of a chair making a tremendous “BONG!” sound.
           I dumped some ketchup on my head and laid down in an awkward position for effect and waited for Cupcake to find “the body”.
           And waited. And waited. Apparently she had fallen back to sleep. Finally, however, I could hear footfalls in the hall. Despite my aching body from my cramped position, I was pumped. This was going to be great!
           “Are you wasting ketchup again?” she inquired nonchalantly. “I’ll have to start buying the bigger bottles.” All fooling aside, the following day is also very important to me as it is the birthday of my dear, sweet, saintly Mom. The family just celebrated her 88th birthday with her and she is as quick witted and cheery as ever. She does appear to be shrinking, however. I remember how tall she seemed when I was a young lad. I suspect in a few years, we will have to be careful not to lose her in plush carpets.
           The next big deal in April is Cinco de Mayo or something like. I believe it is a Mexican mayonnaise festival of some sort. It’s very like Robbie Burns Day where we act Scottish and eat haggis and toss kaybers, or Saint Patrick’s Day where we do leprechaun impressions and chew Guinness stout and be Irish for a day. I notice there is no special day for the Dutch, however. (Sorry, Ted.)
          Next comes Easter, which is rather early this year. It is one of the few holidays that moves around the calendar. The timing is based on full moons, or first frosts or some other arcane method. I phoned to ask the experts how it was derived and was told there are only four people on the planet that know and if they told me, they would have to kill me. I do enjoy Easter, however. It is wonderful to observe the sacrifice of the Messiah by eating chocolate until my face has more pimples than a tweenager  in the throes of puberty.
          April is not just abounding in special, individual days; there are a wide variety of special interest groups that have claimed April as their own. For example, April is National Welding Month, Child Abuse Awareness Month, International Guitar Month, Alcohol Awareness Month (like we need a special month to be aware of alcohol) and African American Women’s Fitness Month. Those are just the tip of the iceberg. There are more groups hijacking April for their own purposes than Gillette has blades in a Mach V warehouse. It is so glutted with awareness campaigns that nobody is aware of anything. Most people aren’t even aware they were supposed to be aware and think April is just April. The fools. This must be agonizing for groups such as the National Anxiety Month people. (I did not make any of these up, by the way.) April is a month of firsts; the first dandelion, the first bit of greenery, the first firepit. But sadly it is also the end of some things. Some very fine things. There is one thing in particular I’ll miss with the appearance of April that is good and true and fine. For April brings the end to the dart season WAAAAAAAAHHHH!


 When March goes on forever and April twice as long who gives a damn if spring has come as long as winter’s gone.-   R. L. Ruzicka   

A Brilliant Plan

         Stupidity is rampant. We see it in governments, in boardrooms and sometimes, it can even creep into our own lives. Case in point; I had a problem. It wasn’t a major problem. After all, how serious can a problem be if it concerns ketchup? (That’s ketchup, by the way, not ‘catsup’. Catsup sounds like something your feline does on the rug after eating lawn grass.)
          The situation was that Cupcake had bought the ‘family-sized’ bottle of ketchup which would only be suitable if it was, say that Octomom’s family.  Being darned near the size of a water cooler bottle, this ketchup had been in our family for a while already and most of the contents had already been freed from its squirtable plastic prison. The remainder, about a quarter cup at the bottom of the vessel, proved as unyielding as Cupcake is after I’ve had a particularly good time at darts.
           Since I’m an ideas man at heart, I immediately set the thinking part of my mind (both brain cells) to solving the problem of the stubborn sauce. I considered heating the bottle under the hot water tap to make the sugars flow more freely but didn’t want to waste water, particularly water I’d paid to heat. It also occurred to me to add some water to thin it out somewhat but recalled vividly how gross it was when Mom would do that to our ketchup as a kid. I knew thumping the bottle on the counter upside down would probably have worked but the noise would have woken Cupcake who was snoozing on the recliner and would have been irked to be disturbed from her much needed beauty sleep over a condiment.
            Suddenly, I had a spectacularly brilliant plan that was efficient, effective and silent. I had hit upon a strategy using principals of Newtonian physics to overcome my obstinate obstacle. I realized by holding the bottom of the bottle and whirling my arm in a windmill fashion, centrifugal force would cause my heart’s desire to rush to the top making itself available for my fried egg sandwich. What could possibly go wrong?
            I pushed the lid down firmly on the cap and held the bottle as I’d planned. I had a good grip on the container to make sure it didn’t fly out of my hand and become an air-borne crimson-filled missile.I scanned the kitchen looking for a suitable place to test my human centrifuge idea, studiously avoiding the ceiling fan to prevent any unfortunate collisions. Then came the wind up.
            I rotated my arm so fast I could feel the blood pooling in my fingers. Sensing the bottle loosen in my grasp, I squeezed a little harder. Suddenly, the cap flew open and instantly, I had drawn a ketchup-red line in a perfect circle across the ceiling, down the walls and fridge, bisecting the floor. Actually, there was about a circle and a half as it took me a second to realize what was happening
           “Darnheckratsshootsonofabiscuiteater!!!!!!!!!” I let loose a verbal volley at my folly. Actually, the real quote would have made George Carlin blush but it is, after all, a family paper.“Huh? Wha...??” Cupcake snorted.
            She’s awake! I chided myself for my ill-timed outburst. A bolt of fear ran through my body at the prospect of her witnessing the fresh results of my lapse in judgement. I scuttled over to her and gently tucked the blanket around her and kissed her forehead.
“Everything’s fine.... enjoy your nap...” I breathed into her ear.
            She gave an unintelligible response and began to softly snore once more.
            I hustled back to the kitchen to survey the damage. The ceiling would be the hardest job, I realized, so I started on the walls and fridge. I worked quickly and quietly sponging and expunging my misdeed from the scene of the crime.
            The ceiling proved to be more challenging than watching poker on TV without falling asleep. Curse you, stippled finish, I raged silently.  Never again! When the task was finally complete, I checked out my handiwork. My heart plummeted faster than Rita MacNeil on a luge. As I gazed up at the ceiling I could see a broad clean swath across the ceiling.  Cursing ketchup, Mr. Clean and the situation in general, I slowly, resignedly gathered up the toteful of cleaning supplies and began to wash the rest of the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Cupcake’s voice froze me in my tracks. I hadn’t heard her arise from the recliner. I must be slipping, I thought to myself ruefully.
           “I’m.... uh.... uh....”
           “You never could lie well,” she crossed her arms. “Now tell me what happened.”
           In a few short, painful sentences, I explained my flash of brilliance. Cupcake was unimpressed although amused.“As long as you clean up after yourself, I don’t care what kind of idiocy you get up to,” she giggled.  “Nice job on the ceiling, by the way.”
           So you see, stupidity is everywhere, no matter how smart we may think we are. But one stupid act doth not a stupid person make.
Cupcake, however, would disagree.

This Just In!

             According to www.canoe.ca (Everyone else surfs, Canadians canoe) in a QMI News Agency dispatch,  quoting the London Daily Mirror, a man in Britain has filed discrimination charges against his employer after being asked to remove his hood while at work at a call centre. The aggrieved employee, one Chris Jarvis (How come all the whack jobs are named ‘Chris’?) alleged he was being discriminated against because he considered his hood to be religious garb.
             Jarvis is an adherent to the precepts of a fairly new sect on the spiritual landscape known as the ‘Jedi Faith’.  Ardent apostles of this denomination pattern their belief system on the hollowed traditions originally found in.... yes, I can’t believe it either, the hokey Star Wars franchise of movies that has plagued theatres and cartoon channels for the last few decades. It is akin to basing your entire spiritual structure on Chrissy from ‘Three’s Company’ or Tattoo of ‘Fantasy Island’ fame. (Boss! De plane! De spiritual plane!) By the way, I was actually going to use an ‘A-Team’ reference here but I see they have remade that show into a new movie proving once more Hollywood is bereft of original ideas. Sadly it wouldn’t surprise me to see a new religion based on the ‘B A Barracus’ character.
            So where does it end? Can ANYTHING be a religion? How does one discriminate between what is a religion and what is a cult? Is there a difference? Is it possible to be too tolerant of some of these weird new religions? Where do you draw the line? Can I create a religion around beer and claim dart night as a tax write off for religious reasons? Why do I keep asking myself questions I have no idea what the answers are?
            Let’s look at the facts. According to my prized Webster’s ‘New Lexicon Dictionary of the English Language’, which is about as large and heavy as a sidewalk block, the word ‘religion’ is defined as ‘a system of beliefs and practises relating to the sacred and uniting it’s adherents in a community’. A cult, on the other hand is ‘a system of religious worship’.  Delving into the other definitions for each word yielded no appreciable difference between them linguistically. They were as different as cantaloupe and muskmelon.
            I asked a number of friends, colleagues and relatives what their beliefs are and how they were differed from those of a cult. I was mostly told to go “jump in the lake of fire”. The bottom line for those who cared to respond was that if you didn’t believe whatever they believed, you were in a cult.
            Obviously, every religion can’t be right if exclusivity to the key to the Pearly Gates is part of their programs. But how can we know which one is the correct one? It would be awful to get to The Hereafter after a life of pious devotion to Buddha and see Saint Peter wearing dreadlocks telling all the newly ectoplasmic that only Rastafarians are allowed inside.
            Of course we talk about the so-called ‘Great Religions’; Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, as being on some higher level than your average wedding tackle-removing Solar Temple types. Still, sheer numbers of followers can’t be the criterion. When every follower of Christianity could all be portrayed in a picture dining together, you know they could use a major membership drive. But even with their humble beginnings, to those that came after who called themselves Christians, it wasn’t a cult even then.
             So what is a government to do? Unlike individuals who generally just pick one path to follow (rather shakily in many cases), governments must recognize many paths. It would be very difficult nowadays for a government to select one religion and outlaw the rest. Western world leaders pride themselves on religious tolerance, sometimes bending over backward to accommodate groups that neither require nor appreciate it.
             But Jedi-ism? I can picture them meeting in their parents’ basements where they are still living at the age of 35. To me, someone who devotes their life to a fictional faith that sprang from the mind of a cheesy sci-fi writer has got to be a half a bubble off. These people have about as much credibility as those lunatics that spend hours learning conversational Klingon.
             As disgusted as I am about the situation, I don’t know what can be done to rectify it. It may be better to allow every new religion that comes along than to lose the precious right of religious freedom. There is no government we trust enough to pick our religion for us so we must allow even the fringes. If it’s good enough for God to give us free will, surely it should be good enough for a government. It has to be ‘prayer beware’.
              Just so you know where my bias lies, by the way, I am a devout Frisbeetarian.

Taking a Vow

My darling wife and I were doing something totally different together last week. We were having a quiet evening at home and it wasn’t due to Cupcake giving me ‘the silent treatment’; my favourite form of punishment. We were sitting on our tolerance seat (it used to be a love seat but we’re older now) enjoying a respite from our busy day. She was reading a Max Haines crime thriller (CSI was, amazingly, not on any channel on TV at the time and she needed her murder and mayhem fix) while I was surveying the inside of my eyelids hoping to catch a few winks before bed-time.
I was just sliding into the warm, comfortable arms of Morpheus when Cupcake barged into my consciousness with one of those ‘women’ questions the fairer gender favour so much. I call them ‘women’ questions because no fella worth his power tools would ever even think to make such a query.
"What are you thinking about?" she wanted to know, staring dreamily into my eyes.
This line of questioning from Cupcake always stumps me. In my view, it’s rather presumptuous of her to assume I’m actually thinking something at any given minute. Apparently she thinks thoughts constantly and unbelievably, believes I am similarly afflicted. However, I've come to learn from bitter past experiences that if I say something like "Nothing, Sweetheart," or any variation on that theme, Cupcake accuses me of evasiveness and I spend the balance of the day convincing her I'm not hiding anything.
I've also found responses like "I was just thinking how much I love you and how special you are to me," doesn't really cut the mustard, either. She feels this is an automatic response I've rehearsed just for such occasions (which, of course, it is, but it did work a couple times).
Instead I responded with another tried and true gambit; a quick response on a neutral subject and a return of the conversation ball back into her court.
"I was just thinking if I ever got nailed for a DUI while driving around with a carload of hookers and blow, I’d want to hire the same lawyer Rahim Jaffer did. Why, what are you thinking about?"
“I’d say if you get caught drunk driving with hookers and blow, the court system would be the least of your concern,” she snorted. “After I got finished with you, there wouldn’t be much left for the legal system to pursue. But that’s not what’s on my mind, frankly. I have something more important to discuss. “Uh oh”, I thought, my mental ‘red alert’ klaxon blaring. Here it comes.  “I was thinking how nice it would be if we were to renew our vows. Don't you think that would be romantic?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead I quickly reviewed my limited range of options knowing each would have their own specific ramifications. If, for example, I shot down the idea out of hand (which was my gut reaction) I would be viewed as unloving and obstinate. If, however, I showed the slightest interest whatsoever, she would immediately begin hiring caterers and renting a hall.
Still, it had actually occurred to me recently we could use another wedding. After this many years of marital bliss, our dish cloths and bath towels are worn thin to the point of transparency and we're down to our last toaster. Plus, I rather enjoy parties where people bring me gifts.
Conversely, however, I also realized how much another wedding would set us back. It would be a ton of cash and for what? It’s not like our current marriage license had expired. Believe me, I check frequently. But “I do's" are good for a lifetime and you only need renew your vows if maybe you’ve reneged on a few during the interim. Since this isn’t the case, I couldn't see the point, other than replenishing our linen cupboard. I needed a way out.
"You know, dear, that may not be a bad idea," I began. "In fact, just the other day I was thinking of some of the vows I forgot to throw in there in the first place. This might just be the ticket!"
She sat up and eyed me warily.
"What kind of extra vows were you thinking of throwing in?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing major," I responded breezily. "Just stuff like vowing not to leave your underwear on the shower curtain rod to dry, keeping the ironing caught up a little better, that sort of thing. Heck, maybe I could even work in something about not having headaches at bedtime. This vow idea is sounding pretty good!"
As I explored the subject, her eyes narrowed. “I mean, that ‘love, honour and cherish’ thing is okay but it doesn’t cover replenishing my socks and undies drawer in a timely fashion,” I continued.
"Well, let's not be hasty," she interrupted. "If we do it, I want it to be just right, so it could be a little expensive. I can think of a few things we need more than renewing a piece of paper that doesn’t need renewing. Maybe we can do it for our 50th. That will give us a couple decades to save up."
We both lapsed into silence after that. I don't know what she was thinking but unlike her, I didn't want to ask. All I was thinking was that Rahim and I just got away with one.