He was sure a dish of a man! | PostIndependent.com

He was sure a dish of a man!

Fried Rice
Heidi Rice
Glenwood Springs, Colorado CO

“A guy is going to come over to the house this afternoon,” Husband-Head called from work to tell me the other morning. “I want you to be there and let him in.”

I was a little taken aback.

“Twist MY arm,” I said, not fighting the suggestion at all. “You’re getting a little more open-minded in your old age, aren’t you?”

I heard Husband-Head sigh on the other end.

“Don’t get your hopes up, toots,” he warned. “It’s only the satellite service guy.”


Sure enough, an hour or so later, there was a knock on the door. I made sure the hose to my garter belt was straight and that my cleavage was poking perkily out of my see-through blouse.

Yeah, right.

Actually, I swung open the door in my baggy sweats and T-shirt only to find a tall, blonde young man with piercings in his eyebrow and nose standing in the doorway, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “Dish man,” he said in a thick foreign accent.

Thank God Husband-Head had warned me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve slammed the door on his face.

“Are you OK with dogs?” I asked, as my two big Labs tried to lunge at the stranger through the door.

“Only if zay do not bite,” he nodded.

In other words, you can pierce your face ” which had to be painful ” but you are afraid of a dog bite. …

“What seems to be zee problem?” he asked, in an accent that I decided sounded German.

Zee problem was that I had no clue as to what zee problem was.

“The satellite receivers aren’t working?” I ventured.

He looked at me in a way that I think translated to “you are stupid.”

The day before, Husband-Head pitched a major fit because the TVs in his playhouse wouldn’t get the local channels and the TV in the outdoor kitchen wouldn’t work at all.

“You know, not getting your football games on the TVs does not constitute an emergency on my part,” I warned him.

Husband-Head tried to explain to me what the problem was with the receivers.

But being severely electronically impaired, he could’ve been analyzing the theory of relativity for all I understood. “Don’t even try to explain to me what’s wrong,” I said, putting my hands over my ears. “La-la-la-la-la … I can’t HEAR you!”

This is the adult, mature sort of way in which I deal with things that I don’t understand.

And in the end, he had to watch his beloved games inside on the big-screen, high-definition set in the living room.

It was so pathetic. …

I showed Hans, or whatever the hell his name was, to the various TVs and their receivers. I then handed him the remote controls and told him that my name was “Heidi.”

“I have to go back inside and take care of grandfather and the goats, but yell if you need anything,” I said, making a mad dash to the house.

I went back inside to work and a little while later I heard him calling.


I smoothed out my dirndl and went rushing downstairs.

“I am feeneeshed,” he said, unfolding a piece of paper. “There ees no charge. But here ees my number if you need.”

I noticed his signature said, “Dmitriy,” which actually turns out to be a Russian name.

And here I was doing the whole Austrian “Heidi” thing when I probably should’ve been playing the Lara character from “Dr. Zhivago.”

“This is the second time we’ve had a service person from the satellite company who sends someone who can barely speak English,” I said to Husband-Head when he got home. “Why is that?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged.” Why do you get somebody in India whom you can barely understand who says his name is ‘Bob’ when you call the Dell computer people?”

From now on, I’M going to pick which men come over to the house. …

Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her website at http://www.heidirice.com.

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