Conversations with Fuzzy

“Lovey!” Fuzzy called in his panicked tone, as he entered the house last night. (It should be noted, however that Fuzzy, aka Stoic!Boy, is a midwesterner, and therefore his panicked tone is only fractionally different from his normal voice.) “Lovey, we need to talk about the car.”

This is not the way to begin a conversation, especially when your wife is a self-identifying Californian with strident Italian relatives, and a history of summering with them at the Jersey shore. (Translation: there is no way in hell I could ever be called Stoic!Gal.)

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my mind rapidly flipping through options. Did we need to find a truck accident lawyer because my generally mild husband finally lost it and attacked the driver of one of the ubiquitous monster-SUVs that block the sun from half our neighborhood. Or worse, had he hit an animal?

“We need to get the tires done, like now. I noticed one has visible steel.”

I refrained from pointing out that car maintenance falls into his purvey. I pay the bills, I do the cooking, and I deal with most home repairs, but the car is his job.

“Okay,” I said. “I thought you’d asked for a quote on new tires a few weeks ago.”

“Well, they never called me back.”

I gave him the sort of death glare that is so often used between committed partners. The one that clearly means, “And you aren’t capable of picking up the phone to follow up???” (The multiple question marks are obligatory.)

“I guess I should call them tomorrow morning,” he said after an excruciatingly long pause in which I practiced the technique I learned when still in mortgages of not talking first once a deal has been offered because the person who speaks first loses.

“Yes,” I said, “I think that would be a good idea, Sweety.”

Approximately seventeen hours later, the car was sporting new tires.


A couple of months ago in the grocery store, I noticed a display of teak patio furniture including a storage bench with a padded seat. I have no need for teak furniture outside (though I love it) but I wanted the bench very badly, to put in my foyer, against the stairs.

Sadly, we vacillated and the next time we went to the store, they were out of benches.

Then, the night my parents arrived, we went back to do a “light” shopping (that cost $200 – I blame the Milano cookies for that) and they had the bench again. I made Fuzzy grab it, buy it, and take it to the car, while I went around filling my cart. He did, because he likes to make me happy.

The bench, in it’s flat-ship box, sat in the garage until Monday, when, finally Fuzzy put it together. It’s a bit deeper than I thought (the seat, not the storage bit) but I love the way it looks, and yes, at some point, I’ll take a picture.

The problem is…now I kind of want the teak patio furniture, too.

Mmm. Blueberries.

I woke up this morning to a pounding headache, one that had been threatening to arrive all day yesterday, but didn’t really come on in force until I tried to go to sleep last night, and the sound of Fuzzy grumbling in the bathroom. It seems that L, our new housekeeper, did such a great job of cleaning the bathroom vanities, that he can’t find anything.

(Mind you, he is afflicted with the inability to see any object that requires moving another object. I always thought this was limited to looking for items in the fridge, but it’s universal, apparently.)

Outside, while the temperature is mild, the wind is not, and it’s making a howling sound that the dogs are clearly disgruntled by. Poor sensitive chihuahua ears. Zorro’s been giving me his patented slitty-eyed look all morning. As if I can control the wind.

I found the perfect way to soothe my own grumpiness, however. I made oatmeal, laced it with honey, and mixed in half a container of fresh blueberries.

Mmm. Blueberries.

My head still hurts.
But I’ll survive.