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Married . WithOUT Children

“Well, THAT certainly was embarrassing,” husband-head said as he came home from the grocery store one Saturday afternoon, slamming the front door behind him.

“What?” I asked. “You been walking around with your fly open again?”

Husband-head scowled at me and headed toward the shower.



He changed out of his old, grubby clothes which he had put on earlier in the day to work in the yard – raking, picking up doggy-doo and gathering up a bunch of old bones that “Weber the Incredible Drooling Lab” had left all over the lawn.

“Why do you give him these stupid bones all the time?” husband-head yelled at me as he picked up the skeletal remains. “We could host an entire archaeological dig back here . or an episode of the Flintstones!”



I watched husband-head stuff the old bones into a little dog house that our 95-pound puppy can no longer get into. Then I watched as Weber stuck his big head into the little dog house and retrieved his precious bones and strategically placed them back on the lawn. .

This little game went on for an hour with a final score of Weber – 24; husband-head – 0. Finally giving up, husband-head moved on to another chore – attacking a large garbage receptacle on the patio where he keeps all his beer and soda cans that he saves to recycle.

He stuffed the collection of cans into two large garbage bags and announced that he was off to take them to the local grocery store and turn them in.

“Why are you doing all this without me having to threaten divorce?” I finally asked suspiciously. “You got a girlfriend you’re not telling me about?”

“Yeah, me and Angelina Jolie – I’m preparing for a role in the sequel of the movie `The Bone Collector,'” he retorted.

Sweaty and dirty and basically looking somewhat like a migrant farm worker, husband-head loaded the bags of cans into the back of the truck and took off to the store.

After returning home and getting out of the shower, he emerged from the bathroom still in an irritable mood.

“Hey, I didn’t MAKE you clean the yard or turn in those cans,” I said defensively. “But because I appreciate it, I’ll raise your weekly allowance from $5 to $5.25.”

“It was just embarrassing,” he complained. “I went to the check out line to return the cans and the cashier didn’t know what to do with them.”

As it turned out, the checker had to call over the intercom for help to process the cans so she could give husband-head the money for them.

“CAN WE HAVE ASSISTANCE ON CHECK STAND THREE WITH SOMEBODY RETURNING RECYCLE CANS?” she had bellowed over the PA system for all the store to hear.

At least it wasn’t a price check on a personal hygiene product. .

“And there were all these people in line behind me waiting and getting mad,” husband-head continued. “There I was – standing there all grubby and looking like a bum – like I had just gone through dumpsters fishing out cans to return. .”

I made a mental note that next time I would make sure he wore a suit and tie. .

“And the girl took FOREVER to weigh the cans as the people in line behind me were getting angrier and angrier,” husband-head went on. “And then when she was FINALLY finished, she gives me . $1.45! I went through all that for $1.45!”

I wanted to point out that the whole idea wasn’t about money – it was the environmentally correct thing to do. .

Then it dawned on me.

“But hey! With the money from the cans, we can go out and buy some more bones!”

Heidi Rice’s column appears every Friday in the Post Independent.


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