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Fried Rice

“Here I come … to save the DAY!” husband-head sang out like Mighty Mouse as he came bounding down the stairs after he was showered and dressed.”Yes honey, you’re saving the day,” I agreed with him wholeheartedly from the kitchen.The day hadn’t really begun, but it’s all part of our traditional morning routine.Actually, the day begins at 5:25 a.m. when the alarm goes off.Not that we really need an alarm since our two big yellow Labs – Weber and Wyatt – seem to have very accurate internal clocks and jump on the bed just before the alarm goes off, demanding to be petted.Thirty seconds later the sound of a bunch of rabid birds rings out from the clock.”CHIRPY-CHIRPS!” husband-head yells and then rolls over and goes back to sleep.The “chirpy-chirps” means that it’s time for me to get up and head downstairs with the dogs and the cat to let everyone out and feed them.After the feeding frenzy, the dogs and I head back upstairs to my office. Because the cat has absolutely no more use for us at this time, she goes somewhere that nobody knows.In my office, I check my e-mail and read all the crap that asks me if I want to work at home, get bigger sexual organs, lose weight, do nasty things, buy stuff at a last-minute sale and refinance my home.I answer all of these e-mails with lengthy replies of why I don’t want to.Just kidding.At exactly 6 a.m., it’s time to wake up husband-head.”IT’S TIME!” I yell in a soothing voice. “Get your BUTT out of bed.”I turn on all the lights and raise the blinds while his eyes try to adjust.Then back downstairs I go to make husband-head’s lunch.There’s a lot of power in being the lunch-lady because you get to decide what that person gets to eat for the day.Most of the time it’s a soda, sandwich, salad, chips, pickles and some cookies. But I’ve often thought of just putting a six-pack of beer in there as a joke …And while I’m busy being the lunch lady, husband-head takes a shower.”Yeah RIGHT!” he screams from upstairs as he goes from the shower back to the bedroom to lie down and dry his “inner skin.””Yeah RIGHT!” I scream back.I’m not quite sure what this all means, but again, it’s part of the tradition.After he comes down to save the day, I am then required to put his belt on and I don’t know why I am supposed to do this, either.”I just like it when you do,” is husband-head’s rationale.Following an extensive farewell to the dogs and with lunchbox in hand, wallet and keys, husband-head finally makes it to the front door and gives me a really lame kiss – the kind one would bestow on one’s grandmother.He walks out and then stands there, waiting for me to say the daily phrase.”Call me later!” I dutifully sing out.”Later!” he replies.I asked him once why he never DOES call me, but he insists that he does.”You tell me to call you ‘later’ and so I call you ‘later,'” he explained.From 6:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., we are in our separate worlds, working our separate jobs.But the routine starts back up again when husband-head comes home.”Shhhhhh … Mama might be on the phone,” he whispers to the dogs every evening as they furiously bark their greetings when he comes home from work.This started because he used to bellow “I’m HOME!” when he walked through the door as if we were all supposed to have a big party.But sometimes I am still working at that time and doing a telephone interview with a source.”Can you PLEASE look to see if I’m talking on the phone before you start yelling and getting everyone all worked up?” I finally pleaded one time. “It’s really embarrassing trying to explain what all the ruckus is about in the background. “The evening is usually dinner and TV and then drop into bed.But the next morning it starts all over again.”Here I come … to save the DAY!”Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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