Why Did You Wear Those?

 

Why Did You Wear Those?

 

Mrs. C does not always offer advice, if she does not like something, she tends to be silent.  I’ve come to understand that no comment when I ask for an opinion means, a strong negative.  If not asked an opinion her negative feeling remains hidden…generally.

I do not have the best sense of style and I usually check with my wife before stepping out in public.

“Does this shirt go with the slacks?”

An “It’s fine” response means yes.  Never do I get a “you look nice."

 I’m good with,

“It’s fine.”

If I fail to ask an opinion, she will not offer it.

Saturday, we went to my grandson’s Pop Warner Football game.  There was a fall chill in the air so I decided to wear blue jeans.

I have three pair of blue jeans.  A size 40 for my fat years which as I have lost some weight I now can swim in.  A size 36 for when I was also 36, but have saved all these years because you never know.  Actually, I am currently about 4 pounds away from those pants, but…no.  The third pair are size 38 loose fit, which means 38 waist with extra room for the butt.  This pair needed an extra notch pull on my belt to keep them from slipping into that young rapper u-trough showing style that so many hoodlums prefer.

I chose the size 38 loose fit.

About half an hour into the drive to the game, I am asked this,

“Why did you wear those jeans, you know they look ridiculous.”

“What?”

“They’re way too baggy, you look like a clown.”

“Well it’s too late to change them now, why didn’t you tell me that before we left?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“But why tell me now, when it is too late to change? Now I will feel like a clown all day at the game!”

“I just couldn’t keep quiet about it any longer, they are awful!”

“Then you should have told me before!”

“You didn’t ask, and I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“So, you waited until it was too late to change to make me feel bad?”

“Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t have said anything, but I just couldn’t stay quiet any longer.”

“Well next time say something while I still have the chance to change, I do have other pants that fit, I didn’t have to wear jeans.”

“Next time ask me.”

“You are something else!”

At the game I asked everyone I met,

“How do you like my new jeans? Karen picked them out!”

Maybe I am a jerk.

 

 

 

 

Don’t Sound The Alarm

 

Don’t Sound The Alarm

 

We have an alarm system on our townhouse.  Our neighborhood does not have a crime problem, and we don’t have much to steal if we were broken into, but Mrs. C feels safer with the alarm system.  She never leaves the house without setting the alarm.

Go for the mail several blocks away…set the alarm.

Drive to the store for only a few minutes…set the alarm.

Pretty much leave the house…set the alarm.

I hate the alarm, but I really can’t complain too much. 

Before we were married, someone did break into the house.  Of course, the alarm didn’t bother them.  Burglars know they have about 8 minutes to take whatever they can grab and leave before the police arrive.  In this case they even cut a phone wire so the system did not make the call to the alarm company for them to alert the police anyway. 

The alarm made a lot of noise, but the neighbors just ignored it. False alarms  from a house or a car are not uncommon.

These burglars stole nothing because Mrs. C came home only minutes after they broke in.  They skedaddled out the back door and took nothing.  

It is creepy though, knowing strangers were in your house.

Anyway, because of this, Mrs. C demands the alarm be set whenever we are away.

It is not difficult to set, it is not difficult to unarm on entry.  Except if you have skeighty-eight different codes to remember; computer code, phone code, credit card code, garage door code etc., and you are 74 years old, sometimes you punch the wrong code when you get home. 

Also, about every other time I leave the house I forget something and have to go back.  When I do this, I have to wait for the alarm to stop its 60 second beeping (I don't know why it does this, but it scares me to touch while it is beeping) so I have plenty of time to punch in the disarm code. 

Anyway, I hate the alarm system.  Besides we now have a “Ring” camera system, so anyone that approaches the house sends an alert to my cell phone and is recorded.  This makes the alarm system a little less necessary.

Today I left to go to the bowling alley.  When I got in my car, I realized I forgot something.  I went back to the door and waited for the beeping to stop, entered the house and punched in the code.  I punched in the wrong code due to an old-age brain-fart.

I did not hear the unalarmed “boop.”  I froze for a minute, realized I made a mistake and punched in the wrong code again.

“REE-ah-REE-ah-REE-ah” It would not stop! 

Now I know the company would call and ask for a code word to confirm I just set off the alarm by accident.

The phone did ring.

“Yes”

“Sir, I see your alarm is activated, do you have the code word?”

Crap!  The code word is the last name of Mrs. C’s ex-boyfriend. 

“Ah, my wife is out, she knows the code word…it is the name of her ex-boyfriend.”

“That is not really good enough sir, I will have to alert the police.”

“Wait, I know it starts with a ‘C’ right?”

“I can’t really help you with it sir.”

“Wait…wait…I complained to her about using her ex-boyfriends name and she changed it.  It is her mother’s first name.”

“I shouldn’t help sir, but you are on the right track it is a lady name.”

“I think it still starts with a ‘C’ right.”

“Sir I’ve said enough.”

“Just blink twice if it starts with a ‘C’.”

“I’m calling the police sir.”

“Constance…I think it is Constance!”

“YES!”

“Can you turn off the damn ringing?”

“Just punch in the correct code.”

“I’ve been punching in the code, it doesn’t work…WAIT (I suddenly realized I had been using the wrong code) let me try again.”

The “REE-ah-REE-ah-REE-ah” stopped.

Back to the phone.

“It stopped; I remembered the right code…thank you.”

“You’re welcome sir, have a nice day, and please don’t leave the house without your wife!”

I hate that alarm system.

 

 

Italian Ice

 

Italian Ice

While it is still warm, every night Mrs. C and I share a cup of Italian Ice,  “Marino’s” Italian Ice.  They come at the store in three flavors, strawberry, lemon, and cherry.  All good, but cherry is my favorite.

We share the cup spoonful by spoonful.  I feed Mrs. C alternating spoonful’s which she opens wide for like a hungry baby bird.  If I sneak a spoonful of shavings out of turn, she spots it right away.

About two thirds of the way through the cup, Mrs. C declares she has had enough.  This is much to my great relief.  If you are a connoisseur of Italian Ice then you know the bottom third is always the best. 

I don’t know how they make the stuff, or what the science is, but the flavor syrup of the ice tends to seep to the bottom third.  The top two thirds have plenty of flavor, but the bottom is always the best.

I may be a bit selfish, so I hold my breath as the ice works its way down to the extra good, extra gooey, syrup.  Mrs. C always calls it quits before we reach the good part.

The other night I was feeling a bit guilty and as we reached the bottom third of the cup I said,

“You do know the best part of the Italian Ice is the bottom third of the cup, right?”

“Yuuck!  The bottom third is always ruined by the gooey syrup that seeps through.”

My wife has some unusual tastes, and unusual ways of doing things.  For instance, she does not eat tomatoes or garlic, and she is Italian! Even stranger, she dips her pudding and does not scoop.

I have been known to make fun of her weird food habits.  I think I will just let this strange aversion to the best part of an Italian Ice work in my favor.