I didn’t think I was showing my age much. Mind you, I said, “much.”
That all changed the other day when The Kid asked me whatever happened to that guy that was living in the foxhole.
I cocked my head for a minute and had to think “dude”... “foxhole”....hmmm.
Who was he talking about?
He saw the blank look on my face and with an exasperated sigh said, “Mom. Come on. You know who I mean. That guy in Iraq. They pulled him out of that hole in the ground? Who was that...?”
I could not, for the life of me, remember his name.
I could see his face, but the name was just as blank as my mind.
I shrugged and said, “I know who you’re talking about, but I can’t remember his name.”
Two days later, however, at about 2:30 in the morning, I popped upright and said, “Saddam Hussein.”
Oh mama. That’s bad.
Kinda like riding around town over the weekend and Hubs is walking downtown taking pictures left and right, asking us to pose in front of places — which we are loathe to do — and about an hour later, after having stopped for pretzel bites and are heading back to the car, he starts swearing
in his strangely bizarro fashion.
“Fushkinooz! Husquevarna! Malatoot!”
The Kid and I turned around to see if he’d walked into a telephone pole.
He was standing on the sidewalk, staring at his camera.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s no disk in here!” he sputtered, the temper tantrum reaching close to boiling level.
He clenched his fists and raised them up, turning his face toward the sky and growled loudly, scaring the underground rodents back under ground.
He was really upset because he’d been robbed of his miniature works of art.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
I knew that half the photos he’d tried to take included shots of my amply proportioned backside. He thinks it’s funny to take pictures of my largesse, but you know ... I do not dig it.
The Kid and I started laughing, because it was really funny to see him standing there having a grown up hissy fit, and he wasn’t quite over it.
As we got into the car, he slid into the driver’s seat and shook the camera.
“Who took the disk out of my photograph machine?”
The Kid and I looked at each other again and said in unison, “Photograph machine?”
It was a real good hardy har har moment and we enjoyed every second of it.
He was so mad he couldn’t think of the word “camera,” so he reverted back to his olde timey country boy language and came up with
“Think you can crank up the horseless wagon to git us home, Junior?” I asked.
I could see the steam coming out of his ears, like a tea kettle about to go off.
“Yeah, Paw...do you think you could I could borrie yor new-fangled ee leck tron ik tawkin dee vice?” drawled The Kid.
Another good hardy har har.
Insert key, start engine.
“Very funny,” Hubs said, starting to grin in spite of himself.
Yes, it was.
Made for good commentary all the way home.
I suggested he get out The Kid’s sudoku book and git ta gittin’.
The next day, we get a call from Granny.
Hubs is talking to her and asks how things are going and if she is staying busy.
She recited her list of friends in the hospital, friends on their deathbeds, friends who’ve passed recently.
“I haven’t heard from Uncle Gordon lately though, so I’m not sure what’s going on with him.”
“You haven’t heard from Uncle Gordon? What do you mean?” Hubs asked, waving at me to get my attention.
He already had it as I looked at him with a big grin, trying to suppress another big hardy har har.
“Well, since Aunt Gay passed and Aunt Margie passed, I haven’t heard a word from him.”
Mind you, Uncle Gordon never once phoned my mother in-law.
Hubs said, “Well, it’s probably a good thing you haven’t heard from him ... ’cause it would likely scare you right outta your nightgown.”
He looked at me and started counting, lifting his fingers with each second.
He got to four and started laughing.
She had finally muttered, “Oh, that’s right...” and then started giggling, having forgotten that Uncle Gordon had also passed on.
Not unlike one of my brothers, who had his own hissy fit when he found out that one of our uncles had crossed over and no one had told him.
“Yep. Sent ya the obit. Everyone got a copy of it,” I informed him.
I counted to four before I heard him mutter, “Really? When was that?”
“When he died. Over a year ago.”
Guess what he’s getting for Christmas this year?
A big fat sudoku book.
And I’m going to teach myself how to play solitaire.
If I can remember where the cards are.