When my wife became ill, I had to take on some roles in life that I am ill-prepared for. I’m like a nineteen-year-old bride, playing house for the first time. At first, I thought, this can’t be all that bad, and for the first time in my life—except for the three disastrous years for me, between leaving home and getting married—I’m the boss, or at least I think I am. So I pumped myself up a little, and got on with the tasks at hand. Now I’m here to tell you that being the boss isn’t new to me, as I was in management for many years and had many employees. Flash ahead to right now. My only employee seems to be an old Labrador dog who does what he wants most of the time. Somehow, it’s just not quite the same.
The other day, I hauled the wash down to the laundry room and separated it into two piles, white and dark. Don’t ask me why I did that, as I have no clue what happens if you just throw the whole load in together, I just did what I was told. Even the boss can take some direction, right? “Wait a minute! I am the boss, and if I want to, I can throw my tightey whiteys in with my blue jeans.” I am going to do that someday— just not today. I found a white sweatshirt with a dark blue collar. So, Mrs. high and mighty, what’s the answer here?” It’s still on the laundry room floor, as I haven’t made a decision on that one yet. Next, I select the size of the load. I looked in the machine and it was half full. Is a half full machine a large or small load? Glass half empty, or glass half full here. If I was able to toss them all in together, it would have been a big load and problem solved. Note to self—if you’re ever washing just for yourself, buy black underwear, sheets and towels—no more white stuff.
Upstairs at last, I noticed muddy dog tracks across the kitchen floor. Ha! Time to do a little disciplining, boss man. Where is he? On our bed, and why does he have to lie on my pillow, belly down, Ish! Note to self—when dog dies, get smaller dog that can’t jump on bed. Preferably, a female dog that doesn’t love my pillow so much—and change that pillowcase right now. Now, need to wipe up kitchen floor. Oh, oh. This just might be the dishrag I’ve got here. Oh well, she has a whole drawer full of them, and I’m the laundry man, am I not? Besides, it’s a dark-colored one and that fits my plans. Note to self—need new kitchen floor, in a mud color or something with a dog paw pattern in it.
What to make for supper? Chili and beer sounds good. Haven’t had that for a few days. I must ask the little woman—Veto—Plan B is in affect. Mrs. Marie Callender, you cook a mean meal, babe. I just need to shove it off on one of our dinner plates, instead of that little plastic tray, and who will know the difference except the boss. Good thing you do the shopping, boss man. “What’s that, dear? Where did I get the fettuccini recipe?” Crap, she knows. Note to self—hire a housekeeper.
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