A story of a couple, their multiple attempts at leaving the house, and how they never stop finding comedy in their journey together.
We were finally on the road, after three unsuccessful attempts at leaving. Three, count them. Three attempts at leaving the d-r-i-v-e-w-a-y. I swear I love this man, but sometimes…well, you ladies know what I mean.
First it was the keys. Then it was his phone and sunglasses. And finally, it was his wallet. While he went inside to search for said wallet, I stayed in the car. And yes, it was me who looked over and lo and behold, the wallet was sitting just as pretty as could be—in his seat.
He came back, eventually, once his self-imposed scavenger hunt was exhausted. As he opened the car door, I held the wallet between thumb and index finger and started singing, “I once wasssss lost, but now am found.”
He rolled his eyes, grabbed his wallet, and started the car for the umpteenth time. “Thank you. I was running around like a headless chicken.”
“You were what?” I said turning my head to him and raising an eyebrow.
“What? I was running around like a headless chicken,” he responded, as he turned the steering wheel.
“Honey, the phrase is running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Not running around like a headless chicken,” I corrected him, shaking my head.
“It’s the same thing. And anyways, there’s not that many chickens in New York anyway. How would I know? And why are they running around anyway without a head? It makes no sense,” he said as he tried to save face.
“Um, maybe because that’s how you slaughter a chicken? And they run around the yard because they don’t know they’re dead yet.”
“That is some country stuff right there,” he concluded.
Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to stop and introduce myself and not just carry on like some crazy rambling woman. I’m Whitney, and the one I’ve been ranting about (and attempting to educate) is my husband Arthur. Thirty years in, we’ve moved past the era of scattered rose petals and entered the ‘do you know the signs of a stroke’ phase. Romantic, I know.
Taking the backroads, we were (officially) on our way to dinner. Figuring out where to eat ate up half an hour in what can best be described as a Family Feud type of event. ‘We asked two people, where are they going for dinner?’ It took three strikes on one side and two on another before an answer landed on the board, and off we headed to that destination—once we were able to exit the driveway of course.
Arthur drove on as we both enjoyed the brilliant sunset views lighting up the sky in variants of orange and pink.
“STOP THE CAR!” I yelled, completely startling Arthur and causing him to come to a screeching halt on the deserted roadway.
“Whitney, have you lost your mind?”
“Look to the left, there are two baby deer, fawns,” I pointed towards as I fished to get my phone out of the bottomless pit that was my pocketbook.
“You just had me slam on the brakes…for two deer?” Arthur said rhetorically as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Move your head, I gotta get this picture quick,” I said as I maneuvered over the console and zoomed in to focus.
“Whitney, you do realize that we are on a road? A two-lane road, with cars that can come from either way?”
“Uh, yeah. And no one is coming. One more pic. Okay, I’m done. We can leave now,” I said as I slid back into the seat.
Arthur took a deep breath, and I knew it was taking the better part of his self-control to remain unaffected. All of a sudden, he just burst out laughing. Not a snicker, but the belly laughs that keep coming like waves of casserole dishes at a potluck. He laughed so hard he started wheezing and tears came out of his eyes. Then he kept on going. He would try to stop and say something, and then he would be overtaken by another wave, and it would start all over again.
“You just…you just had…me stop…stop the car…in the middle of the road…for two baby deer. Oh wow. I left a trail…a trail of black…rubber so you could…” he got out before succumbing to another round of hilarity. “Whitney…you have…you have their mother…in the…in the freezer.”
“I do NOT have their mother in the freezer!”
“Yes you…do. You have two…two pounds of ground…ground venison,” he managed to get out.
“That is not the same thing! That came from a family member far away!” I exclaimed.
“And…remember…remember the time…when you…when you hit…a deer…with your car. And…when…when you got…home,” he took a deep breath and continued, “you…you were crying hysterically…because…because you were…sad you…sad you killed the deer.”
“It was sad! I was traumatized; that poor innocent deer died!” I said incredulously.
“Well, we can be pretty sure it saw the light at the end of the tunnel!”
“Arthur!” I admonished before I too could see the humor in how these stories all correlated. The laughter now utterly contagious, I joined him in the doubled over, belly aching, tears streaming…scene. Heaven knows what any person who drove past us may have thought. And truly, I didn’t care.
You see, I am a conundrum of sorts. And this man, my man of thirty years--loved me for it.
This story has elements that we all have dealt with. It had me laughing out loud.