Boy!
I . . . I Say . . . Boy!
I am my
beloved's, and my beloved is mine:
he feedeth
among the lilies.
-- Song of Solomon 6:3
It was our 10th wedding anniversary,
in early January. Our children were 4, 3 and 1 month. Our home was a
seven-layer salad: Christmas gifts, newspapers, toys, laundry, mail, new
diapers, old diapers . . . utter chaos.
My husband was so noise-assaulted and sleep-deprived,
he looked like Humphrey Bogart pulling the African Queen through the
leech-infested swamp.
I was a housecoat-wrapped, zombie-like,
breastfeeding Dairy Queen since, speaking of leeches, our latest baby whopper
seemed to want to top off her tank 24 / 7.
It was coooooold, too. So no, I didn't FEEL like
going out to dinner and anyway . . . AA-OO-GAH!!! Lash me to the mast! Here
comes another postpartum hormone hurricane!
Tell you what, he suggested. I'll take the two
older kids to Burger King and feed them and let them play in there 'til they're
tuckered out. Then I'll get some takeout from that good Italian restaurant and
pick up a video. We can put them all to bed, and have a peaceful dinner and
movie together at home.
What a man! What a plan!
The baby fell asleep shortly after they left. I
ran the Zamboni through the house, folded last month's laundry, and read an
entire week's newspapers in a bubble bath. Heavenly!
When they got home, I was a noodle of bliss,
with toys and unmatched socks completely removed from my hair, smiling serenely
as we put the children to bed.
It was time for our private party.
I was famished. What culinary delights had my
stalwart provider brought in that big takeout sack? What romantic movie had he
selected to kindle the flames of matrimonial desire?
But noooooo.
The restaurant had forgotten everything in that
sack EXCEPT the hors d'oeuvres: six little itty bitty toasted ravioli. They
forgot the salads, breadsticks and entrees. At least there were mass quantities
of dipping sauce for the ravioli. But that was it.
Meanwhile, the movie he'd gotten was . . . not
Kevin Costner . . . not Tom Cruise . . . but FOGHORN LEGHORN.
Sixty minutes of cartoons featuring a
blathering, rednecked, Southern-fried rooster. You know, the one who yells,
"Boy! I . . . I say . . . Boy!"
He thought I'd think they were funny.
I looked at him. He looked at me. He could go
back for the rest of the food. But it was sooooo cold out.
We sighed.
We cut those six itty bitty toasted ravioli into
itty bittier pieces, and put them on plates. They looked lonesome. We carried
them to the TV, turned on Foghorn Leghorn, speared each little ravioli molecule
with a single fork tine, and took turns dipping them in the sauce. At least
there was plenty of sauce.
No waltzes, no sparkling diamonds, no moonlit
walk on a Caribbean beach. Just ravioli molecules and rooster jokes.
You can see why it was another dozen years
before our next child was born. Just kidding.
But fast-forward now to our latest anniversary,
our 26th.
We were going to a swank soiree. He would be in
white tie and tails. I got a smashing black dress with caviar beading. Posh!
He was ready to go - nothing new there - when I
came down the stairs.
Our eyes locked.
Dang! We looked GOOD!
I forgot all about the hassles and headaches of
26 years of marriage. I saw the silver hair I'd caused, the broad shoulders I'd
cried on, and the hand that had held mine back when necessary, and guided it
forward, too.
Dang! He looked GOOOOOOOD!
My heart went plippety-plop, just like when we
were teens and just like at our wedding. I'd gotten far more than just the hors
d'oeuvres in my sack. It might not have come to me exactly in the form I
expected. But in marriage, yep, I got the whole meal deal.
With a rooster like this, I was one lucky hen.
Boy! I . . . I say . . . Boy!
How 'bout we slip out after the dance, and split a little
old toasted ravioli? †
