Whatever It Is That I Do
Well, it’s finally happened, Parkville. My wife has left me.
Of course, it’s only for two weeks, but it will no doubt seem like an eternity for me.
My wife, she’s a doer. She does. When I first met her, I knew she was the one, so after we started dating (after two years of the laziest stalking you’ve ever seen) suggested she move in with me and within a week I added dusting to my list of things to do and learned how to put the seat down.
I suggested that we move, and the next day there were movers at our door. I casually mentioned that we should get married and the next day I was sampling butter cream icing and choosing favors.
So why I didn’t believe her when she said she wanted to visit Japan this year is testament to my incredible density. I think I said that I would take a pass on the idea, but sure enough, the other morning I watched as she jetted off for the land of the rising sun with her sister, mother and father.
Of course, I’m very happy for her and her family – particularly her father. It has to be a pretty cool thing to take your daughters on vacation with you and they agree to leave their husbands at home. They lived in Japan for many years, so in some respects, it was a homecoming and I didn’t want to interfere. That, and I understood the flight lasted 18 hours and my father-in-law had plans for them to watch an 8 hour Japanese puppet show within moments after landing.
For those of you that know me, or know people like me, you know that there is not enough Ritalin or Adderall in the entire world that could keep me from committing Hari Kari in a situation like that. Plus I heard they were going to be sleeping on floors and sharing bathrooms and I got to tell ya – Vastos don’t roll like that.
So the night before they were set to leave, the in-laws dropped off their dog and cockatiel, and the next morning it finally sunk in that they were, as promised, leaving me. A moment of panic set in. What the heck was I supposed to do with all of these animals?
Relax, my wife told me. She had arranged for a dog sitter to come to our house three times a day to walk and feed him. That struck me as kind of odd – since I would be home for at least two out of the three walkings. She explained to me that she knew I wrote into the wee wee hours of the morning and probably wouldn’t want to walk the dog at the even earlier hour he was accustomed to. Yeah, so she hired a woman to drive to our house from Gardner every morning, to walk the dog. A woman from Gardner has the key to my house.
She also informed me that she put our mail on hold. Again – I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m still at home, but she put our mail on hold. What does that even mean?
But she’s right. I probably haven’t gone to the mailbox in, oh, three years now. No, she said to me, “you just go and do…what it is…you do.”
Well, last Wednesday, here is what I did.
I sat in my office, typing up another Pulitzer caliber report, when I received a call from the Legion Hall. “Steaks,” Terry Brown informed me. “We’ve got a whole loin down here for you.” Five minutes later and $75 lighter, I was in possession of 12, two-inch thick Kansas City Strips. Food. I would have something to eat for the next two weeks.
Looking at my clock, I realized it was just before 2 p.m. For once, I would get to the Farmer’s Market in time to buy some French bread from the baker (by the time I usually get there, she’s down to her last Cinnamon bread, which is the best French Toast base you’ll ever have). Bread. I now had steaks and bread. Running into my friend Ida Lake, I procured some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Cookies. More sustenance. Things were looking up.
Later that night, I found myself judging the Carrie-oke contest at the Legion Hall in one of the most surreal moments of my life.
To my left sat Mayor Dusenbery, Platte County Presiding Commissioner Betty Knight and candidate for Platte County Clerk Rebecca Rooney. To my right sat Bill Grigsby, who had the most incredible “What the hell am I doing here,” look on his face as he watched college girls sing Gwen Stefani songs. I mean, this guy has announced Super Bowls.
I leaned over to him and asked, “Grigs…is this the weirdest event you’ve ever done?”
His arms crossed, eyes still on the competition, he didn’t skip a beat.
“No,” he said. “I’ve done far weirder.”
Somehow, I believe him.