***
My wife woke up in a BAD MOOD this morning, and, as usual, she blamed me. Apparently, because her schedule was clear, and she could sleep in, I wasn’t supposed to fire up the chainsaw at 6 a.m. (Much to my surprise, others on our block readily agreed with her.)
Who makes these crazy rules anyway?
Oh, well. Whatever. I still didn’t understand why she blamed ME for her crankiness. After all, the entire situation was her fault. My spouse was grouchy because, the day before, SHE was the one who insisted I trim the dead branches off the pin oak.
* Author’s note: I just wanted to point out my complete innocence before you plunge into this epic literary tale.
So, allow me to set the scene. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon as I was precariously perched on the ladder, wielding my roaring chainsaw with reckless abandon in the dawn’s early light. Overly confident as always, I sent tree limbs flying in every direction as I slashed through them like a hot knife through butter.
I was focusing exclusively on how fast I could complete the task, but in hindsight, I now realize it might have been better to focus on doing the job right. I only mention it because, in my eagerness to finish the chore so I could enjoy a big breakfast, I made a few slight miscalculations on a couple of angles. As a result, some of the larger branches, instead of falling harmlessly into our yard, crashed down on our wood fence, loudly crushing several sections. (Unfortunately, it was the fence we shared with the “grumpy” neighbor.)
With huge gaps in the previously secure enclosure now offering the promise of unbridled freedom, my neighbor’s annoying dogs (two high-strung labradoodles that bark all day at their own shadows) instinctively bolted from their yard and made a run for it. Streaking down the street, they were a sight to see, with ears pinned back and tongues hanging out, howling all the way, even though it was too early in the day for their shadows to torment them.
With numerous chunks of the pin oak now scattered everywhere, I naturally assumed my work was done. I scampered down the ladder and, once on solid ground, took a moment to survey the surreal scene that had inadvertently been unleashed.
As I stood contemplating the gross unfairness of what had transpired (after all, I was only trying to grant my bride’s wish), I suddenly heard a thunderous cracking sound over my head. Diving for cover, I turned and watched with amazement as a huge branch high up in the pin oak (I had accidentally nicked it with the chainsaw) suddenly broke loose and dropped directly onto the nearby power lines, sending a burst of sparks flying through the air that resembled a full-blown patriotic Fourth of July celebration. It was so spectacular that it made me want to stand up and salute.
In an instant, every house to the east went dark (starting with my grumpy neighbor’s). Happily, however, OUR HOUSE and every house west of us still had electricity. I guess I’m just lucky. Go figure.
But at least the dead limbs were now removed from the mighty pin oak, thanks to my well-honed skill with power tools. (The more dangerous the better!)
Despite the upheaval and havoc resulting from the series of small mishaps that had mysteriously occurred without rhyme or reason and that had left the neighborhood in a state of crazed chaos, I was quite pleased with what I had accomplished by 6:30 a.m.
But I strongly suspected my wife, who tends to find the negative in any situation involving me, would not view my accomplishment as something to be proud of.
Allow me to pause here and put this situation in the proper context.
After decades of marriage, during which I acquired a massive amount of hard-earned experience (and I mean HARD-EARNED experience), I’ve come to realize that no matter what I do, I cannot please my bride. When she gives me a chore (like trimming the tree) and I do it, she’s not happy. And if I skip a chore and sneak off to play golf, she’s not happy.
There is just no pleasing her. But it’s completely out of my hands, so why worry about it?
Speaking of making the love of my life unhappy, (I don’t like to brag, but I have a special talent for doing that) since she had gotten up so EARLY, I innocently thought there was no harm in asking her to fix me a hearty breakfast. (As you probably know, creating a frenzied fiasco at the crack of dawn with a high-decibel power tool can give you quite an appetite.)
Unfortunately, my bride’s near-hysterical response to my simple request is not something you would want to see in print. Suffice it to say, she impetuously refused to fix the pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon I asked for. Instead, because the broken toaster was on the lengthy list of things I was supposed to repair (I didn’t bother to fix anything so I could squeeze in another round of golf), I was forced to consume cold Pop-Tarts right out of the box. It’s like the suffering never ends.
Jeez, I’ll be starving by lunch. I hope her bad mood doesn’t last all day.
Marital Madness 