Greasy Like Sunday Evening

 

Sunday mornings are easy, but Sunday evenings have their challenges. I dreamed of Sharon again, in a typical Sunday evening situation. I was making dinner, or had made dinner, and we were just eating it in the bedroom, in front of the TV. I was finishing up, slurping down the last of some greasy chicken broth, and I made the impromptu suggestion that we make love. 

"Oh, I don't know," she said, non-noncommittally. 

This was out of character for her, in a dream or otherwise. In real life, I'd have been the one begging off, since it was Sunday, and well, work, you know, or the dishes, or whatever lame ass excuse for just not wanting to.  And she'd be the one disappointed and trying to convince me to quit being an old man, and get jiggy with it already.  

Apparently, we'd fallen into a rut, and I was going to have to do something about it. I told her that we'd better get to doin' it while there was doin' it to do. We weren't getting any younger, and this routine we'd fallen into was going to have to be reversed before it became permanent.

"If we don't do it now, we may never do it again. You know how these things go," I warned.

This must have scared her a little, because her "I don't know" turned into a "maybe." That was all I needed to hear. 

I got up to put the dishes in the sink and go fetch some weed. I knew if anything would turn the tables, it would be getting her and I a little bit stoned. It would spark some of the old feelings we'd felt in the past and make us want to get exploratory once again. 

On the way to the kitchen, I spilled some chicken grease on the floor and bedroom door and had to wipe up the mess. It proved rather challenging, and at first my efforts just resulted in a lot of smearing around of the spatter, leaving a greasy film. There was some screen printed writing on the door which was getting damaged by my spreading the chicken grease around.

I was certain this poor cleaning job would cause someone to slip on the slick floor, so I got some Windex to finish the job properly.  Things went from slippery to sticky, as now the clean spot had given the floor an uneven walking texture. 

I gave up on trying to conceal the fact that I'd made a mess and proceeded downstairs to fetch the weed. In the meantime, Sharon had gotten up and followed me out to the kitchen, where Hannelore was having a late night snack and commenting on my poor housekeeping. 

The sliding glass door was open and Sharon ceremoniously shut it, which signified that the games were about to begin. The door was usually left open for the cats back in those days. Shutting it meant that the cats were in the house, and now the evening's irresponsible festivities could begin. 

I commented to Hannelore about Sharon's walking around, since it dawned on me that she was up and about. She seemed impressed by it as well.

"Did you see how she just shut that door?" I said, marveling at the seemingly insignificant act. "Like nothing. As if she'd never had a disabled day in her life."  The full weight of it was starting to sink in.

"Yes, and now you'd better get to it, young man," said Hannelore, uncharacteristically approving of our planned intoxicated debauchery. 

We headed for the bedroom, but that's as far as my dream carried me. My dream visa expired, and I was transported back to the realm of the living. 

Oh, wait. One more thing...Somewhere after the chicken grease and Sunday activities but before awakening fully, one other snippet occurred. 

I was on the front porch and I saw my neighbor Stan, doing some work with his Caterpillar on the easement next to my property. As usual, he was mowing the weeds a little too close to my fence. I heard a metal scraping sound, and I headed over to investigate, prepared to dish out some critical words.

He sheepishly held out a piece of orange plastic goat fencing that our neighbor, Woijak, had recently installed. Oh, well, I'd let Woijak yell at him, I figured. I was going to go back in the house, but Stan had another concern.

"We need to store this lube somewhere," he told me, sniffing around my storage barn for a suitable area to keep his 55 gallon drum of axle grease. 

I supposed that the "oil room" would do just fine for that, and I didn't have any real objections, since he'd done quite a bit of free earth work for me in the past. I wanted to keep the wheels greased, so to speak.

Ok, that's it for reals. I have some breakfast to attend to, as well as an instant pot turkey to prepare. There may be some actual, real world grease for me to contend with.