"If I can’t get out of this house soon ‘I am going to go insane and I will take you with me!’”
“Oh, oh, I know that one. Beetlejuice, right?” My husband grinned at me.
“I’m not kidding.” The frown I’d worn the last 3 days was starting to carve wrinkles in my face. Even the magic of Oil of Olay wasn’t going to get rid of them. Whatever.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just a little snow. It won’t be more than another day or two before it melts.” He put his arms around me and pulled me close for a hug. “At least we have plenty of toilet paper.”
“That’s so funny I almost forgot to laugh,” I muttered. When we lived in Pennsylvania, running out of toilet paper might possibly have been a serious concern when it snowed several feet at a time. Here in Atlanta, we hardly ever ran out of toilet paper due to a snow storm. OK, make that never. We never ran out of toilet paper due to a snow storm. The snow always melted before we ended up using newspaper and tree bark. That was really good, because these days you couldn’t even count on having a Sears catalog on hand. What would happen in emergencies like this when we were so green there was no paper left? More people needed to be considering this problem, in my opinion.
“Do you want me to make a cup of chai tea for you?”
“That’s sweet,” I answered, “but it’s just not the same.”
“Ah.” He nodded, the proverbial light bulb visible over his head. “You’re unhappy because you can’t get to Starbucks.”
“When you put it like that,” I complained, “it sounds ridiculous.”
“Danger, danger, Will Robinson.” My husband’s 30 years of experience dealing with me served him well. He paused before he spoke. “Of course it doesn’t sound ridiculous. Starbucks is where you do some of your best writing. It’s hard to write at home when we’re all here. It’s perfectly understandable.”
I smiled, which as we all know is much more effective than Oil of Olay at removing frown marks. “I guess I can make it through the rest of the day. I’ll take some of that chai tea you offered before.”
“Your wish is my command, my dearest love.” He kissed my forehead with a resounding smack, and then headed for the stove.
Our sixteen-year-old son made gagging noises in the living room. “Do you guys have to do that stuff in public?” he protested. “It’s disgusting.”
I laughed. For the moment, all was right with my world.
But we’d better be able to go about our normal business tomorrow. Starbucks, please save my usual seat for me. You know, the armchair in the corner.