Opinionated Man offers a challenge thus:
My challenge is simple. A single post written today or tomorrow, under 1000 words, and in a different genre (style, form, or whatever I am not picky) than you normally write in. It can be pretty much whatever on whatever, but if I am going to re-blog it make it tasteful.
There once was a man from Nantucket
ding dong… ding dong
Blah blah blah
No thank you.
I wonder if they get angry if you slam the door like that?
I should be able to do simple. I’m simple. Keyboards are simple.
Picking up my beer, I notice that it too is simple. Everything is simple. So, why is this so hard?
“Who was at the door?” she said.
“Some guy” I replied.
“Some guy? What did he want?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Should I call him back?” I asked.
“I .. uh… what was he wearing?”
“What?” I ask as I head to the wilds of the garage for another beer.
“Was he wearing a suit or anything?” she asks as if this line of questioning is important some how.
“No, he wasn’t wearing a suit. It’s not too late, I can run down the block and get him back here if you like” I offered.
“We need more potatoes” she fires back.
I pretend not to hear. Normally when I get home things are a bit strange but this is just a bit much. I wander in to the kitchen and watch her for a moment. She’s digging in the pantry like she’s panning for gold in the vegetable storage thing.
I can’t stand it. “Okay, I give. What difference would it have made if the stupid guy was wearing a suit?” I ask.
“A suit! What difference would it have made if he was wearing a suit?” I asked again, this time a bit perplexed.
“What guy?” she asks while turning to look at me like I’ve got two heads.
I now feel like I have two heads. “What is this conversation about?” I ask her with a look of pure childhood wonder.
“Rosemary” she says.
Near to stuttering I ask “Rosemary …. WHO is Rosemary?”
“She called today to talk to you, that’s who is Rosemary”
I check the floor then the ceiling, then the counters. Slowly I walk over to the pantry to see if there is maybe some odd fumes or something. It looks like a normal pantry. Well, one with too many cans of beans, but normal just the same. I’m still waiting but there is no extra information coming forth.
“Okay, did this Rosemary say what she wanted to talk to me about? Did she leave a number?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah… but I deleted the message by accident” she quips. “She wanted to know about the insurance on my car” she finally says.
Now, at this point there are brain cells in the back of my skull trying to jump off and down my spine to commit suicide. “Why did she want to know about the insurance on your car?” I stammer?
“I’m not sure, maybe it was her car I bumped into at the gym?” she rolls out of her lips like an ice queen.
While running out to the driveway I stopped to get another beer. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I frantically check the car up one side and down the other. Nothing is broken or dented, not even a scratch. Perplexed, I pull up a chair and sit down to drink my beer and ponder what the hell is going on. Just as I’m about to decide to send another beer down the hatch to find out where the first two have gone I hear some very quiet chuckling from deep in the garage. Normally I would attribute this to too much beer and not enough sleep but it got louder…
When I turned around, there she stood with a huge smile on her face, her arms curled around her stomach, half doubled over.
My face must have said it all. She straightened up a bit and barely managed to point a finger in my direction as she squeaks out the words “I Got You”
Humor. Humor is why I drink. It is today.