Ducks Mahal

Why am I writing so much these days?  It’s not like I have a lot of time on my hands.  Well, actually I do.

In the center of this robust economy where the CEO of Toyota is flying to D.C. to commit hari-kari before a congressional hearing and Dell is going to hell in a hand basket and IHOP is starting the first of many national food lines with their Tuesday give-away short stack (I’m guessing they’re quietly funded by a stimulus bill), little non-profits like mine are up against Shit’s Creek without a paddle when it comes to funding.  So, I had to take a voluntary cut in hours and ultimately pay.  I know, it sucks a big green weenie.

At first the Little Woman, a mental heath therapist, was okay with it but I can tell is now having a slight edgy little snippy “tude” about the cut in pay part.  It’s camouflaged by her insincere half-smile-curled-up-lip on the one side with that slightly turned-up nose and that laser beam lock-and-load stare. I can tell she’s all on the inside, “How could you let this happen to us?  But I’m going to be the supportive wife b/c Heaven knows my couch is boiling over with psych-evals of men seeking treatment b/c they just got laid off.”  Patience personified, thank you Sister Mary Christmas for not coming right out and calling me a worthless good-for-nothing bum.  I can handle the sneer – for now.

Hey, you want to know the real ego whapping irony in all this?  I’m supposed to be semi-retired to begin with.  Do you want to know the real even more double grande irony frappuccino shooter in this; you know what I do for a living?  I’m a certified economic developer.  Yeah, my job is to develop the local economy by creating jobs.  That sucks.  I’m supposed to be able to fix this economy.  By myself?  I’d rather be Burt Lancaster in the movie the Rainmaker.

So, for agonizing demonstrative penance and self-flagellation, as I write this I’m eating one package of 99 cent Ramen chicken noodle soup for lunch.  I know, I’ll have to cut back on the crab cakes and Creole sauce, although, I have thought about whisking-up a nice bordelaise to try on a can of Alpo.

Let the agony-yank begin:

So, the Little Woman decides it is payback time.

“Do you remember when we were first married and I worked at the wig shop and you kept asking me when I was going to get a real job,” she asks.   I’m looking around the room licking my chops like a dog being scolded.  “Do you remember the butt load you gave me when we were first married about how I folded the towels and it wasn’t to your standards,” she asks.  I’m still looking around the room licking my chops now but with my ears back and my head down.  She continues, “Well, I have taken the time to put together a short list of things I think you should do while you have all this time on your hands.”

And so, the vacuum cleaner comes out, you know, the one we named Betty the Bissell?  She plugs it in and says, “Now mind you, I’m only demonstrating here and collecting the big chunks but I’ve noticed your vacuuming skills are not up to par.”  I’m still looking around the room licking my chops only this time thinking now that the Winter Olympics are here, where are those people with the lawn chairs and the scorecards, 9.5, 9.0, 5.5, 7.0?

“C’mere,” she says.  She opens the cabinet with the coffee cups. “Coffee cups are to be placed open side down.  You need to get into the habit b/c as soon as Spring arrives, we will have roaches.  So, when you empty the dishwasher from now on…”  I’m now looking around the room licking my chops with this image of placing one full metal jacket into my Colt 38 and spinning a few chambers at my temple.

Says she, “C’mere.  Look out of this window with me.  Yesterday evening when I was talking to my Aunt Jenny I noticed those tall rag bushes over yonder against that fence and thought how nice it would be to cut those down and open an unrestricted view of that cow pasture. Don’t you think that would look nice?”  I’m not looking around the room licking my chops at this point, now I have my hand under my shirt scratching my belly.  I think scratching my belly would be diagnosed as a self-comforting action, like hair twirling.

So, I dunno…