World News Tonight

We awoke this morning to the ABC news crew filming a segment in the alley behind our house:

Immediately, Satan went down and bossed them around for a while. They seemed to take it a whole lot better than I do.

Closer to Fine

I've just arrived home from my little tour of southern cities. It's a balmy October afternoon. The perfect day for a drive. I was welcomed by the slightly psychotic meowings of Tigger from up above on the ledge of my balcony has I dragged my suitcase across the sidewalk and lugged it up the steps. It's good to be home.

Christa and I met as planned at a hotel in downtown Nashville on Tuesday night excited to be away and together and at the prospect of seeing the group whose songs we have sung together perhaps more than any: the (warning: noise on the next two links) Indigo Girls. Adding almost more excitement than we could to bear to this prospect was the fact that our lastest musical obsession, a group called The Weepies, was to be the opening act at the historic Ryman auditorium, original home of the Grand Ol' Opry.

I snapped the picture above in our room at the hotel just before we boarded the shuttle that took us to our desired destination: a bar really close to the Ryman. As you can see from the picture, Christa wore The Cutest Shirt Ever to the show. It's a wonder one or both of the Indigo Girls didn't run clear off with her.

Once at the requested bar, as we sipped our TWO DOLLAR (I ask you, how lucky can two girls get?) margaritas as we discussed our usual topics i.e., Botox: should we? and the perfect haircut: possibility or urban legend?, etc. I told Christa I had come very close to buying a set of tickets to the concert that were second row balconey for a fairly insanely expensive price off e-bay, but had decided against it. She told me what everybody had been telling me--that there really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman. I statement which, frankly, I had decided weeks ago was likely horse hockey as I obsessively studied the seating chart on the Ryman website and silently bemoaned our seats in row Q, floor, center.

Guess what? There really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman.

It's a wonderful intimate venue, sort of like being in somebody's really big living room. The seats aren't seats at all but rather curved church pews and, as we made our way to Row Q, seats four and five, I could hardly believe how close we were to the stage and what a wonderful view we were to have of the concert. The building is a national landmark, and while new entrances and lobbies have been constructed around it, the original hall has remained the same small untouched space as when the opry was first broadcast there.

Our concert tickets clearly stated that no photographic equipment would be allowed at the show and so I had left my camera back at the hotel. And it is my sad, sad duty to report that, when the announcer introduced The Weepies, he also announced that photographs WERE to be allowed from one's concert seat only.

People, I had to choke back a sob on that one. From where I was sitting with my 12x zoom I could have catured zillions of wonderful images from the show to post for your enjoyment. I'm still sniffeling about it even now.

Anyway. Bygones.

As expected, The Weepies were wonderful. Fun, sweet, smart and talented, they came onto the stage with little fanfare and a guitar a piece, which they traded with lots of informal giggling and fiddling, back and forth between them depending on the song. They didn't do a whole lot, maybe--eight songs? Many were from their newest, "Say I am You": "World Spins Madly On", "Gotta Have You", "Nobody Knows Me at All".

Christa and I later agreed that Deb Talen sounded spot-on and fantastic on every note, but that Steve sometimes struggled through the notes. We also both also later discussed that I had thought, before the show, that Deb and Steve were simply musical collaborators, Christa had thought them brother and sister, but we both came away with the impression that they are a couple. For no particular reason we could say.

Both Deb and Steve were charming and talked seemingly, anyway, off-the-cuff about Deb's case of raging "band envy" for the Indigo Girls back-up band and Steve about his time in NYC living with a roommate in an apartment so small that he sometimes had to write as he put it "angry little songs" in a bathroom the size of a broom closet at night. They each did a song from their solo days. They both seemed thrilled to be at the Ryman and still surprised by their success. And just...NICE. So genuine.

And, before we knew it, the Indigo Girls were introduced.

Now, I don't know why, but I for some reason just had this idea that the IG's would be a couple of girls perched on simple wooden stools on a darkened stage strumming away earnestly on their guitars .

Not so much.

As Deb had alluded, they have a great back-up band--all girls except for a male drummer. And Amy and Emily rocked. Hard. For two hours.

As I watched, it made me realize just how infrequent it is that you see two strong women fronting a band. Not often enough, I think. Both girls played an instrument the entire concert, but they almost never used the same instrument twice. After each song a new banjo, acoustic guitar, mandolin or electric guitar would be carried out to each of them by the crew. They sounded, seriously, better than the CD's we've been listening to all these years. And they both looked great. We couldn't have asked for more.

About midway through the show, Emily introduced Mindy Smith, who came on stage and played and sang a song--what a great break for her. Of course, she really did sound (just call me a broken record here) great.

Perhaps the high point of the concert came when the girls did "Closer to Fine". They broght The Weepies back to the stage to help them sing. Every single person in the place stood and sang the song with them. No kidding. I saw no one NOT singing. Pretty amazing considering how little airplay the IG's get and just how old the song is now.

As we walked back to the hotel, a group of guys were behind us discussing how disappointed they were that the girls didn't sing a song called "Kid Fears". I mean seriously. Kid Fears. We were in the company of some seriously die-hard fans.

We are both a little closer to fine for the experience.

(coming soon: Part Two: On to Louisville)

Little Miss Sunshine

Greetings all—I keep hearing from more and more people that they read or have heard tell of my blog.

It’s a little scary.

I had a wonderful, if busy weekend, what with the barbecue, shopping, cleaning, and getting ready for my big trip to NashVegas for the Weepies/Indigo Girls concert—woohoo! I was thrilled to receive not one, not two, but THREE CD’s chock full of the appropriate pre-tunes from my concert-going companion, Christa,—we are READY! Also, we will be sure to take jackets, pack Aleve, and both of us remain hopeful we still possess the ability to remain vertical past 10 p.m.

Sunday, after a delightful dinner of my increasingly popular Pad Thai with charming friend and neighbor Mark, we all caught the last showing of “Little Miss Sunshine” (stupid blogger will not let me post a photo today...DRATS!) at our local cinema. Three thumbs WAY UP on that one. Add it to your Netflix queue, pick it up at Ballbusters when it’s released, you will not be disappointed. LMS is the story of a dysfunctional family with a capital DYS making a cross-country trek in a VW bus in order that the youngest member of the family, little Olive, played by a charming Abigail Breslin, can compete in the “Little Miss Sunshine” pageant in California.

Along for the ride are Olive’s stressed-out parents, played by Toni Collette and Greg Kinnear, her silent teenaged brother played by Paul Dano, and way left-of-center grandpa played by Alan Arkin. Perhaps most surprising is the performance given by Steve Carrell who rounds out the cast hilariously playing Olive’s depressed gay uncle. You’ll recognize Steve from his role as a wacky reporter on The Daily Show. (IMDB tells me he got his start on SCTV—who knew?) Anyway, this one is headed for Oscar-ville for sure. And deservedly so. It is easily the best movie I’ve seen this year.

Otherwise, Satan and I continue to lose ourselves in the hit TV series “Lost”. Initially, I added the first few episodes of season one to our Netflix queue, but was pleasantly surprised yesterday to discover our local library has the entire first season available for FREE check-out. I was able to pick up the remaining DVD’s from season one yesterday and I’ve now added all of season two DVD’s to the Netflix queue.

We’re both loving “Lost”, a series about a commercial airliner that takes off from Sydney, Australia and crashes a thousand miles off course on a tropical island. Miraculously, forty or so passengers survive the crash. The show splits its time between telling the stories of the sometimes practical and, more importantly, sometimes creepy going’s-on on the island and showing the back-stories of the castaway’s previous lives in civilization off the island. The show is sort of a cross between adventure and thriller and could be classified as sci-fi (which may be the channel that originated it).

I know season three of “Lost” is airing on TV this season in real time, but Satan and I have found we much prefer immersing ourselves in TV shows this way, after the fact, watching as few or as many episodes as we want to at a time SANS commercials. In this fashion we’ve discovered “Project Runway” as well as “Dead Like Me”, of which I’m in love with both, Satan only the latter. Sadly, “Dead Like Me” was so good it had to be cancelled. I am eagerly anticipating the release of season three of “Project Runway”.

Otherwise, I can hardly believe it’s October…OCTOBER! How did this happen? Didn’t we just have Christmas? The only good news is that sweater weather is, or should be, here. Frankly, I’ve already busted out the sweaters, eighty degrees or no eighty degrees.

And, I'm prattling on like this because I'm afraid to say, what I should be saying for fear the universe will hear me...

(I had a lovely weekend. I am happy.)

So there.

Stopping to Smell the Barbecue (on the river)

You know, it's hard to get anything done around the house when, just around the corner, 10 tons of haunch of beast is slow cooking in its own juices.

My Dad will be surprised to learn that Satan and I have taken a total of two strolls to the barbecue specifically to enjoy a particular haunch of slow-roasted beast: brisket.

Second favorite activity: shoe shopping:

Third favorite activity: anything on a stick:

Renegade

Since my "A Place for My Stuff" entry recently, I've had some questions from readers wondering if there REALLY is a semi trailer in my back yard.

It's a fair question. And so today I snapped the photo above from the very chair I'm sitting in now. This is the current view of our back yard from window of our guest room where my computer is located.

Pretty, huh?

You'll note the back end of my car protruding from where it's parked at the far end of the trailer in the distance. Beyond my car is the alley that borders our property. To the left is Satan's vehicle, and to the far left is the edge of the red barn that is soon to be demolished. Right after we move the crap out of there and into the semi.

In the foreground, you can probably tell there is a sign on the front of the trailer. Though you can't make it out in this picture, it is an advertisement for the semi trailer company telling one where to call in case you! too! would like to experience the joy of an entire semi trailer in your yard!

As you might imagine, there are absolutely a thousand and one uses for a semi trailer in your back yard: a place for your crap, a place for your husband to hang out when he's in REAL trouble, as a source of additional shade, etc.

Yesterday, however, when Satan was out in the back yard working on a little painting project and enjoying the weather, he discovered a use we hadn't quite counted on: hiding place for a fugitive from justice.

As Satan scraped the windows he was working on, he suddenly heard a noise coming from the far side of the trailer. When he walked around the corner to investigate, he found the fugitive. He was a young man, looking desperate and shifty and he asked Satan if it would be okay if he, uh, relieved himself in the outdoor shade of the semi?

And, go figure, Satan told him he'd prefer he didn't, just as a couple of police cruisers roared up the alley. The suspect then immediately took off running.

That was the last Satan saw of him until we awoke this morning to find his mug shot in the paper. Turns out he had been apprehended and is suspected in the small-time burglarly of a downtown business.

Yep. It's just non-stop excitement around these parts.

***

Let's see, otherwise, I continue to enjoy losing myself in the Mary Tyler Moore show. I've just purchased season three. While I knew I would enjoy the stories and the gags, what has surprised me most about seeing the episodes again is THE CLOTHES! At the time, I thought Mary and Rhoda wore the MOST stylish outfits.

Seeing them now is an endless source of amusement.

One thing I'd definitely forgotten about those days is the prevalence of the color ORANGE. It is everywhere in MTM. In the clothes, as carpet, an extra in a recent episode had on a pair of bright orange cordouroys. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now I realize it's just a color we don't wear like we did in those days.

Maybe we should.

Found

Lost

We had a terrible scare with the kitty.

It was all Satan’s fault, of course, although he continues to disavow any responsibility.

See, the kitty had been settling in fairly well to his new surroundings spending much of his time out front on our balconies (also where his food, water and litter are located, so go figure).

Last Thursday, Satan decided to bust out the hose and water the zillions of plants on the balconies. Unfortunately, the kitty (who I erroneously called “Willow” in my other entry, his name is really Tigger), was out on the balcony as well and as those of you familiar with cats know: cat plus water equals badness. Kitty became so agitated that he actually leapt from the (second story) balcony and was lost.

Thereafter ensued much disruptive searching about the neighborhood. As in:

SATAN
(across the street calling to kitty near midnight Friday night)
KITTY!

ME
(coming out the front door of our house)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
(crossing the street to join forces with Satan)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
(Pauses. Looks at me.)
What the hell are you doing?

ME
Gee, I’ll give you three guesses and the….

SATAN
YOU’RE IN A NIGHTGOWN WITH NO SHOES ON.

ME
Yah?

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty…

And so on. I sent an e-mail with a picture of Tigger and word of our plight to our neighborhood association group at which time we started receiving word of all kinds of “Tigger” spottings, none of which actually turned out to be Tigger.

We eventually stirred up every cat in the neighborhood, stray and otherwise over the course of the two-day and night search.

Thankfully, Tigger was found in the pre-dawn hours of Saturday when a sleepless Satan wandered outside, called out from the balcony, and heart a faint, answering, “Meow!”

Tigger was huddled under a parked car on the street in front of our house and was probably so hungry that he finally actually allowed himself to be captured by a relieved Satan.

The cat spent the twelve hours immediately following his return asleep in an exhausted furry heap on the bed in the guest room (which he considers his own) and is now back to splitting his time between the guest room and the balcony.

We haven’t watered the plants since.

We're going!

Indigo Girls and The Weepies October 3rd at Ryman Auditorium! Special thanks to Eliza for the heads up.

Revival

Go ahead on over to River Walk Journal and enjoy Mom's latest, "Revival".

Shoo!

A Place for my Stuff

It's been another busy weekend around here.

First off, FurGirl has gained a brother:

Willow, barely pictured here in his secure hiding spot under the bed in the guest room, has officially moved in. Willow technically belongs to Satan's son, David. The feline's future was somewhat uncertain following David's departure last weekend to college. Thus, he is now officially the newest member of our little household.

While the photo really leaves something to be desired, I had to share it because I took it by simply placing the camera on the floor, pointing the lens toward where I thought the cat was and depressing the button without ever looking through the view finder. I didn't expect to capture any image at all, much less the whole entire annoyed cat.

The first Mrs. Satan has also been visiting, bringing her along her black lab, Lokie, to keep FurGirl company. The two are nearly impossible to catch in the same frame. Here is the closest I managed to get to that this morning:

And that is pretty much the extent of the enjoyable part of the weekend.

Otherwise, Satan and I turned our attention to a task we've been putting off for years: our storage shed.

Basically, we've been paying large american dollars for years to rent a 10x12 storage shed in which to house approximately $1.79 worth of CRAP that we otherwise have no room for in our actual house.

We now dealt with this problem yesterday by paying more large american dollars to rent a U-Haul truck into which we loaded the $1.79 worth of crap (in ninety degree heat), and then proceeded to drive the crap to our house where we had prepared for the in-coming crap by having the entire back of a semi-truck placed in our back yard.

We then spent the rest of the afternoon, in the still ninety degree heat, unloading our $1.79 worth of crap into the semi-truck trailer. I wish I could tell you that our new crap-holding device (the semi truck) is free, but sadly, it isn't.

Part B of this neverending brilliant plan is for us to move the approximately $3.75 worth of crap that is currently in the barn on our property into the crap-holding semi, thus combining two fairly large piles of crap into one gigantic pile of doom worth (are you with me here?) that's right, $5.54.

But the fun doesn't stop there! Oh no. The plan is to then sort the large pile of doom into smaller piles of crusty stuff which we will tag and display in our yard, thus becoming the scurge of the neighborhood, and eventually hosting a--GUESS WHAT--yard sale!!

This means that large groups of the regional undead will lurch into our yard in droves in the pre-dawn hours on the day of the sale offering us pennies on the dollar for the crusty crap we've been (inexplicably) storing for years at a cost of a zillion dollars. In this fashion, we will divest ourselves of approximately 25 percent of the crap.

And....here's where I just have to draw the curtain, because I'm starting to get hysterical just writing about it. I think you get the picture.

The good news? The good news is that I located the other half of the tiny Christmas Village! Which, I totally need for the upcoming holiday season! Also, Chaseroo, who was brave enough to help us for a portion of the day, found a treasure trove of his old original Nintendo games. Also, I found some old pictures that I've been missing for a while.

I'm really glad to have a day of rest.

Off the Map

Pictured here is my breakfast that I decided was too lovely and righteous not to share.

It is with some sadness that I share any pictures, however, as my picture-taking self missed out on a major photo op this weekend. Satan and I traveled to the big city of Lexington to move his youngest son into the dorm at the University of Kentucky. I took my camera and FORGOT a photo stick.

Yah, I was not happy.

Still, I can report that said freshman is now settled in his (tiny) dorm room with as many comforts of home as possible. In fact, the entire endeavor would have been a raging success but for one small incident during which, in a traffic jam, consisting of approximately one million sweaty, annoyed college students and their parents, at high noon, with not a car moving in any direction, in the ninety-five plus degree heat, in the center of the UK Campus, Satan became agitated, leapt from our vehicle, stood on the CENTER LINE of the street and, gesturing wildly, and screeching at the top of his lungs, had some, let’s just say, less than complimentary comments to share with the entire assemblage about my, in his opinion, less than adequate map reading skills.

You might be thinking that this incident has the makings of a legendary marital smack-down, and normally you’d be right, except that I was laughing so hysterically at his outrageous behavior by this time, that I simply was unable to engage in battle. Also, I was wearing my new sparklies which, as you’re probably aware, often have the effect of magically draining the fight right out of a girl.

Ironically, as it turned out, the spot where Satan had his meltdown was actually within spitting distance of the dorm we were headed for and we were completely and absolutely on the right track to get there. A fact that Satan still has yet to acknowledge.

As you might imagine, I later shared this story with every single person we met during the remainder of the weekend (and a few strangers on the street) and with each telling of the story, Satan managed to interject more and more fictitious details about the (essentially nonexistent) role he played in navigating us to our destination.

The truth is that later, I went on to navigate us directly to our hotel as well as orchestrate a complicated directional rendezvous with Satan’s other son who met us mid-journey en-route from Louisville.

All this while essentially writing this entire blog entry in my head.

I’m tired.

Sparkles

I'm up WAY past my bedtime (it's AFTER 10 p.m. for God's sake) because I wanted you to be the first to know: I am now in posession of some very nice sparklies to mark a VERY SPECIAL ten year anniversary.

What can I say? The man is crazy about me.

Squeaky Clean

I had an appointment at my dentist this morning for a cleaning. Both Satan and I go a dental center which is owned by a husband and wife team of dentists and staffed by a small army of hygienists.

After Diana the hygienist cleaned my teeth today, Dr. K my dentist, stopped in to give my teeth the once over.

DR. K
So, how are your teeth today?

ME
Great! Only two bleeding points and my numbers are good.

DR. K
(Peering into my mouth)
Your teeth really are in great shape.

ME
I’m very proactive. I do floss and brush every day, you know.

DR K
It shows.

ME
Too bad you can’t say the same for my husband.

DR K
Oh?

ME
There’s really no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: the man hardly ever flosses.

DR K
Is that so?

ME
Certainly not every day for sure.

DR K
You don’t say!

ME
Absolutely. And last night?

DR K
Yes?

ME
Well, last night I’m not sure he brushed.

DIANA THE HYGIENTIST
(gasps)

DR K
(nodding his head sadly)
We have suspected as much for some time but couldn’t be sure.

ME
I think it’s time somebody made a note in his file.

DR K
(solemnly)
We’ll take care of it.

***

A wife in posession of a tenth anniversary present might not have felt so chatty.

Is all I'm saying.

Cracking: An Update

Due, no doubt, to the enormous pressure placed on Satan as a result of my recent entries, I am happy to report that negotiations have tentatively begun that could very likely result in an anniversary present for my incredibly deserving self.

On the other hand, it hasn’t happened YET, and we’re into double digits.

When no news is bad news.

Greetings, gentle readers!

It is my sad duty to report, reluctantly, there is still no progress on a proper tenth wedding anniversary gift for yours truly.

A wise person once told Satan and me that a husband has two choices in marriage. He can either be “right” or be happy.

Ya’ll. Poor Satan. He is still right.

To tell you the truth? I probably would not have escalated this whole situation to public blogging status had I thought he was TRULY SERIOUS about neglecting to mark this important marital milestone with some sort of sparkly. Frankly, I thought I’d write a funny entry, he’d buy me something, and that would be the end of it.

As it is, I’ve tried to help him extricate himself from this mess. I’ve gone so far as to specifically point out the exact sparkly that would make this whole situation go away in a hurry (and, trust me, it’s not EVEN extravagant considering the occasion).

Despite my help, he continues to make alarming pronouncements such as, “I won’t be buying you an anniversary gift.” Also, just plain, “No.” Or, puzzlingly, “I’ll buy you a birthday gift, but NOT an anniversary gift.” Or, annoyingly, “I bought you an XX dollar dinner, isn’t that enough?”

And, frankly NO, that isn’t enough, and if I’d known I was, in effect, EATING MY OWN SPARKLY, I would have high-tailed it out of the restaurant double-time.

Now, I’ll just be honest, a girl can get mighty depressed in a situation like this. Despondent. Weepy. She could even, God forbid, begin to slowly die inside (sniff!). Refuse to make pancakes. Even hum “The Way We Were” quietly to her sad, sad little self while concocting delightful, but sadly underappreciated, dinner salads. And generally continue in a downward spiral.

As it happens, I recently had dinner with the first Mrs. Satan (also a reader of this here blog). She was appropriately horrified at my lack of blingage to mark this important occasion. And, after some consideration, she recollected only receiving two anniversary gifts from Satan herself. They were: 1) A tool belt. 2) A tarp.

And we all know how that ended up.

So, if you see Satan out there looking dazed and disoriented (and, face it, doesn’t he always?), give him a ride to the nearest jewelry store, would ya? He needs your help.

***

In other news, I've just made the happy discovery that Nora Ephron, writer of "When Harry met Sally" and "Heartburn" two of my ALL TIME favorite movies has her own blog. HOW I was not made aware of this sooner is simply beyond me. Nora has a new book out called I Feel Bad about my Neck which is now officially at the top of my "must read" list.

I discussed Nora's new book and just her overall grooviness with my Mom recently and we are in agreement that she must be added to the guest list of our "fantasy girlfriend lunch". The (constantly changing) list currently reads:

Carrie Fisher
Mia Farrow
Shirley MacLaine
Nora Ephron

Before her untimely death, Jackie O was, of course, a must-have and Janeane Garofalo USED to be on the list, however, since her stint on West Wing during which her eyebrows looked exactly like furry black paralyzed catapillars glued to her forehead, I'm not so sure. Cybil Shepherd is a definite maybe. Shirley is only still hanging on by a thread since the publication of her book, "Out on a Leash" in which she details actual conversations she has with her rat terrier, "Terry".

Ahem.

One Day at Time

Mom strikes again, this time at Amarillo Bay!

Comparing

Not long ago, we just happened to have access to a Sony Cybershot F8 28 and thought we'd compare its "macro" function to that of my Panasonic Lumix FZ30 out on my balcony by taking shots of my (tiny) shamrock blooms.

It would have been easier to compare had Satan got the EXACT same two shots, but that, too, is a little difficult. Here's what we came up with:

This is the image from my Panasonic Lumix.

And this is the image from the CyberShot.

I'm happy to say I think they are very comparable. In the larger version, the CyberShot my be a TINY BIT clearer.

And counting...

Dear Comcast Cable Company,

Please answer your m*therf*cking phone. We have not been able to enjoy overpriced, sh*tty cable programming for sixteen hours. We have been on hold with your "service" department for approximately SIX of the last SIXTEEN hours. Pick up, b*tches!

Dear Global Warming,

Can we please get a break here? I’m sure my co-workers are tired of being traumatized by the site of my fish-belly white legs. But, it’s too hot for stockings and self-tanner makes me orange. I’d wear slacks but it’s, GUESS WHAT: too darn hot.

Dear Satan,

It was swell of you to buy me a nice dinner upon being reminded that it was your TENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, but unfortunately, it’s just not that easy. An appropriately contrite, quick-thinking husband would have gone for the wildly overpriced, breathtaking flower arrangement delivered to his wife’s office on the day immediately following the anniversary. Unfortunately, you have completely missed your opportunity to get off that cheap. You are now officially on the hook for something sparkly. I am, therefore, instituting a new feature on this blog. If you’ll check the upper left-hand corner, I think you’ll see what I mean.

Hopelessly Devoted

Last night, as Satan and I were getting ready to leave the house to make an appearance at a neighborhood gathering, we had this conversation:

SATAN
(Tosses his wallet on to the counter.)
I don’t guess I'll need my wallet for anything.

ME
Oh, I think you’ll probably need it.

SATAN
Nah. I’m not going anywhere but back here after the thing.

ME
You probably ought to bring the wallet.

SATAN
Hey, we’re just going over for a little while, remember?

ME
I don’t think so.

SATAN
Well, I don’t know about YOU...

ME
Care to place a wager?

SATAN
A wager?

ME
A wager.

SATAN
(Pauses.)

ME
(Eyebrows raised.)

SATAN
(Begins to look a little sickly.)

ME
(Eyebrows still raised.)

SATAN
It’s not, uh…it can’t be…

ME
I’m afraid so.

SATAN
(Risks a panicky glance at the calendar on the opposite wall.)
So…the date today would be…

ME
The second. AUGUST SECOND.

SATAN
(Brightens suddenly.)
Hey! This means our TENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY is TOMORROW! Of course! TOMORROW! Yes, I’m well aware…

ME
Nice try. But, no.

SATAN
(Back to looking sickly.)
No, huh?

ME
No.

SATAN
(Picks up his wallet)

ME
I hope you’ve got a credit card in there.

SATAN
Say, you're not going to...

ME
blog this? OF COURSE NOT!

Meals on the Dash

Another literary success for Mom! Check it out at SouthLit.

(Scroll down and click on "Meals on the Dash")