EDITOR’S NOTE: This is a rebuttal of Mandy Flynn’s column last week submitted by her husband, Mike, under the Fair Household Response Act.
There are a few things I have learned after 21 years of marriage.
I get Linus. Completely. One hundred percent. I get Linus because he has a need to carry around a blanket, a blue one that he, on occasion, throws over his shoulder, drags on the floor and even wraps around his head. I get Linus because I, too, have a blanket. And I am not ashamed.
There are a few advantages to having a big sister who is an English teacher. I can text her things like, “Is it shone or has shined?” and “Do I say farther or further?” and she texts me back the proper usage without passing judgment.
I’m not sure if I was supposed to overhear the conversation taking place to my right. Nonetheless, it was out of my control as one woman sighed heavily, threw her arms up in the air, and declared quite dramatically that she was at her wit’s end.
The first day of fall was yesterday. When I was much younger I used to think that the official first day of any new season was supposed to be magically different — leaves would suddenly be brilliant orange and yellow on the first day of fall, snow had to cover the ground on the first day of winter, and I always thought you had to, just had to, go to the beach on the first day of summer.
The line to check out was long, at least six people deep and no cashier in sight. The lady at the front kept turning around and apologizing that she'd needed a price check on her can of furniture polish.
I would like to publically apologize to my friend Rhonda. I knew not what I was doing when I introduced you to that awful, terrible habit.
‘Can you help me?” I looked up from my self-absorbed walk through the lobby to see a little lady standing by the brown, wooden table up against the wall near the doors of the post office.
She said it with such conviction, such authority, without an ounce of question, that I couldn't help but think it was true.
My husband thinks I’m trying to kill him. Oh, this subtle paranoia has been going on for years — 21 years this Friday, in fact. Every blue moon I will hear the six familiar words, “Are you trying to kill me?” coupled with some scenario of how he thinks I am surely plotting his demise.
‘Uh, oh.” I was drifting off to sleep in the backseat, sandwiched on five inches of seat between the car door, two pillows, a bag containing a box of Oreos, an extension cord, and socks, a duffel bag, a futon and a television.
No matter how many years you prepare for it, it's an emotional event when your child goes off to college.
Two women standing in front of me in the checkout line this week obviously hadn’t seen each other in a while. Although I’ve often thought I have certain ESP-esque gifts, this instance didn’t require any intuitive brainpower.
There is a box. “A box,” I said aloud in quiet amazement as my Alabama cousin told me the story of the box, the small, metal box he and my older brother buried years and years ago in a field.