BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“Nyah, nyah, I win…” Mike said to Luets.

You remember Mike and Luets, correct? I wrote about them just the other day in the blog about how competitive Luets is, and during that blog I also pointed out just exactly how non-competitive Mike happens to be. However, I also noted that he “lives to get one over on Luets”, so I guess in a weird sort of way, he is competitive. Just with Luets and nobody else.

However, none of that explains why he was giving her the, “Nyah Nyah” treatment. But, trust me, I was just as confused at the time as you probably are now. So, are your seatbelts fastened? Good, because it’s subject whiplash time.

We live in a small house.

It’s not tiny, mind you. It’s definitely larger than the duplex apartment E K and I lived in early on in our relationship. And, it’s also much larger than several other houses I’ve been in over the years. But, by the same token, it’s just a 100+ year old, 1.5 story bungalow in a relatively quiet neighborhood. When we bought it, we were after a fixer-upper, and that’s exactly what we got. And, fix up we have. While it isn’t a showpiece by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not bad for what we started out with – as well as the limited funding available to us in our earlier days. Suffice it to say, the house is small but nice, and more importantly, we own it, not the bank. Yes, the house is paid off. Free and clear. Our little corner of the world. I could secede from the union if I wanted… And, still might. But, that’s a different story.

Still, small as it is, it was always just fine for us – until the o-spring came along, that is. The thing being, children are sort of like that foam insulation you spray into cracks to seal up drafts. Once you let them out of the proverbial can, they just expand exponentially – and I’m not just talking about their physical growth. What I mean is that everything they own takes up every available inch of space in your home. Even though it will all fit into said child’s room, it grows legs and deposits itself everywhere BUT said room.

But, I’m digressing… Although, only a little…

You see, when O-spring came along, E K and I gave up the master bedroom (which happens to be the only one on the main floor) and turned it into a “nursery” which has since become the o-spring’s room. This meant that we moved up into the half story. To accomplish this we turned the old loft-like storage room into a bedroom. Well, actually our contractor buddy Steve (see the hell house blogs) did. And, the room directly across the stair landing remained our office.

So, whenever you see one of my status updates on a social networking site or one of these blogs mentioning me being in my office, that’s where I am. Across the landing from our half story bedroom. Said office – with the exception of a few airplanes, hotel rooms, and a stint in our dining room when the A/C was broken – is exactly where all of the Rowan Gant novels have been written. That also goes for the novelette, and just about every article I’ve ever penned for any magazine, e-zine, website, or whatever. It’s my office. It’s where I work. I really don’t think of it as much of anything other than a room where I go do my job.

Seriously.

It’s nothing fancy by any stretch. A sloped, peaked ceiling, some walls, a counter, some cabinets, and a couple of desks. Sure, I’ve networked the hell out of it, but then I’ve done that to the whole house. That’s just something that came along with being a computer tech for so many years. But still, all in all, it’s just a room. A room where I go to work.

So, imagine my surprise when Mike looked at Luets and said, “Nyah, nyah, I win…”

And then, she proceeded to pout.

Being the curious person I am, it was a moral imperative that I ask what was going on. And, they told me.

You see, Mike and I had just returned from being upstairs in the office where we had gone to grab something we needed. I honestly can’t even remember what it was. It was no big deal to me. We just ran up the stairs, grabbed whatever it was – or checked whatever email it was… Or whatever. My point being, we ran up to the office, then right back down.

But, apparently, there was wayyyyy more to it for Luets and him. It seems they’ve had a long running bet about which one of them would be the first to actually, physically see “Murv’s Office.” Apparently, it is some manner of Holy Shrine or something. Granted, there are a few nail holes in the wall but none of them look like any biblical personages… Nor do they look like any of the characters from my novels. There are the OOAK action figures on my desk of Ben Storm, Felicity O’Brien, Constance Mandalay, and Miranda… (Never have been able to create a decent Rowan, but that’s another story)… But, what I’m trying to say here is this – the nail holes just look like nail holes.

Honestly, this confuses me. While I’ve had a few personal epiphanies during the times I hang out in my office, I don’t think they really translate to shrine material… I mean, it’s just an office. And, it’s not even clean, because I can tend to accumulate a lot of paper and such when I am researching. It’s not filthy, mind you, but it is definitely in a state of disarray. And, like I said… It’s just an office.

However, now that I’ve been made aware of this little tidbit of info, I suppose I should straighten it up a bit then invite Luets upstairs to see it. Maybe I should even get myself some of those stanchions and a velvet rope to cordon off my desk. Of course, I’ll also need a sign that says “Please No Flash Photography”…

Hmmmm… Maybe I could charge admission… And, now that I think about it, what with E K being so much more popular than me, I wonder how much they’d pay to see the secret room in the basement where she tortures people?

Something to think about. Could be a whole new source of revenue. Then maybe we could buy a bigger house.

More to come…

Murv

“I’m home!” I yelled as I came through the door.

It was fairly quiet in the house, which should have tipped me off right away. Well, that and the remnants of the cardboard refrigerator box that had apparently been dismembered in our dining room. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was all about, to be honest. Especially since our refrigerator had been fine earlier, so there wasn’t really a need for a new one.

But, of course, living with an Evil Redhead, you learn not to ask too many questions. Not that such has stopped me in the past. I even have the scars to prove it.

So, anyway, I checked the time just to be sure. The o-spring was still at a play-date, but EKay’s vehicle was in the driveway, so I figured she was here somewhere. Of course, since I hadn’t heard her scream, “Lackey! Get in here right now!” I assumed things were all good. But, “things” can change pretty quickly around our house.

However, what with it appearing to be safe for the time being, I headed for the kitchen to get myself something to drink.

That’s when I saw it.

A big slice of the refrigerator box was spread out on the kitchen floor. E K was standing next to it, absently thumbing through a magazine while humming the theme from Psycho to herself. On the counter nearby sat a nearly empty, somewhat drippy looking, Ultra-Economy Sized bottle of Craft Glue.

This tableau was bizarre enough in and of itself. Well, to folks who don’t live here, anyway. But, I was sort of used to it. However, there was more to the picture. At EKay’s feet, sprawled out on the huge slab of cardboard, was a friend of ours. I’ll call him Bob, because that’s the name E K assigns to most men with whom she is displeased. Apparently it has something to do with an old boyfriend and (per the redhead) the fact that men are simpletons. Her reasoning is that Bob is easy to spell, even backwards, therefore even a man should be able to do it.

So, anyway, upon closer inspection, Bob appeared to be laying in a large puddle of the Craft Glue. On top of that – And I mean literally on top – the redhead was seeing to it that he stayed put in said puddle by use of a strategically placed stiletto heel pushing down on his head.

“Ummm… Hey, Bob,” I said.

“Hey, Murv,” he sort of mumbled.

“Hush, Bob,” E K admonished. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched for a minute as she continued thumbing through the magazine. While it wasn’t unusual to see my wife torturing some poor guy who had annoyed her, I had to say the glue and cardboard thing was new and different. But then, she is an awfully creative little dominatrix.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, I finally cleared my throat, and then asked, “Mother Jones or Cosmo?”

“Neither,” she said. “A new jigsaw puzzle catalog.”

“Oh,” I replied. I nabbed myself a soda from the fridge, which just  so happened to be the same fridge that had been there when I left, go figure. After a sip or two I cleared my throat again. “Ummm, your worship… May I ask another question?”

“That will make two in one day.”

“I know.”

“All right. What is it, lackey?”

“Why are you standing on Bob’s head?”

“Because he was squirming too much, of course.”

“Oh… I see.” Really, I didn’t. So, I paused for a second then said, “Ummm… I’m not sure I follow.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but didn’t look up at me.  Instead, she glanced down at Bob, leaned forward and pushed a little harder on his head and ordered, “Stop moving!” Then, she went back to perusing the catalog and addressed me, “Because he has to be still while the glue is drying.”

So, I had been correct. He was laying in a pool of glue.

“Umm… Okay. Why?” I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, lackey,” she admonished. “Oh, wait… You’re male. You can’t help it, can you? Hmph. Well, it’s simple physics. If  he moves around too much while the glue is drying he won’t stick to the cardboard properly.  If that happens then he will probably fall off.”

“Fall off?”

She sighed again. “Yes. When I hang him on the wall.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Okay… So, mind if I ask why you want to hang Bob on the wall?”

“That’s three.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed, then answered me anyway. “To teach him a lesson, of course.”

“About what? Art?”

“Exactly. That’s four, by the way.”

I hadn’t really expected her to say that. The “exactly” thing, I mean. The four I was pretty sure I saw coming the minute I asked the question. But then she’s an evil redhead. Her mind works in very mysterious ways and she expects you to either know exactly what she means, or just get out of her way and leave her alone. Sometimes she even wants both at the same time.

“Uhh, okay,” I replied. “I guess…” I paused again and stood there watching her thumb through the catalog. Finally, I gave in and said, “I’m sorry your worship, I’m still not sure I follow.”

She blew out a heavy sigh that spoke volumes. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, she sighs an awful lot when she is annoyed. At any rate, the particular volume this annoyed sigh spoke was, “My, my, my… Aren’t you just a complete moron today?” She tossed the catalog aside, then took a moment to stomp some strategic points on Bob that appeared to be coming loose from the cardboard. Then, she planted her foot on the back of his neck, crossed her arms, and glared at me.

“It’s simple, lackey,” she explained. “It came to my attention that he glued a jigsaw puzzle to a piece of cardboard. That’s unacceptable. Jigsaw puzzles are for working, then putting back into the box, and then working again at a later date.  Everyone knows this. They must never… and I repeat, NEVER… be glued.” She looked down and gave her heel a twist against the back of Bob’s neck and barked, “Right, Bob?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, mainly because half of his mouth was now stuck to the corrugated backing as the glue continued to dry.

“Right what?” she said, twisting a little harder.

Bob groaned and then mumbled again, “Right, oh Queen of the Jigsaw Puzzle.”

“Better,” E K said with a wicked grin.

As it turned out, Bob hung on the wall in our living room for about two weeks.

I’m here to tell you, it was a little disconcerting. Sort of like having the McDonald’s singing fish hanging next to the sofa. However, it did work out for parties and such. E K would just smack him in the back of the head with her shoe and order him to entertain the guests. So, he would tell jokes and even sing some old classic rock tunes. I’m inclined to believe he did this  out of fear, because I often heard the redhead threatening him… It always seemed to be something to do with “missing pieces.” I never asked, but I’m pretty sure I can imagine what she meant, especially since she was always holding an X-acto knife and a puzzle piece shaped template whenever she made the comment.

I think Bob knew exactly what she meant too.

But, eventually, as often happens, E K got tired of the “Bob Art”, so she took him down and put him out at the curb on trash night.

We haven’t seen him since, but I heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging in a private mental hospital upstate. Apparently he not only entertains the residents, but is also being treated for what they consider an irrational fear of redheads, craft glue, and jigsaw puzzles.

More to come…

Murv