I stood before the small group of people, feeling very nervous. All eyes were on me, as I tried to hide behind the small podium. I swallowed hard, my throat was dry. Finally, I spoke.
“Hi. My name is Janet.”
“Hi Janet!” the group said in unison.
“I’m,” I stammered, “I’m…well…I’m married to an idiot.”
No, this did not happen. It’s a reoccurring dream I have. Being married to Rusty makes me wish that there was some sort of organization like Idiots Anonymous.
If you are wondering, he is in the den reading. I know, it’s even hard for me to believe that he can actually read. Of course, what he reads is not what most would consider anything of social value. The books he reads are a lot like the movies he likes to see. If there is not a car chase, a shootout, or a spy chasing half naked women around, then you might as well forget Rusty wanting to see it.
I remember getting him to take me to see “The Way We Were” with Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand. He fell asleep. Not only that, but he snored. I finally had to poke him in the ribs to wake him up because the people around us were complaining. But if it’s an action movie, well you better hold on to your seat. He’s just like a little kid. He will be wiggling around trying his best to help the hero out. He also has to tell you the name of every gun that is used on the show. He points out faults, too.
“You can’t put a suppressor on a revolver,” he sighs. Or heaven forbid, an actor call a “magazine’’ a “clip’’.
“It’s not a clip,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s a magazine.”
Then he looks at me and shakes his head. “A clip and a magazine are two different things.”
“Yes dear,” I say. “You’ve told me a hundred times.”
“Yeah, well somebody ought to tell the idiot who wrote this movie. Obviously he don’t know nothin’ about guns.”
“But,” I add. “I would be willing to bet he got an ‘A’ in grammar.”
But then, someone’s car will get blown up on the screen, and he’ll forget all about the clip comment, and he’ll get lost in the movie once more.
Being married to an idiot isn’t all bad though. Simple minds sometimes do simple things that are simply sweet.
Once he was mowing the pasture, when he spotted some Black-eyed Susans growing down by the creek. He stopped the tractor to get off and pick me some. What he did not know, was that one of the tractor’s tires was right on top of the opening of a bumble bee’s nest. He jumped off the tractor, picked me a big bouquet of the flowers, and then climbed back on the tractor.
I happened to be out in the yard when he started the tractor back up. I heard him yelling and I looked out to see what was wrong.
The tractor was traveling in high gear, zigzagging across the pasture with Rusty standing up, one hand on the steering wheel, the other swatting at a swarm of bumble bees with my flowers.
By the time he made it to the house, the bees had abandoned their pursuit. Rusty stepped off the tractor.
One of his ears, where he had been stung, was swelled up and the top was starting to droop. The top of his head had several lumps, and his bottom lip was the size of a hot link. He walked up to me, and smiled. At least I think it was a smile.
With his lip hanging as low as it was it, was really hard to tell. Then he handed me the bouquet, or what was left of it. Most of the yellow petals were missing, the stems were bent and broken at various angles, and mostly all that was left were the “black-eyes” of the flowers.
“I pucked dees fa ou,” he said, with some difficulty.
I keep reminding myself, how boring life would be with someone normal. Oh well, he is an idiot, but he’s my idiot.