When you've been with the same person for 23 years, you have conversations like this. You know, the kind where only one of you actually talks?
"Look, when I travel without you," my wife says, "and I call to ask how things are, I would really appreciate it if you don't paint such a depressing picture."
I shrug, which married guys are really good at. It still mystifies me that a Neanderthal shrug is how I express the mild irritation, self-hatred and denial that her accurate observation provokes. But, hey -- have you ever read the ingredients that go into a Twinkie? That doesn't make sense either.
"I mean, we've got one 12-year-old kid who's pretty self-sufficient, we have someone clean the house twice a week, and you don't even commute to work," she continues. "So, just try to understand what it's like for me. I'm trying to have fun, to get a little peace of mind. And every time I call you it sounds like the world is ending."
After an especially windy night in Malibu, she leaves on Sunday morning. It's so blustery that the other players in my 8 a.m. tennis game don't even call one another to check in -- it just ain't happening. I'd roll over and go back to sleep if that tree branch didn't insist on tapping out Morse code against the window.
I grab a cup of coffee and pop on the TV. Football is on, but what I'm really looking forward to is Game 7 of the American League Championship series. Over on CNN, they're covering a fire. It's in Malibu. Whoa. It's all over Malibu. Hundreds of firefighters have been dispatched. Pacific Coast Highway is closed.
I grab my son and head for the closest grocery store to stock up. This clearly isn't an original idea; it's already slim pickin's. We pick up five stale blueberry bagels, even though neither of us likes blueberry bagels, because they are the only ones left. A frozen pizza for each of us, a six-pack of Rolling Rock for me, a box of Lucky Charms for . . . well, probably for both of us.
Back at the house, I wonder how things got so messy in half a day. My son blasts a TiVo'd marathon of "Scrubs" from the living room, and for about the one millionth time in my life, I yell for him to turn it down. It's 5 p.m. finally. I get into bed with a beer and the last two slices of my pizza and hit the remote.
