From Russia with Love

The ride home was as silent as the grave I had just dug for myself.  I knew better than to remind my wife that it was Friday and technically her day to “be responsible for meals.”  


When she pulled into Jenny’s Giant Burger, I reached for my billfold and extracted a “twenty.”  My wife glared at me with those dark eyes that used to be such a turn-on.  I extracted another handful of unknown denominations.  It was going to be a two milkshake and double order of fries no-comment kind of night.  “Nudding for me,” I managed to say with seven tissues rolled up into my nose to stop the bleeding when I ran out of nose hair.  “I habba code cube take and Wodder Bread at hombe.”  


By 8:40 PM, her carbohydrate high had worn off, and she started turning off the lights in our living room.  “It’s going to be cold tonight,” she said as she headed up the stairs to where we stored our marital bed and the photo albums of when all we needed was love and a bottle of cheap wine to keep us warm.  “You might need an extra blanket down here.”  


Candi, Randi and Bambi, triplet friends of mine who were tenure-track assistant professors of Human Sexuality at Vassar, happened to be lounging in a private chat room on the Internet when I logged in.  As I explained what had happened to my well-conceived plan to win over to my side of the table our marriage counselor, either Candi or Bambi posted a small mpeg animation of tears flowing from the eyes of a young girl besieged by a huge pod of one-eyed dolphins.  “I know just what it’s like,” she said, “to be ready to make a point and find something stuck in your throat.” Before I could reply, my computer screen flashed a message that my Gold Card account had reached its credit limit.  


“What was it the therapist said,” I asked myself, “about new skills?” She had made it sound almost manly.  I reviewed in my mind the hundreds maybe thousands of times that I had pulled a flaming pot of oil off the stove – so to speak – to save my wife and my children from impending disaster.  But on this cold and lonely night, I was fresh out of answers.  


“Bong,” went my computer, signaling that I had mail.  


“dear sugarstick, do not attempt to reply to this message.  my manager will kill me or worst if he knew I write.  this thing of yours happen also to my grandson in America when his husband become tired of doing it all.  my grandson he buy what you call slow cooker.  he say it change his life.  don’t buy cheap.  and don’t come back to chatroom.  you know what I saying?   DasveedAnja, Bambi"