To the Rescue

There's no question about it. Kent is my Knight in Shining Armor. He is my Superman (from Metropolis, no less). He is my hero. I am nuts about that man. There's just one problem. I'm nuts. Or, maybe that's why this relationship works. He is a super hero and I am in need of rescue.

As I told the nice women at the post office the other day, my life always has a few little kinks in it. It's never completely knot-free. I guess no one's is, but really. Wait 'til you hear what happened.

It was an unassuming, gray, frigid, weary, dreary, wintry, Friday the 13th. I spilled like a moldy, thick cup of coffee out of my tangled covers onto the floor and slipped on my tattered robe (the zipper's torn out of it). My feet found my battered clogs and I headed for the whimpering pooch. I put on the warmest thing I could find - get this - my full-length mink coat. It was a gift from my precious grandmother, slipped the lead around Francie's neck and headed out into the cold for potty time.

Francie, being a morning dog, was so very happy to see me and to be outside where her fur coat was doing its job while she did her job. She scampered expertly to and fro, tossing her fuzzy head, sniffing the breeze, sniffing the ground, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. Alert! Her head came up! There was a noise! Hammers! Men on a roof banging! She went to full attention. Her ears were at pointy peaks, trembling with excitement. The men were just one house over and they were OUTSIDE! Maybe they would like to play. I quickly put an end to her hopes. Potty time was over.

Except...

We were locked out.

Yes. That's right. Locked out. Francie looked at me. I looked at her and she said, "Hey, not to worry, you've got that hidden key." But I knew the truth. I didn't have that hidden key. Our youngest son had that hidden key. And he was in Florida.

OK. Think. Think. Override that new medication you're taking and THINK!!! I knew Kent was the answer, but how did I get to Kent? All of my neighbors were gone. (At this point, anyway, that's what I thought...It turns out one of them was indeed home).

With all the courage I could muster, not exactly knowing where I was going (the coffee shop maybe??), I started walking down North 8th Street. Now remember, I'm wearing a robe, no socks, black clogs and a mink coat. I have not touched my frizzy/curly/wild hair. I have not brushed my teeth. I have not dug the sleep out of my eyes. I'm not fit for public consumption. I'm really not even fit for my Knight in Shining Armor to see me.

But that's when my encounter happens. One of the men working on the neighbor's house walks out from that house and says, "Could you use some help?" I think that might have been an understatement. But, he'd been raised right.

"Uh, yeah," I said, trying not to breathe his direction. "Do you have a phone? I've been locked out of my house."

"Well, I don't, but my friend does. I'll get it for you."

So, I took his friend's phone and tried to use it. I say tried, because I couldn't figure the thing out. I stood there forlornly waiting for him to wander by again.

"Ummm, I can't figure this out," I said.

"Oh." He slid the case open. Boy, did I feel dumb.

"Thanks." But, it got worse. I STILL couldn't figure it out. I came close to deleting Britney Spears music several times. Finally, he had to come back, take it out of my hands and just dial the number for me.

When Kent answered he said, "Where in the world are you calling from?"

"DOES IT MATTER????" I wanted to say, but I didn't. I just calmly told him and begged him to come home to let me in. He did. To expedite things, he drove his silver car instead of riding his horse. Once again saving me.

I really need to give the house builders a hand, too. They were awfully nice to me. Today I went for a walk and they were working. They smiled at me, but they were gracious enough not to laugh - at least to my face. I thought that was generous.

Terrible News...

Terrible news. Francie ate my ears. Not only that, Kent ate my cake.

I'm not sure which is worse.

Francie is, after all, barely out of her puppyhood; so, I can excuse her. But, Kent?! He's not even a "cake man." He likes pies. And cookies. And Jell-O. Not cake.

For his birthday every year I make him a big fat bowl of Jell-O. Sometimes I make it straight. Sometimes I prepare a special recipe that is chock-full of dark cherries, cream cheese, pineapple and nuts. On his last birthday he turned 50, and he got the special recipe.

So, why did he eat my cake?

I had made it for my church book club and forced all of them to eat a piece. I guilted them into it by saying, "I have a sprained ankle, but I still made this cake. So, you people better eat up." Nobody refused. Everyone looked at each other with a trace of fear in their eyes, and quickly rose to follow me to the kitchen.

That pesky pastor's wife (who's a little bitty thing even after having had three babies) only took a half a slice. I thought that was pretty cheeky. The rest of the crowd took what I gave 'em. I didn't get any compliments, but nobody got sick, either.

I saved out one piece for myself. After all, I am on a strict diet. And froze the rest of the cake until I've earned it. I figure when my jeans fit again, I'll thaw it out. Hopefully it will not be a glazed-over hunk of freezer-burn by then.

My plan was to eat just a little bite of it every night after a healthy, nutritious dinner. I even asked Kent if he wanted some before I froze it.

"No," he said. "I'm not a cake man."

Now, my husband is definitely one of the kindest, smartest, funniest people I know. In fact maybe THE kindest, smartest, funniest person I know. But, I may have found a little flaw. He evidently lies about cake.

Some truths are hard to stomach.

As for Francie eating my ears. Well, I'm devastated. Those rabbit ears were ever so much fun, and they are irreparable. Eaten to bits.

I had big plans for the ears this year. It was going to be the year of the rabbit ears.

Two big blows in one day. Life can be tough, but I press on.