21 January 2006

This weak end

Friday morning started as Friday mornings shall; with a restraining order. I had to nip down to the magistrate right quick to head it off.

“Your Honor” I pled “Please don’t cut me off from my dear, sweet, beloved. I am a reformed man!” Eventually he relented.

“Fine” He said. “You may maintain access to the kegerator, but you still must sleep on the couch.”

“And the bathroom?” One must hammer these details out immediately, or place oneself in legal peril.

I mean, without the nod from the plod, I could get arrested for simply peeing in my own bathroom. The only alternative would be whizzing on the neighbors’ hydrangeas, poodle, or into the open windows of their Volvo station wagon. And one can get arrested doing that as well. Believe me.

The judge nodded.

So all that was left was to placate my wife. I gathered all my imaginary friends on the porch. Now, this was more difficult than one might expect, as the Doctors have gotten my anti-psychotic mix almost perfect. Only three of the strongest voices in my head showed up, as well as Pregnant Pam, who is not so much imaginary as she is inflatable.

“Gentlemen, ... and lady” I nodded to Pam. “Do you have any placatory suggestions?”

Silence from the voices. The bastards were more interested in quaffing my beer.

PHREEEEEeeeeen!” Said Pam. One of these days, I simply must invest in a patch kit, although dunking her in the water barrel to find the leak is fraught with peril as the neighbors will no doubt say “He’s trying to drown someone again!” and call the police.

Honestly, that only happened once, and I'm fairly sure the fellow was James Bond, so he had it coming.

Sure, he claimed he was a Jehovah’s Witness, but MI-6 types lie all the time. One simply cannot take the risk.

Anyhoo, long story short, I decided to take her for a romantic weekend in Newark. If the enchanting scenery and toxic sea breezes do not rekindle the flames of passion, I’m not sure anything can.

Wish me luck!

And that's the way I likes it.