Sit. Adjust. Pray. Attack.

That line, in case you didn’t know, is from the old (egad!) movie An Officer and a Gentleman, wherein the leader of a squad of would-be naval aviation officers takes them to the mess hall and, in about three seconds, gets them through the pre-gustatory formalities.

Dan K. Thomasson would take the pray out of that sequence.

His article saying so appeared in the local paper, which I was reading as part of my strategy for surviving the daily two-plus hour ride to work on the bus. The bus – make that TheBus – thoughtfully provides the local paper for just that purpose, free. Which left me the two-plus hour bus ride from work to think about it. Mostly what I was thinking was that he, Thomasson, is perfectly right. And all wrong.

The armed services of the United States of America, says the article, are public institutions, paid for by We the People. As public institutions, they are barred by the U. S. Constitution from insisting on the practice of any religious system. Just ask any public school teacher, Quilly. Yet, the military academies at West Point and Annapolis do just that, compelling faculty and students to participate in specifically Christian religious observances and resisting all calls to stop doing so.

Thomasson thinks they should stop. Perfectly reasonable, perfectly logical. Why should Cadet Jon C. Marchinghome have to put up with putting up Christmas nativity scenes at West Point Military, when Caitlin Yossel at West Point Elementary doesn’t? Fair is fair. The civil libertarians would certainly approve such a move. So would the likes of Richard Dawkins, who would be happy for any excuse to advance the case that God can’t have died, because She was never alive in the first place.

I tried to read Dawkins’s The God Delusion. Really, I did. But I never got past the first couple of chapters. I’m not a person who enjoys argument for the sake of argument. I have lost patience with creation vs. evolution debates because they’re mostly about people yelling past each other. OK, they like showing everybody just how smart and loud and rude they can be. But I’m sitting there saying “Dudes, solve the problem or shut up and give my aching head a rest, already.”

Dawkins admits in so many words, in the preface to his book, that he’s yelling at people; in fancy words, his book is a polemic in favor – sorry, Dr. Dicky D, favour - of a rigorously atheistic view of the world. There are lots of sound, dispassionate, scientifically logical reasons to accept a rigorously atheistic view of the world. But dispassionate scientific logic isn’t going to make much headway in a debate, when the religionists are jumping up and down and throwing things. Besides, how are you going to get your book on the bestseller list if you don’t start jumping up and down and throwing things yourself? And Dawkins was after a bestselling book. Wonderful. Neverending warfare for fun and profit. Wonder if that idea’s been marketed …?

In my view, the problem that Dawkins and his ilk fail to solve is Voltaire’s problem:

Si Dieu n’existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer. (If God did not exist, we would have to invent him).

In other words, if the idea of God is so manifestly impossible, and even dangerous (as Dawkins argues to exhaustion), why does humankind persist in keeping some sort of God image around?

Ironically, two anecdotes in the preface to The God Delusion actually, and as far as I can tell unintentionally on Dawkins’s part, make a start at understanding Voltaire’s problem. In one, Dawkins compares efforts to bring atheists together in a common-cause effort to promote their worldview to “herding cats”. In the other, he tells the tale of a colleague who, while a committed atheist himself, nevertheless continues as a member of the Church of England ‘out of loyalty to the tribe‘.

Thus, the image of God serves as a focus for social consciousness – perhaps the only one left in western secular, individualistic, materialistic society. Atheism serves as a focus for individual consciousness.

And this is why Thomasson is, I think, all wrong in proposing an end to the tradition of common religious observance in the military academies. Hell, We the People are asking, telling even, our military personnel to be ready to give up their lives on Our behalf. I reckon there’s nothing in our society - any society - that’s more dependent on strong social bonding than that. For better or worse, ever since a bunch of nomads in the deserts and oases of the eastern Mediterranean, three thousand years ago, first conceived of a God that embodied all the ethical principles by which people in their society should live, most of the peoples of the world have used that image of God to bring society together in times of crisis, and attempt to keep it together in times of self-indulgent plenty. Or have we forgotten how full the churches of America were in the days following 11 September 2001, after being all but empty beforehand?

Can humanity devise a way to capture the strong social bonding now embodied in “God-consciousness” without invoking a common God? This, to me, is the important question, the only way to progress beyond the endless church vs. state, God vs. atheism, creationism vs. evolution debates. I don’t see too many positive examples. Most of the time in the last century, some human has wound up becoming the Godhead, rather like Roman Emperors who were worshiped as gods in their lifetime. Rome fell. A few dozen years ago now, this fellow Schicklgruber tried that. Most of us know how that turned out.

It’s my belief that We the People will eventually figure out how to run a society that has a strong social consciousness without resorting to all-powerful dictators, mortal or immortal. In the meantime, I’m OK with the concept of our officers and gentlefolk being taught a common concept of faith.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2008 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Look. Forget about all the advertising you’ve seen or heard that presents Hawai‘i as this quiet, restful, Mai-Tais-under-the-coconut-tree type of place. For one thing, you gotta watch those trees, lest a coconut fall out and whup you upside the head. For another, they may call Hawai‘i the “Aloha State”, but damned if this amoeba can find any of that stuff. They must use it all up on the tourists at Waikiki Beach, leaving nothing for the rest of us. Believe it, bruddah, this place has got a fast lane.

All you have to do is find it.

No, I’m not talking about rush hour on the (ahem) interstates around here. Everyone in Honolulu knows that, during the unfortunately-named morning and afternoon “drive times”, you can get to/from work faster by walking on top of the cars in the roads than by sitting behind their wheels.

But at other times of the day, the roads free up (more or less), and it’s actually possible to drive at the posted speed limits. And maybe a little more. Um, would you believe a lot more. Every chance that people get, thousands of Hawai‘ian motorists show their aloha spirit by racing each other for a spot in the fast lane.

Whichever lane that might happen to be.

Hands up, mainland Americans. Who remembers their driver-ed training? On any limited-access highway (freeway, expressway, toll road, whatever they call it in your state), the zippiest traffic is supposed to be in the leftmost lane, with slower cars in the middle lane and the slowest ones on the right. Not so?

Not here.

As often as not, a car will get on the H-1, or H-2, or H-3, take the shortest possible path to the lefthand lane, and then slow down. There is no tool known to humankind - no horn, no lights a-flashin’, no one-fingered salute - that will budge them from the lefthand lane until they get to their destination. Which is usually someplace about 40 miles away from where they started. And from where everybody else has started doing race-car maneuvers to pass them. Which, sooner or later, leads to a wreck. Which transforms the fast lane, and all the other lanes, into a rush-hour parking lot. Again.

Now, the guys who designed the freeways in the first place thought they had a great system. But I’m convinced they forgot to take into account the psychology of those slowest drivers. Why, after all, are they going so slow? Because they’re nervous. They’re not terribly comfortable out there. They just wish to get where they’re going, and be out of everybody’s way while they’re doing it.

So, the road designers ask them to get into the righthand lane. They got signs all over the place tellin’ ‘em to. But where on the average freeway is the trickiest driving to be done? In the righthand lane. Where people are ducking in and out of exits (those in Hawai‘i have to be the worst-designed freeway interchanges this side of the Merritt Parkway) and changing lanes like brokers desperately trying to sell stock in Freddie Mac before the price drops another ten points. And half the time, the road itself is screwing the pitch on the drivers in the righthand lane. “What the bleeping hell do you mean, ‘Exit Only’?!?” The last place that Anxious Alex wishes to be is in that righthand lane, dealing with ten exits in the space of as many miles, and ten split-second decisions for each one.

Where Alex wishes to be is in the lefthand lane, as far away from that blasted commotion as he can get. “At last! Safe!!“

Except maybe from that fellow who’s riding his rear bumper. Typically with a “Drive with Aloha” sticker on his own rear bumper.

The Honolulu police (who are, essentially, the O‘ahu police) do what they can. They have marked and unmarked cars to catch the worst speeders and weavers. They have checkpoints for impaired drivers. And unsecured drivers. Yes, like most American states, it is illegal to drive or ride in a car unless you have your seatbelt fastened.

But it is not illegal for a person to ride, unsecured, in the back of a pickup truck.

So it’s entirely possible for an officer to be writing up a clerk driving a new Buick for not wearing his seatbelt during a Click It Or Ticket drive, and watching helplessly as a rickety Ford F-150 roars by with seven teenagers bouncing around in the bed.

That must make them feel real wonderful.

They were sitting together at the table, compatibly munching sandwiches and chips. Suddenly He looks up and says, “I know why they don’t serve turkey sandwiches in China!”

“Oh?” She responded, wondering what convoluted path his brain has been meandering down this time. “Why?”

“Well,” He said, “They already have Peking Duck. They don’t need Peking Tom.”

=========

Later, they were coming home from a gig, and She was weary. As they pulled into the driveway, She stirred and, to bring herself back into the world, said, “Wake up”.

He offered, “Sorry, but I need a bowl.”

That startled Her. “What?”

He explained. “A cup just isn’t going to do it.”

As those of you who are among Quilly’s legion of fans surely know, she’s mostly been letting her camera do the talking lately. Fortunately, not literally. You know, like the cars from a few years ago that would get into a smash and lie by the side of the road, steaming and smoking and reciting over and over, “… your door is ajar … your door is ajar …”? I never got strawberry jam out of an automobile. Any part of one. Including the door. Where was I? Right. Quilly’s too good a soul ever to put me into a situation where I would have to express my inner Dalek upon her photographic instruments. Not to mention that she might ex-ter-min-ate me if I tried.

Anyway. Her current task is to come up with images that meet the criteria for something called Project Black. So She drags out this picture:

She: “Can I use it?”

He: “No.”

She: “Why not?”

He: “You really wish to give your readers my finger? Even if you are, I’m not.”

She: “I’m not interested in your finger. I’m interested in the bug on your finger!”

He: “So you’re trying to tell your legions of fans that I bug you?”

She: “I’m trying to tell my legion of fans that the bug is black!“

He: “No it isn’t. It’s blue.”

She: “It’s black.”

He: “It’s blue. Here. See for yourself.”

She: “Sure looks black.”

He: “Looks can be deceiving. Even with your camera.”

She: “What is it, anyway?”

Curinus coeruleus, dark blue ladybug

He: “It’s a ladybug.”

She: “Not. Ladybugs have red backs with black spots.”

He: “Not this one. It’s got da blues, real bad.”

She: “Weird. Does that mean it’s native to Hawai‘i?”

He: “Would you believe Mexico, 99?”

She: “Don’t get smart with me. How’d it get here from Mexico?”

He: “On account of the little old lady.”

She: “What little old lady? Careful how you answer that.”

He: “You’re safe. Unless you’ve swallowed a fly lately.”

She: “I sure hope not. What does that have to do with black ladybugs?”

He: “Blue ladybugs. Well, some thousands of years ago, the little old lady that is Hawai‘i got coconut trees. Then, about a century ago, the coconut trees got mealybugs. So the haole agriculture agents brought in the blue ladybugs to catch the coconut tree mealybugs. I don’t know if anyone’s brought in anything to catch the ladybugs. Yet. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider; she swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don’t know why she swallowed the fly …“

She: “I’m gonna die if I don’t get something for my Project Black post! And isn’t there any native wildlife on O‘ahu any more?”

He: “There’s always the centipedes“.

She: “Uhm, never mind.”

Aloha, OC

Hard to believe, but it’s already been a year since this amoeba landed in Hawai‘i. As any kama‘aina will tell you, “this ain’t the mainland, brah”. That much was clear practically from the moment yours truly first got off the plane.

Hell. Simply getting dressed can send a dude into a bit of a tailspin. Yes, people get dressed here. The print on the strings of the string bikinis may be microscopic, but it announces “Tourist” just as loudly as a ten-story billboard. About that tailspin. That’s even after one has mastered shoe drill, one of the absolute musts for survival in Paradise.

Consider. You’re a dude. You have to be a dude, firstly ’cause I’m a dude and that’s what I relate to, and secondly ’cause it’s been at least a decade since I’ve seen tops on you women that actually reach down as far as the navel, even in Minneapolis in January, so the problem I’m about to relate isn’t relevant to you. You have different challenges. Begging your pardon.

Where was I? Oh. Yeah. You’re a dude, you live in, say, Dubuque, and you’re getting dressed to go to work. Which goes on first, shirt or trousers?

OK. I knew one of you wise[censored] was going to say “skivvies”. We’re not putting on a Superman suit, ‘kay? Normal Western style street clothes, in the normal way.

Now I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that you put on your shirt first. ‘Cause you know that you’re going to have to tuck the sucker in, and it’s easier if you do that by donning the shirt and then fastening the trousers over it. And then you can stuff the wallet / keycase / handkerchief / Swiss Army knife / whateverthehallelujah into your trousers pockets, before you kiss your significant other goodbye and blow off the rent money driving to your job.

Eh?

Now, transport yourself to Honolulu. What goes on first? The trousers. Because you ain’t gonna be tucking in that aloha shirt. Firstly, ’cause if you do, people will look at you funny. And secondly, because you’ll be looking at people funny. Just before you keel over from heat stroke.

And this matters why, you ask? (The “trousers on first” bit, not the heat stroke.) Try this simple experiment. Put on your clothes in the usual Dubuque manner, but leave your shirttail out. Now put your Swiss Army knife in your pocket. Right. Pick it up off the floor and try again. After having that blasted shirt get in the way of stuffing your trouser pockets a couple of times, you’ll get the order of address right.

Unless you’re me. Sigh.

It’s almost enough for me to consider getting one of those shirts that don’t reach all the way to the belt line. Except you wouldn’t wish to look at me while I’m wearing one. Really, you wouldn’t. Trust me on this.

Aloha, OC.

Those of you who have been following this blog for awhile might remember April 2007, when He had just a little bit of trouble with this celebration.

Firstly, he managed to get Quilly’s birthday proclaimed all over Doug’s site. One day too soon. Then, he announced it at his own place (this blog didn’t exist yet), likewise a day too soon, mainly because he knew he’d be spending the real day in planes, trains and automobiles. Only to cover the birthday post with another one a few hours later.

Yeah, He was pretty clueless. But surely you know that by now. He certainly does. She’s sitting beside him now, helping him remember. Frequently. Men!

He’s certainly not clueless enough to mention her age. But both He and She are fond of Bill Cosby, and are in the process of (re)collecting most of his recordings of standup comedy. Including the one with the big number on it.

[ducks]

He was going to say she’s a saint, what with her church work, and her daily efforts with the pre-K kids here on the less-than-well-to-do side of O‘ahu, and her blogging stuff, including all the camera work she’s been doing lately. Not to mention putting up with his errors of omission and commission. But that gives her no right to cannonize him! No, wait, that’s Canon-ize. Put that thing down!

Would you please help me wish beautiful Quilldancer a happy birthday, by leaving a comment here or on her site, or both?

Happy birthday, love.

She wakes happy and cheerful and bright and chattery.

He wakes yeowly and growly and snarling at all things joyful.

She chirps at him brightly.

He mumbles and growls.

She gets even more cheerful and bright and fills the room with silliness.

He mumbles, growls and gives her that look.

She calms him with a gentle touch, a kiss on the forehead and, finally, a hug. Then she points at the bed and says, “Would you please get back in there for a moment and then climb out on the other side?”

His brows draw together. Storm clouds gather. Then he looks into her sparkling, laughter-filled eyes and almost smiles. He gives her a gentle squeeze and kisses her cheek. After, his heavy footed silence continues, but the storm clouds over his head dissipate. Soon he will morph back into the charming Amoeba she loves.

Moments after joining him in the pizza joint, she said, “It misted here all day today. It didn’t really rain. The air just stayed thick and damp, but the ground never looked wet.”

He said, “You’re lucky. It poured in Manoa all day.”

She said, “No mud puddles formed here. In fact, nothing really looked wet. After work I headed for the parking lot and when I got to the bare patch in the field — the bright red clay — looked perfectly dry. I was walking along and then, splat!, I was sitting in the mud.”

He provided her with a lovely, scientific description of the mud’s composition and explained why it was red.

She said, “My shoes will never be white again. Luckily, I was wearing my black slacks.” He made sounds of agreement. She said, “I was walking along and my foot just slipped. There’s this two and a half foot long gouge in the field where I fell. It only took a second. My foot just shot forward, plowing clay in front of it like a bull dozer. There’s the gouge, and this little mound at the end of it. The mound would be bigger, but the clay piled up on the end of my toe. When my butt hit the ground, a big glob of the stuff shot into the air and came down on my right knee.

He snickered.

“Are you laughing at me?” She demanded.

He shook his head, tried to straighten his face, and said, “Of course not.”

“Because not even Jane, the janitor, laughed when I showed up with both my hands covered in mud. Jane just asked if I wanted her to unlock the bathroom. That’s when I turned around and showed her my backside and said I thought a hose might be a better idea.”

He had a squeaky little coughing fit and covered his face in his hands. She stared at him suspiciously and demanded, “Are you sure you’re not laughing at me?”

He said, “Darling, I am just happy you weren’t injured.”

She said, “Jane took me to the fenced lanai behind the kitchen. There was hot and cold running water — looked like a set up for a washing machine — coming out of the wall about waist-high. I went ahead and showered in that. I figured soaking wet clothes were better than muddy clothes.”

He made more choking noises. She frowned at him. He took a gulp of soda and blamed the pizza. Then he changed the subject. “You say the ground never looked wet?”

“It looked just the same as it always does, red and powdery, but underneath it was slippery as snot!”

He queried, “How wet? How far down did the water go? Did it look wet underneath?”

She said, “I really don’t know. It wasn’t like I sat down to investigate the mud, you know, and I don’t have eyes on my butt.”

He made some warbling noises and stuffed a chicken wing into his mouth. She frowned and accused, “You are laughing at me! You aren’t in the least bit concerned!”

He said tried valiantly to assure Her that he was indeed concerned, but there wasn’t enough pizza on the table to stifle his laughter.

It’s been over a year since O’Ceallaigh first showed up at my door with his heart in his hand. There’s been a few changes since then. For instance, nowadays when he shows up at the door, his hands are usually full of musical equipment and he needs help turning the knob. Of course, that is a minor change. His first visit also featured the trumpet. From the beginning it has been my rival for his affections. We have learned to tolerate each other.

Lately there has been another, more subtle change. We still sit on the couch side-by-side. We still hold hands. We still exchange kisses and soft touches as we pass by each other, but –

I asked him if he was ready for his nightly ice cream. He said he was, then he ordered a cup of tea as well. Occasionally, when I tell him what the dinner menu is, he requests substitutions. At such times I often suggest he call a waitress. Other times I tell him we are calling a waitress because I don’t feel like cooking.

We also make decisions for each other. I have been known to critique his apparel and send him to change. He has done the same to me. He tells me when to carry an umbrella and scolds me for forgetting my (fill-in-the-blank). He has learned to tolerate my camera. I’ve (mostly) gotten used to his thinking out loud.

We know when to talk and when to shut up. We know when a hug is needed more than words. We know when to help and when to back off. We know when to say, “I’m sorry.”

We know we are loved.

If A is a singular article, and couple is a  plural noun, then a couple must be a singular plural.

Happy Birthday, Hon. I love you.

I wrote an earlier version of this four years ago, when a member of Martin Luther King’s team paid a call to our little congregational church in Maine. I hope you’ll forgive me for dragging it out and dusting it up a bit on this, the 40th anniversary of King’s assassination.

*           *           *           *           

call me martin

in the white church on the hill
of the winter white town,
the white student of the black king
revives the rainbow legend.

the student is a long way from memphis,

but he speaks and the icon is human,
an apostle without the pose;
call me martin.

on this memphis april,
doc martin has jetlag and the flu;
still the people line the hall when he passes,
touching the messiah’s robe
as they touched lincoln’s in richmond a century before.

and a few days later they shot them both.

we did.

the live recall is passing away,
leaving the videotapes,
and the curriculum vitae,
open to the whittling embrace
of the interpretors of history.

but explanations move no mountains;
dissertations break no chains.

it is the man,
he said call me martin,
the unassuming dignity,
the reflection of the holy,
who drives humanity to surpass itself.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2004, 2008 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

“Hey dude!”

“What do I look like, dude? A paniolo?

“A paniwhat?“

“A paniolo. A Hawai‘ian cowboy, you haole. Who might possibly have some interest in hay.”

“Dude, I’d love it if you had some interest in hay. Like maybe making some? So I wouldn’t have to be howling at you every month when the rent’s due?”

“Very funny, dude. Next thing I know, you’ll want me to be hawking T-shirts online or something.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for OC and Quilly, it oughta be good enough for you.”

“What?? They sold out?!?“

“I don’t think so, dude. Their store’s only been open for a couple of hours. I hardly think they’re sold out of anything yet.”

“Oh fer … what brought this on?”

“Well, you know Quilly’s been taking all these photos of like Hawai‘ian flowers and turtles and birds and things?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, she figured if they were good enough for this Aussie journalist guy, they were good enough to stick on mugs and calendars and aprons, stuff like that.”

“You think anybody will buy this stuff?”

“What? You dissin’ Quilly’s pictures?”

“And risk OC’s delete key?? No way, dude! Besides, that Aussie dude’s right. They are great pictures. And nobody’s payin’ me to say that.”

“Damn.”

“Damn what, dude?”

“I sure wish someone would pay you to do somethin’.”

“Hey! I can stand on the surfboard now, dude! Sometimes …”

“Riiiight. Here. Read this.”

“‘Click on by OC ‘n’ Quilly’s Cafepress Store for all sorts of knick-knacks, keepsakes, and mementos from Hawai‘i and the OC and Quilly blogs. C’mon. You know you want to.’ Dude? Did I just read a commercial?!?“

“You did a great job, too, Daddy-O. A lot better than you ride that board.”

“I can’t believe this. I’m turning into a capitalist!“

“Does that mean you have money for the rent, dude?”

“I said capitalist, dude! Not philanthropist!“

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

But seriously, folks. Check out the store. Buy stuff and save Quilly from pre-K.

Better yet, if you see something of Quilly’s that you think would look good on a mug (not my mug, of course, that would be fatal), let us know. We’ll see what we can do.

Cheers, The Amoeba

He was walking along reading. He said, “According to the brochure, there should be green sea turtles sunning on this beach up here.”

She said, “Yeah, well according to my eyes, there are rocks sunning on that beach. One of them looks a little turtle shaped, but …”

If you wish to read Quilly’s honu thoughts, click here: Honu Heaven

If you wish to read O’Ceallaigh’s honu thioughts, click here: While Turtles Safely Graze

She came home from work one day, looking rather disgruntled. He, wondering what he’d screwed up this time, asked (somewhat nervously), “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t understand people ’round here”, She lamented. “Some of them don’t have two coins to bless themselves with, but God help you get their attention, never mind their respect, if your blouse or your bag doesn’t have that label on it!”

OK, dear readers, hands up. How many of you expect the next line to be, “And when am I going to get a bag with that label on it?”

Nope. Didn’t happen. Sorry to disappoint you. But if you’ve been here awhile, you should oughta know what a remarkable person She is by now. And just to reinforce the point, there’s the story (and maybe one day She’ll tell it better) of when some of her Las Vegas fifth-graders showed up in class wearing a particularly worrisome set of T-shirts with labels on them.

“What’ve you got those on for?”, She asked.

“Because they’re cool, Ms. A.” was the reply.

“So”, She continued, “you’re telling me that you don’t have any cool of your own, so you had to go out and buy someone else’s?”

Silence.

Well, hey. Think about the last time you walked down a street in these Untied States of America with any number of people on it, or across a school yard or college campus or (shudder) shopping mall. Don’t all those people look like this?

OK, there’s a difference. Today, the advertisements for beer or fashion designers or tractors or whatever are printed on hats and shirts and purses and backpacks instead of on some funny-looking sign.

Make that two differences.

Once upon a time, advertisers paid the guys and gals in the sandwich boards to carry those ridiculous things around.

Today?

We pay the advertisers for the privilege of doing their selling!

Hello?!?

Just to set the record straight. He has no objection to having things with this label or that on it.

Any time those labels are prepared to pay up for the privilege of touting their wares.

- O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2008 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

She tried to open the door and enter the house. The entryway rug had other ideas. It bunched up behind the door and refused to move. She struggled, opening and closing the door, working her way in inch-by-inch, until she could get her foot through and kick the offending piece of carpet aside.

She did not do this in silence. In fact, she is quite surprised that the carpet didn’t disintegrate in the inferno of invectives she threw at it. Finally, with a kick, a shove and one final oath, the door opened completely.

He, coming up the stairs and entering the condo behind her, said, “Everything okay, Hon? It’s really not like you to make so many derugatory remarks.”

*  *  *  *

That door has seen other struggles. Mostly, when He’s tried to get through it carrying all the paraphernalia for his trumpet gigs. “And to think”, He grumbled under the pile of bags and music stands, “that I chose to play trumpet because all I’d need to carry was one itty-bitty little case“.

“Well”, She said helpfully, “now you look like a pack mule. Do you really need all of this? Surely there’s a happy medium somewhere.”

“I’m sure there is”, He shot back, “but I’m not traipsing all over India looking for him.”

He cuts his own hair — and does so well enough that he doesn’t come out looking like he’s suffering mange. However, She has discovered there is an inexplicable correlation between her cleaning the bathroom and his hair cuts.

She cleaned the bathroom the other day. She scrubbed the walls from top to bottom, cleaned the air vent and the ceiling fan, then did all the other standard bathroom cleaning things. Well, she did have some small difficulty cleaning the mirror, but that was an unusual occurrence.

He came home from work. He went into her sparkling clean bathroom — and stayed.

And stayed.

And stayed.

She didn’t ask. Somethings deserve a measure of privacy. [ ] Finally, He emerged from the bathroom.

She — having waited so long — rushed right in and discovered her shiny glass and chrome had sprouted hair! What th –! Immediately she exited the bathroom and went in search of him. She found him in the kitchen innocently getting a drink of water. She gave him that look. He froze. “Wha –?” He queried all innocent like.

“What is it,” she asked, pointing toward the hall, “about a clean bathroom that makes it imperative you cut your hair?”

Still frozen like a mouse being scrutinized by a cat, he answered, “I, uh, well, uhm, — it’s just coincidence!”

Ha! She doesn’t believe that and she knows He doesn’t either. It has happened enough times that there is a definite cause-and-effect relationship. Maybe she should get a scientist in to study the phenomenon?