FREE TO GOOD HOME

My twenty-two pound math-for-liberal-arts-junkies book lands on the floor with a thud, jolting me out of a mid-term studying infused sleep. I scan the room for my cell phone. Flicking it on, I realize its 4:30 AM. I have no missed calls and no texts. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree, in the same state as when I dozed off, calculating the god-forsaken Pythagorean Theorem. The television, originally on for background noise to quell the quiet creakiness, is now blaring. A daytime-drama-has-been and her fateful counterpart are taking turns droning on about how my life will change: if, and only if, I am one of the next ten callers to order their very-special-one-of-a-kind-miracle-vegetable-chopper. Yeah right. Off goes the boob-tube.

Room by room I do a quick check on the kids, flipping off lights, tripping over chew toys and Barbie dolls. Where is my husband? He promised he wouldn’t be out late tonight. I check Mini-Me’s room. No husband there. In my room (again) Mini-Me is laying on top of the covers, spread-eagle, Curious George panties smiling at me. I can never keep this kid clothed. No husband there, either. Glancing in on the Other-Child, moaning in her sleep as usual, I simultaneously blanket curse the neurologists, epilepsy and Phenobarbital. No husband there.

Slightly annoyed I grab the cell again. My mind sing-songs, “Oh where, oh where, could Cookie be?” I text him. “LIAR!” A split second later I’m punching the qwerty keys. I dial his number once, twice, three…twelve times. Persistence is one of my better virtues.

“Hi and thanks for calling,” I hear Cookie’s voice. Blah, blah, blah; I depress the power button avoiding the greeting. I’ve been relegated to voice mail. Bastage!

Hijacking his personal tweet-deck, I bang the keyboard, “It’s 5 am; do you know where your husband is? It’s 5 am; do you know where mine is?” Since blowing up his cell, for the last thirty minutes, hadn’t done much good, maybe going public would. Being the fourth time in a few weeks this has happened, my concern over his personal safety has waned. I don’t question whether he’s dead or alive anymore. I deduce he’s alive; at least until he gets home.

I’m washing my face when the wiener brothers begin whining at the back door. My overstuffed dapple sausage Jack, le chien névrotique des deux, barks. Roscoe wags his tail, stares at Jack and then sniffs his ass. Patiently, they wait as the key turns slowly in the lock.

Enter stumbling husband. Enter foul smell of beer. Nice. Just what I’ve always wanted, I think, grabbing the can of vapor flowers to cover the acrid, rotting-bread smell.

I’m standing, half-hidden, when he enters the house. “Where’s your cell phone?”  The question takes a moment to register in his beer-soaked brain.

He stares back at me blankly before fishing his cell out of his back pocket. “Oh, nine missed calls. Hey, did you call me from a blocked phone number?”

Oh, nine missed calls, whoop-die-doo. My inner monologue mimics. “No. Why? Who else is calling you at 5:00 AM?” Hmmm…that’s funny; I called twelve times, only nine registered?

I feel the sting of four half-moon craters puncturing the flesh on my palms. “So where have you been? Game ended at 11:30 PM. It’s now after 5:00 AM and the bars close at 2:00 AM. Did you forget it’s your daughter’s birthday party tomorrow?”

“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be up early tomorrow to get my stuff done. Downtown was crazy! People lining the streets, like Mardi Gras. I was at Clubhouse, then Pine Street Bar” he pauses, “what’s that place…the one I kept running next door to watch the game that night because they didn’t have cable? Matador is it?”

Was he stalling? I pressed. “I don’t know. What I’m interested in hearing is where you went after 2:00 AM?”

“After the bars, we wandered the streets. Then I went to this girl’s house. She’s a radio personality. I don’t even remember her name. But, there was like two girls there and six guys. We were all hanging out. There was some other radio guy there. Stone something-or-other; he’s a stocky guy, lots of tattoos.”

“Interesting. So let me see if I have this straight. You stumble in after 5:00 AM, drunk, after being at some girl’s house ‘hanging out’ for the last few hours. You ignore my phone calls and can’t be bothered to send a status text. You must be aiming for consistency, because this is the fourth time it’s happened in the past few weeks. I don’t appreciate it. In fact, come play-offs, I won’t be available to watch the kids while you’re off gallivanting the city all night.”

“Oh really,” he retorts. “Well, come final play-off games, I don’t plan on coming home at all.”

I’m half expecting him to stick out his tongue, throw his thumbs in his ears and say nanny-nanny-boo-boo. I could scream. I’d really like to pick up a blunt object and ram it into the side of his head, but I’ve watched enough ‘Forensic Files’ to know better. Our eyes are small slits, our gazes fixed. We’ve reached stalemate.

“Really?” I say. “Won’t come home at all, huh? We’ll see about that.” I turn on my heel, crawling in bed to cuddle with Mini-Me.

I awake a few hours later; phone ringing, head pounding. The barrage of phone calls has begun. Girlfriends want to know if I’m okay. Guy friends just want to know.  No, I’m not single…yet.

I rummage through the purse to find the 800 mg horse pills to turn-my-frown-upside-down. I pop those, along with a couple of fat burners, and my daily prescribed dose of Adderal. What the hell, it’s Sunday. I grab a Xanex and chase the whole lot with Perrier. About 30 minutes later, I’m feeling no pain. Cracked and mellowed, but focused. I grab my computer and pull up my Facebook account.

“What’s on my mind?” it asks. Vague and leading, daring me to unfurl my innermost ranting-raving desires or what have you. I post the following cathartic ramble: “Free to good home: 5’10” male; adept at taking out trash and doing dishes; may require obedience training; comes with full wardrobe and two adorable wieners.”

Cookie doesn’t grace us with his presence until well after noon that day. Needless to say, the Other-Child’s birthday party with Chuck-E is postponed. The reprisal: Cookie gets a wicked sinus infection. Guess I didn’t need that blunt object after all