We went out for dinner. Now my wife and her friends are in the living room with strawberry margaritas and the movie “Overboard” on Netflix. I’m in my office writing about them with an Alka-Seltzer dissolving on my desk. I had to have the Black Out Chocolate cake and a fourth cuppa Joe. But coffee was the best part of dinner. I had a poorly executed entrée salad. It read well in the menu, but it let its readers down. I rarely ever do it but dessert was only fair. And now I’m sorry I did. Plop plop, fizz fizz. I didn’t come here to write about food or rate dining experiences but I’m tempted. No, I know people on the inside who already do that much better than I. And I don’t want to think about food, not now. I can hardly breathe.
My wife bought dinner for us all before I could dig out my wallet from the jeans that somehow got smaller since I put them on. How is that? I had to lace up a belt before we went out to hold them up. Now I’m afraid I’ll be wriggling my way out. Plus my wallet’s been fat. I don’t know how that is either. I haven’t gone to the ATM in months. Cash has been accumulating in it. I don’t remember selling anything lately. It was hard to get ahold of. My pocket had a tight grip on it. I joked that I’d been dancing and it was nice of my wife’s friend to laugh. Nonetheless, that was mighty nice of my wife to buy dinner, and to laugh since she’s heard that one a few times before.
Now I’m thinking if this goes somewhere then perhaps I’ll post it and say something nice about her to see if she actually reads my stuff or just nods her head in a somewhat affirmative wobble when I ask her if she has, like she does when I ramble. Not that I mind if she doesn’t. She’s a busy woman and all I do is write. And think. That’s not very profitable. But I’ve always dreamt of being a kept man. I like to think. And read; there are so many books upon the shelves I’ve yet to crack. And write. Sometimes I do it for days on end. I forget to eat… Ugh, that reminds me, my gut’s edgy. It’s uneasy, a little anxious. Think happy thoughts. Pull on the pajamas. Usually Alka-Seltzer fixes me up right quick. My grandpa taught me that trick. My grandpa, I’ve been writing about him. He knew that I would. He told me stories. I promised some people who told me stories that I’d one day write them but I never had to promise my grandpa. He knew that I would. He showed me things. He gave me Brandy for my colds starting when I was seven or eight. When I was ten or eleven, that one winter, I remember I had quite a few colds, especially on Friday nights when we’d sit at the table together and work crosswords and make a mess sharing cheese or peanut butter with one of the cats. I’d usually have a bowl of cereal and milk. Grandma always had Grape Nuts in the cupboard and sometimes there’d be Cap’n Crunch, the good stuff, Peanut Butter Crunch. The roof of my mouth hurts a little from thinking about when I’d dig in too soon, before it softened in the milk for a few moments. It was always fresh from that stiff foil bag inside the orange box. That was my favorite cereal box ever. There were also toys inside, if my little bother didn’t get to them first, and some of them were neat. I remember the baking-soda-activated submarine. Pretty cool. We did that for years, sit at the table until late at night, even through the college years when I’d come home on the weekends. Home, back then and especially in the summers, was my grandparents’ house, an apartment upstairs and my grandparents downstairs. I had it pretty good, even when it was only my grandpa downstairs after my grandma was gone. I miss those days.
My grandmother had an antique bottle of Coca-Cola Syrup, and it wasn’t just the bottle, it contained some syrup too. I’d get some of that at times when I was little, but only when appropriate, only when the tummy was really upset. Open up. Here comes the airplane. I can still see her bending down with the pretty spoon in her graceful hand and a pleasant curl on her lips. But it’s just Alka-Seltzer tonight. My grandmother always said, “Moderation in everything,” and of course she’s right. I should have heeded her advice tonight. I wonder, if my grandpa had heeded her advice more often, would he have needed the Alka-Seltzer less often? My grandma, I’ve been writing about her. Moderation in everything, she was right except in respect to her. I never got enough of her. She died too young. I miss her these days. But I can see her smiling.
I don’t know if this went anywhere, but I think I’ll post it then go see if I can be of service, earn my keep. I see empty margarita glasses in the living room. Maybe I should suggest there be another round. Happy thoughts. My grandmother. Ah, my tummy feels better now. Moderation in everything. I think I’ll have one for her, then probably another Alka-Seltzer in the morning for my grandpa.