“From the list of things (Vladimir) Nabakov bragged about never having learned to do – type, drive, speak German, retrieve a lost object, fold an umbrella, answer the phone, cut a book’s pages, give the time of day to a philistine – it is easy to deduce what Vera (Mrs. Nabakov) spent her life doing.” Stacy Schiff, “Vera” (biography of Mrs. Vladimir Nabokov)
I’m doing laundry in the laundry room. From several rooms away:
TCG: Mumble, mumble, think I found the mumble mumble you were looking for.
UCC: Dropping the laundry I’m working on, and heading down the hall for the computer room. Nope, I didn’t hear you from the laundry room, but I don’t see you in here… so I’m going back to the laundry room to finish what you interrupted.
TCG:HEY, I THINK I FOUND THE PILL YOU WERE LOOKING FOR.
WISIMH: As much as I enjoy playing 20 questions to guess what the fuck you’re talking about, I’m too tired to play just now. Have you even the remotest clue that this is rude, annoying and possibly a motive justifying, if not first degree homicide, possibly sufficient to mitigate punishment for old-manslaughter.
UCC: Thanks for the 4-1-1. Well worth the interruption and running around and whatnot, but I’ve got to be about My Father’s Business.
TCG: I told you I was at the kitchen table!Mumble, mumble, blah, blah…
WISIMH: But we don't have a kitchen table! I thought you meant the counter and stools in the kitchen, but apparently you meant the dinning room table. My bad. I’m going to interpret the mumbles to mean you’re abjectly sorry for being such a lazy dope – never moving farther than your own shadow all day while I do laundry, pick up the place, clean the kitchen, mop the floor, eat my heart out with bitter regret, and cook dinner. It’s like we're Parody and Cynicism and our child, a bitter postmodern overeducated thirtysomething named Irony, has now flown to greener pastures, leaving us with an empty, increasingly fouled nest, populated by increasingly incoherent people who can’t seem to use their words. And you're sorry the pill you found was merely for high blood pressure, not cyanide. Yeah, I’m sorry too.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
"Old-manslaughter"—that's a classic! You should copyright it. Have I told you how these musings help me accommodate the too-soon loss of my own DH? I think of what I was probably spared and am grateful. The crap I remember about him can be ascribed to the brain tumors and not to the essence of him. Thank the gods you have so much "time in" with each other (a Bill Cosby-ism) that you have a deep, residual fondness for him that can carry you through the crazy times. Or so I hope. And I so look forward to your upcoming visit....
You're right about the time in. I honestly don't know what I'd do without him - rattle around and talk to myself out loud, probably. He still makes me laugh and vice versa.
Post a Comment