Wow, 2024 already. . . . .If I'd known I would live this long. . .
So I'm standing in line at the Desoto Walmart pharmacy counter holding a generic, inexpensive card and a rubber chicken squeaky toy. . .
I feel the need to explain a few things ahead of the meat of this particular post. Context is important.
Sure, today is Valentine's Day. So what. Not a big deal, at all, in the local Bentley household, never has been, we're just nonconformists in that regard.
Angel, my much beloved wife of 30+ years is still with me. Who would have seen that coming?
We decided/averred, ad nauseum, many years ago to grow old together, we have started to accomplish that very thing.
. . . in sickness and in heath, etc.
A few things that maybe you didn't know about Angel:
She doesn't very much like being in enclosed spaces (indoors) with flowering plants or flowers themselves. . . not that she doesn't admire their beauty, it's an olfactory/sinus thing.
She doesn't usually wear shiny, dangly jewelry, especially since she works with dogs every day and often these beasts will mistake dangly, shiny things for some sort of treat, or bait.
She loves, LOVES chocolate. As a dutiful husband I try to make sure there is at least a thing or two of chocolate in easy reach. Recently she has been seeking out and actually finding acceptable 'zero sugar' chocolate because that's almost like a salad in dietary terms, right?
These itemized things make certain celebrations a little difficult for me. Especially this 'holiday'.
On Monday February 12, Angel went on a minor shopping run and brought home a couple of items of relevant interest. Two shrink-wrapped potatoes (for baking) since she'd announced that for dinner on Cupid's birthday, or whatever you've been told was the cause for this manufactured madness, we would be having our all-time favorite home-cooked meal, steamed shrimp and a baked potato. A delightful combination that we prefer to keep rare and special, like for birthdays and such.
She also brought home a pile, a near-pallet load, of chocolate treats, some even encased in cojoined-heart* shaped boxes.
She showed them to me, I sighed, heavily.
"Well, you've certainly sucked all the air out of the room for me, upcoming celebration-wise." I scolded her.
No flowers, no jewelry, and now, no chocolate. . . . what's left? thin, slinky lingerie? No, I don't think so, we dropped the bodice-ripping passion pretense many years ago. . . .
"Well" she replied, (not at all snarkish or condescending) "You could just bring me a box of chicken. . ."
(Our local grocery store make a truly outstanding fried chicken, we have it at least a couple of times each month)
On Tuesday, February 13, after work, I made a run to Walmart to pick up some, in my nurse practitioner's words; 'aggressive antibiotics' for a relatively minor inflammation in my jaw/neck area. I would not have normally bothered, I'm from the 'it'll be fine, just walk it off' generation, but okay, what with the six week radiation treatments coming up on the calendar starting later this week, it's probably prudent to pay at least a little heed to the medical experts. . . (radiation treatments? Sorry, that's the subject of another post that I haven't finished articulating/editing yet)
While there, I happened to notice about 150 men, about my age/style/type rummaging up and down the pink aisles that have been there, pretty much untouched and unexplored, since the beginning of this silly season back in early January. . . This reminded me of this so-called holiday.
"Damnit" I screamed into the abyss in my head.
I headed that way, looked up and down at the over-the-top offerings in the fear and sadness, tear-stained card section. I found one, cute, dog-themed. Perfect. The message inside the card said something like "I knew you'd like a box of chocolates. . . " I checked the front of the card, sure enough the dogs were of the Chocolate Lab variety, sitting in a box. Cute. . . "Hey wait a minute! This gives me an idea!" I told my inner narrator. (He's kind of an a$$hat at times, my inner narrator, but he has a silky, resonating bass voice, not unlike James Earl Jones, with a decidedly British accent)
So I immediately headed to the pet section and found the perfect answer to my epiphany. A rubber-ish squeaky toy shaped like a cartoonish chicken. I grabbed it, it fart-squeaked at the slightest touch. ("That won't get annoying")
I then high-tailed it directly to the pharmacy line, where all the local baby boomers seem to hang out on a regular basis.
I was next in line when a typical local young lady (young = 'under 60') stepped in line behind me.
"I have one of those" pointing roughly at my crotch area "My dog LOVES it!"
I slowly made the safer assumption that she was referring to the chicken.
"It's for my wife" I replied.
Her reaction was as predictable as it was priceless. This required explanation. I provided same.
After I finished telling the story she looked at me with that same kind, loving, tender, appreciative expression that Angel very often gives me when I correct her grammar. . . .
I took my turn at the counter. The young (see above) lady behind the counter dutifully triple checked the medication and scanned it, started punching buttons. . .
"Would you mind very much shooting these as well?" I asked, in the friendliest, least-threatening voice I could muster.
"Sure!" She said, picking up the chicken. "Your dog will love this!"
"Well, ma'am I DO have four dogs, but this is for my wife. . . . "
* Factoid: The double curved (cojoined) heart depicted on common Valentine's Day cards, as well as many, many other places is, in fact, two human-ish hearts joined together. Don't believe me? Rip out YOUR heart and tell me what it looks like. . .
💓
