Having taken a day off for Jerry’s birthday, Friday we rented a U-Haul and loaded it and our car to the gunn’ls with all of Tim’s furniture except the couch we’re leaving in the alley. Tim’s furniture is solid oak. It used to be our daughter’s when she lived at home. Then she moved out and didn’t need it and he did.
The workers had started the remodel, piling all the furniture out of the way. They helped us get things down to the truck. Jerry has a genius for making things fit where there’s no room for them. I would have SWORN that round table could not go into that truck in any configuration but he managed it.
Anyway, after four hours of really hard work–it’s an upstairs apartment at the end of a long walkway that is gated at the end–we came home exhausted, dirty and hungry.
This time Tim met us at the door (in his now ubiquitous Little-Bo-Beep costume) with “Where are my overalls?” and “I can’t remember how to make oatmeal. I put it in for two minutes–”
“Then it’s done,” I snapped. “Eat it!”
Then he wanted his long-sleeved red shirt and I told him we hadn’t had time to wash it. He wanted large curd cottage cheese and I told him we hadn’t had time to buy it. At 2:00 he was just out of bed but we had already done a good day’s work. I explained we had been busy loading and unloading all his furniture and storing it in our garage.
All he said was, “And then you’re going to take it all back?”
“I hope not.”
He took his dirty dishes to the sink, where he also left the carton of our milk (not the cheap knock-off he wants; once it’s in the house, he doesn’t mind using ours instead). He went back to bed. He had forgotten to take his morning pills.
Did I tell you Jerry says Tim is 77, thinks he’s 27 and acts like he’s 7?
Sometimes I act like I’m seven, too. I stormed upstairs, grabbed one of the matching blue robes my son gave his dad and me years ago. It’s too big and too heavy for Tim (for me, too) but I took it downstairs, threw it across Tim’s bed and said, “Here! This is a man’s robe. That,” pointing to Bo-Peep, “is a little girl’s robe!” He had already started protesting but I just walked out of the room.
When Jerry and I married nine years ago, I had a chow chow named Cherokee who liked soft things. She’d carry them quietly off in her soft mouth. A sock on the den floor or some plush ornament on a lower branch of the Christmas tree would go missing and we’d find it days or months later poking up out of the dirt in the back yard.
So help me (I told a friend who had known Cherokee), one of these days I’m going to drag that brown polka-dotted plush robe through the dog door in my teeth and bury it in the flower bed!