With Christine back at the office, and after a really long sleep, I decided to wander back toward my duties as house husband, but with a twist: channeling June Cleaver – that calming figure of a woman who never got frazzled. Not wearing pearls – Christine’s do not fit my neckline – I decided to start with a run to the recycling bins across town. I guess that’s more of an Uncle Charlie move while Steve Douglas smokes his pipe and reads the paper, but the job got done. Back at home the ciphering begins. How shall I plan the day? I made my oatmeal and sat drawing up a grocery list for the weekend. After all, planning is everything before donning an apron. But now I felt more like Mr. French as I caught up on some blog posts and flexed my pedantic muscles for a bit. Not that June couldn’t or wouldn’t be good at any of that. I mean, she was the interpreter of Jive on “Airplane.” Laundry was sorted, and the washer loaded, so off I went to prepare the two tenderloins for dinner. Some salt, pepper, a little garlic, and topped off with oregano and olive oil. I set that aside. I wonder how June would survive with Ward, Wally, and the Beave home all day with no where to go? I suspect she’d be hoisting a few. As the laundry progressed, I sat and folded clothes watching “Torpedo Run” – yes, another TCM classic I DVR’d the other night during their submarine marathon. No real 1960’s June Cleaver yet. A few phone calls to some friends who cannot venture into the foray at the grocery store, but all was well. Some more folding, and then into the kitchen to fix the steaks and ready the salad. June had arrived. I turned on some Julie London and diced my way to heaven. Wait. I opened the window and the goddamn thing almost fell off the track. I got steaks searing, a knife half way through my tomatoes, and now because I opened the window while using the cast iron pan to cook, I got a problem. Quick! I set the skillet aside and put the knife down. I reconnoiter the twin window next to the broken one and see how the pin and slide arm worked. A few laughs, some cussing, and the window’s fixed. Okay. Back to the steaks. The oven beeps telling me it’s at temperature for the final cooking of the meat, so I transfer the whole shebang into the roasting heat. The dryers now screaming at me telling me I forgot to take out Christine’s clothes before they dried to a hot ball of nothing. I snatch the dryer door open, and thank god, the fabrics are damp. Hanging up the clothes, I begin to realize I’m not making the studio today. My PB&J’s sit on the counter in their plastic bag staring at me like I’d abandoned them. Sorry guys, I’ll get to you. Shit, the steaks. Out they come, slammed on the stove and transferred to their resting place on a wooden plank. Back to the laundry room. The next load in the washer and dryer, and now it’s time to finish the salad. I wonder if June imbibed during the day? I take her for a chardonnay woman. Well, I don’t have any cold, so I grab some water. Salad made. I wash the dishes and begin to ponder whiskey. Scotch throws me over the edge, but a nice couple of ounces of Canadian Club would do. Nope. I need lunch. I sit in front of the TV and catch the latest on CNN. Back out to the laundry, and I find the note I wrote to myself telling me there’s a bottle of Cava in the freezer. Not hearing any explosions, I retrieve the bubbly and find a spot for it in the fridge. More dryer action and some clothes to fold, so I drop them in the Media Room, go grab one of my favorite tumblers and drop in some cubes before drenching them in whiskey. Before you know it, I’m holding the glass in one hand, after folding some underwear, and I’m screaming at Ernest Borgnine for yelling at Glen Ford after the poor guy had to torpedo a Japanese transport carrying his own wife and daughter. Fuck, Ernie, give the guy a break. My whiskey spills as I shove the glass at the TV in anger. Did June take on the “Guiding Light?” I wonder if she threw her chardonnay at the RCA and knocked off the rabbit ears, yelling “you whore” or “kill the bastard!” The boys sink the carrier, escape from the sinking sub, and all ends well. I calmly walk back through the kitchen and retrieve the last of my socks and blue jeans. Folded, I scour the cast iron skillet and let it dry. Shit, it’s like, 3 o’clock. I need to set the table and ready the candles. Christine’s having a virtual cocktail party with some friends and her sister in D.C., so I guess I should have her champagne flute ready and some snacks. There. I think everything’s done. Upstairs to view the bay and write. That’s where I sit with some more whiskey. Sorry, June. I’m not sure how well I did, but food is prepped, laundry done, the table set, carrier sunk, and I’m still sober. Wait! Did I leave the oven on?
Nice work, June!
Fun writing style. Paragraphs are over-rated, right?
Speaking of “Airplane” we just watched it again a few nights ago and I was amazed at how much I had forgotten.
Carry on.