Tuesday, July 15, 2014

My wife and the cop

What do you do when the police are called on your wife?

There I stand, wondering about the whole "serve and obey" concept in wedding vows as I help clean up crap left behind by HER tenant in HER house.

Actually I'm trying to remember what exactly Samuel Adams, who plays damn good music on Tybee Island with some regularity, said when he performed our ceremony.

I wasn't listening.

Sarah wore a white dress, luminous in the moonlight on the beach, and she may as well have been doing water aerobics with the way things stood out.

Sam may have had me promise to make chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday morning or to return all her library books for her (which really is full time employment).

I don't know ... my thoughts were bouncing like my eyes as she stood before me.

Unlike now as she stands before a cop.

She looks good ... wearing shorts and a tank top ... sweat glistening on her tan firm body ... beautiful blue eyes flashing laser brilliance ... buttocks tightly clinched ... intensely focused on getting her points across ... which she obviously is from my vantage point.

Sweat pouring from my body as I'm witness, I have to stop working and get a grip on myself.

The other person talking to the cop is the lady whose furniture we're moving out.

She showed up wanting her stuff but sat on the staircase rather than help which, of course, drew the attention of my wife.

I've never seen a volcano explode but ... certainly it's very similar to what Sarah did.

"Get off your lazy ass and help us get your stuff out of my house," is how she politely began.

The poor woman couldn't take it, wanders outside and calls the cops.

"Hey," my beautiful daughter Kristen, who is helping us, exclaims, "I know that cop. He used to live with us. I wish Sarah would shut up! I can handle this."

Nodding my head in understanding, I hug Kristen and say, "Aw baby there's no shutting Sarah up once she's making points. Let's just watch? You ever seen a nuclear explosion?"

From the upstairs window, we watch the woman slither away.

The cop remains intensely focused on Sarah's points.

My wife turns around with a wicked grin ... as though she just scored the winning goal of the World Cup.

"Oh Shit," I yell, shoving my daughter to the stairs and picking up a broom.

Sarah storms the stairs like Sherman taking Atlanta.

"Oh hey honey," I sing. "How did it go?"

She has a beatific smile ... that says it all.

The rest of the day was pretty damn good.