I don’t know how he does it.
But he does.
The proof is in the finger prints.
The problem didn’t start until a few years into our marriage. Probably because when
we first got married we were dirt poor and didn’t have the money to spend on
extras. But as our financial situation strengthened, I started experimenting.
One day while grocery shopping I decided to try something bold. I bought my
husband a bottle of chocolate milk. Now, before you start saying, “Big deal? Who
hasn’t tried chocolate milk?”, I’ll tell you who hadn’t tried chocolate milk - my
husband.
You see, Barry, (my husband) didn’t grow up in the US. He is from South Africa and
thus arrived in America with a completely different set of taste buds and food wants.
It took quite a bit of convincing for him to try anything new - including chocolate
milk.
I now look back on those simple days and think, “What kind of a monster have I
created?”
Chocolate milk.
It’s an addiction that he must feed.
I’ve seen him go out in a torrential rain storm just to buy the stuff — and I’m not
just talking about little bottles, I’m talking gallons.
According to the Mayo Clinic, an addiction is, “An illness in which a person seeks
and consumes a substance, such as alcohol, tobacco, chocolate milk or a drug,
despite the fact that it causes harm.”
Ok, I added the chocolate milk part, but not the harm.
“What’s the harm in drinking chocolate milk?” I’ll tell you the harm. It’s stinking
everywhere. If smoke gets in your eyes, then chocolate milk gets on everything else.
I have never seen anything like it.
If we use his truck to go someplace, I have to stand back when I open the door. Like
Fibber McGee’s closet, when you open the truck door a torrent of little plastic
chocolate milk bottles comes flooding out towards you.
I can spend hours cleaning the kitchen, come back 5 minutes later, and there it is.
On every surface, handle and knob. He’s like a junkie who needs a fix so bad that he
leaves the needle in his arm after he shoots up.
I find huge chocolate milk hand prints on the refrigerator’s handle; pools of
chocolate milk puddles on the floor; rivers of chocolate milk running down the front
of cabinets.
We always have to have a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup in the house as an
emergency back-up source. (This way if we run out of chocolate milk, he can
improvise and make his own.)
One day after cleaning a big, sticky, chocolate mess off the counter, I rolled my neck
backwards in an effort to stretch it. In doing so my eyes focused on the kitchen
ceiling and my mouth dropped open in shock. Was that actually chocolate syrup on
the ceiling?
I walked over and stood under the dark brown streaks of chocolate. How was this
even possible?
I started walking, following the long brown lines all the way across the kitchen
ceiling and down the far dining room wall. This was not a short distance. We have a
very big kitchen. I was following 20 feet of chocolate stripes across my kitchen
ceiling and down my dining room wall!
When pressed for an explanation, my husband confessed that in his urgency to
make a glass of chocolate milk, he didn’t notice the cap was not secure on the
Hershey’s syrup and that the bottle had felt quite empty. In an effort to force the remaining chocolate sauce from the bottom of the bottle to the top, he had held the
container by the bottom and flung it as hard as he could in a big sweeping motion
from over his head down towards the floor.
“I cleaned it up off the floor,” he sheepishly offered. “I guess I didn’t think to look at
the ceiling.”
Indeed.
Where are the Oompa Loompas when you need them?
I handed him a sponge and walked away.
Maureen Valdes Marsh is an author and former newspaper reporter. She
currently writes a semi-punctual weekly column on her website called, “Musings
of Vintage Grace.” She is the author of the upcoming book for Collectors Press,
’70s Fashion Fiascos - a polyester romp through ’70s fashions”, set for release
Fall ‘06. You can read more of Maureen’s writing on her website, Vintage Grace
by visiting http://www.vintagegrace.com.
Dear Poor Rix: A guy just invited me to a football game. I do not understand this event. Can you explain it? — Sport Watcher
This game begins with the entrance of referees, people with striped shirts who enforce the rules. Occasionally, someone with striped shirt and long stick may appear, and wander aimlessly. He is a “lost golfer,” and must be removed.
Next come the cheerleaders, who bounce onto the field, often displaying skimpy uniforms and bare midriffs. And those are just the guys.
The girls look even better, and may wave their massive pom-poms to excite the crowd. (We’ll discuss pom-poms another time.)
Then comes the team “mascot,” often a farm animal, or a human dressed like one. Mascot uniforms are sometimes very silly, and not appropriate wearing apparel for, say, a wedding.
Next come two teams that wear different colors, plus a helmet to hide their identities from the opponents they’ll tackle later. For the next three hours each squad tries to go from one end of the field to the other.
Pay attention to the quarterback, who controls the football. Sometimes he throws it to a teammate (a “pass”). Sometimes he hands it to somebody (a “handoff”).
And occasionally he may tiptoe to the sidelines, and give some cheerleader a big, wet kiss. This is called the “quarterback sneak.”
There’s more to tell, Sport Watcher, but I gotta go. On TV, they’re about to show a “quarterback sneak” instant replay.
Poor Rix offers bad answers to good questions. Contact him at rixquinn@charter.net.
Rix authored the recent writing book “Words That Stick.” It’s available from http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1580085768/qid/
For details on his weekly column, call him directly at 817-920-7999.
The Ultimate Sting
Looking for Harvey Weinstein
Brassy, ballsy and full of energy.
A totem of two women’s struggle to do something worthwhile in life, it certainly knows how to serve up endless comical observations. This is what comedy is supposed to be. The delivery, too, is polished, every line, every joke, enhancing the material, making for a thoroughly enjoyable read.
The women and their breathless brand of glamorous, gossipy, camp, snobby, self-deprecating, fast-paced banter is second to none but it is the delivery that sells this story, as this story, is a reality they live every day.
This out of the box, true tawdry tale, brags an A list celebrity cast of characters for real but the side splitting comedy is served up at the expense of two unknown likely lasses from the North of England. Two fatal mistakes, namely the jailers, an anonymous pair of devastatingly handsome Latino American brothers, natives of Los Angeles and the two Brits find themselves trapped in Hollywood where the water list is more extensive than the wine list, smoking is a hanging offence and cheese can only be found between the athletes foot infested toes of every all American wannabe. Written in the third person, it gives a voyeuristic peak into the rarely told but more frequently experienced Hollywood; that is, if you’re a nobody.
It makes for an interesting, intriguing read that stretches beyond every page with breathlessly entertaining yarns. This straightforwardly funny, captivatingly offbeat, full blown, quirky page-turner leaves the reader in stitches.
Humor is something we could all use more of in our lives, especially the kind of British satire found on every page within the four chapters of this little pink treasure. One liners galore, the idiots, the arrogant Hollywood agents, the ladies of loose virtues, the self centered celebrity and on and on. A candid display of so many of Hollywood’s characters is the magic formula that makes this book, an all time favorite, wittiest, funniest laugh out loud tale of true passion, persistence and probably to much pot smoking.
It’s a memoir, a travel guide, a “how to” Hollywood and an unorthodox, read between the lines, attack on ego Freud would be proud of but most of all it’s an enchanting and captivating rollercoaster ride with two people who live each day as if it were their last, in the front seat.
Sometimes the irreverent sarcasm is overstated and sometimes it hits you in the face but you will laugh from the second you pick it up to the moment you put it down.
About the Author
The Britsh authors of Looking for Harvey Weinstein
