by Valerie Nusbaum
Whenever I get an email from Randy on Friday afternoon that reads, “Pizza?” I know the weekend is here. Once or twice a month, Randy cooks dinner on Friday night, which almost always means he brings home a pizza from the grocery store. I’m fine with that. The pizza is good, and I don’t have to cook it.
That’s exactly what we did this weekend. I had worked all day at a craft show on Friday and he’d put in a hard week at his job, so neither of us felt like going out or doing anything serious in the kitchen. We curled up on the couch in front of the television, ate our pizza, and caught up on some shows that we’d missed during the week. We were both napping by 7:30 p.m. Yep, we’re party animals.
Our usual Saturday morning routine is also very lively. We wake up early and try to figure out what happens next. This particular weekend wasn’t earmarked for anything, so we had forty-eight hours of free time.
Randy cooked breakfast. He made me a hearty bowl of cinnamon squares cereal, complete with skim milk and hot tea, and he had some raisin bran because fiber is his friend. We discussed current events and family matters while we paid the bills and read the newspaper. Randy always reads our horoscopes so that we’ll know whether to talk to people or hide from them. He calls them “horrible-scopes,” and most times he’s correct in saying that.
After breakfast, there was laundry to do and there were errands to run. Randy needed a haircut, and I needed to hit the treadmill. Sounds fun so far, doesn’t it? Just wait. It gets better.
I needed to take some photographs for a painting that I’m planning to do for an art exhibit, so I suggested that we drive down to Baker Park in Frederick. Randy was agreeable to that and we headed out. The weather didn’t look promising, but we went anyway. I got some good photos without getting rained on. Randy took some pictures, too, so I should have plenty of reference for my painting.
Baker Park holds a special place in my heart. I’m not the sentimental one in our marriage. I don’t save ticket stubs or press flowers. Randy does all that stuff, and he doesn’t mind that I tease him about it. I have a fondness for the park, though, because that’s where Randy and I went on our first date. It’s also the place where we first shared a kiss, and a while later, it’s where we said the “L” word. No, I don’t mean leftovers, although I do say that quite often—so much so that Randy sometimes questions where all the leftovers come from since he doesn’t remember eating it the first time around. I thought for sure that Randy would take me to Baker Park to propose, but it was a rainy, cold night in November when we got engaged, and we stayed in where it was warm. But I digress…
Since we were in downtown Frederick, I mentioned to Randy that I’d love to get us a soft, hot pretzel from Pretzel and Pizza Creations, but I didn’t think it was a good idea. We’ve been eating too many carbs lately. Randy agreed with me and promptly drove us downtown and parked around the corner from the pretzel place.
“What? You brought it up and you know how I am,” he said. “I didn’t think about a pretzel until you mentioned it, and now I want one.”
“Can we at least share one?” I asked. He rolled his eyes and got out of the car grumbling that he’d be back. We split the pretzel, and it was delicious.
“We’ll have salad for dinner,” said my pragmatic husband. He’d been complaining of an upset stomach, and I asked him whether salad was a good idea.
Randy looked at me as though he thought I was clueless and said, “Here’s the thing…If I’m going to throw up, I’d rather it be a salad than a steak. I won’t feel sorry about losing the salad.”
We did, indeed, have salad for dinner. Randy did not throw up. We finished our chores around the house, took care of all the pressing business, and called it a night. Sunday was much the same. I lied when I told you this story would get better. Things have been pretty dull around here, and I stink at writing fiction. If you want suspense and intrigue, you should read James Patterson.
I do hope every single one of you had a blessed and beautiful Easter, and have a blessed Passover season. If you’re a wee bit Irish, I hope your St. Patrick’s Day was a celebration of epic proportion. I sincerely hope you’re the April “fooler” and not the April “foolee”!
Randy and I will be hiding eggs for our “kids.” They’re all more than eighty years old and can’t bend over, so we have to put the eggs at eye level.
