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February 24, 2005
My Husband and I
We sit on the porch of our seaside home.
We drink martinis and listen to Fats Waller records, especially "Louisiana Fairy Tale." ("Louisiana Fairy Tale" is also the theme music for This Old House.)
The house has wood floors.
There is plenty of iced-tea in the fridge.
Occasionally, we bring out the guacamole and chips. But only when it rains.
We have a dog named Shrapnel.
We play a little Donkey Kong.
We watch Edward G. Robinson films in bed at night. Sometimes, though, it's a Clark Gable night.
Nobody has our phone number. Except for you, of course.
He paints dead wildflowers and gives money to bums on the street. I elect presidents and write gothic novels where vampires do wicked things to virgins and Morley Safer.
Tom Waits is our little buddy.
The "Cheers" bar is within walking distance.
We own a still.
Our entire home is filled with books.
Noah Kucij makes gumbo in our kitchen when he comes over.
My brother has a house down the street. Next to the "Cheers" bar.
One room of the house is dedicated entirely to moths.
We got rocking chairs up the motherfucking wazoo.
We own it all outright.
Sure he had a little thing with "Hot Lips", but that was in the fifties. Or seventies.
Sometimes he looks like Donald Sutherland.
And this is all true.
Posted by emily at February 24, 2005 3:02 AM
Comments
You just described a good chunk of my retirement plan. I find that disturbing.
Posted by: Kyle at February 24, 2005 10:09 PM
Imagine my surprise. All those times Fat Charlie retired to the "moth room," and I just thought she had a really pretentious accent.
Gumbos around,
NVK
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