1987

"1987"

"What?"

I was asleep. Not deeply asleep, as I hadn't been in bed very long, but asleep. Bob was touching my shoulder, and I was struggling up from sleep to answer him. He said it again.

"1987."

"What?" I said again, frowning at him, trying to figure out why he's telling me "1987." Had I asked him a question that required a date as an answer, and he was reporting back?

"1,987 flushes."

Light dawned. I giggled, said, "You idiot," turned over, and went back to sleep.

I bought him a "2000 Flushes" packet for his toilet over the weekend, and he's been counting down. He wants to see if it really lasts for 2,000 flushes. As of this morning, I believe he has 1,985 left.

We had Boston Market for Fat Tuesday last night--stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed spinach, and the ubiquitous corn muffin, with carrot cake for dessert. I think Bob had the same thing, except he also had ham. Oh, and chocolate cake instead of carrot--he'd bought both kinds, then let me choose which one I wanted.

Which makes me think of a story that my friend Micki told me. She said she was on a date with someone, and they got ice cream cones, and she had finished hers, and the man she was with gave her the last bite of his--that bottom part of the cone with the ice cream in it--and that's when she knew he loved her.

Bob doesn't like to share his food, or, that is, he doesn't like people to take things off his plate. I don't know if I ever would have or not--I never got the chance to find out, and it's been so long now that I'm well trained. He told me fairly early on that he hated it when people "grazed" off his plate, and I've never done it, even though sometimes I've wanted to--just a French fry, or just a taste of something. But he doesn't like it, and I respect that, and truth be told, I don't suppose I like it, either.

He's very generous, though, and always asks if I want something, which I think is the difference--he doesn't like someone to just assume they can take something.

Tonight he went to Long John Silver's, since it's Ash Wednesday (a no meat day for Catholics), and asked if I wanted anything, but I wasn't sure when I would get home, and was afraid it might not be edible by the time I ate it. So I told him just to get something for himself, and I'd stop on my own. I ended up getting vegetarian soft tacos at Chipotle (where they have the "burrito as big as your head!"), but when I got home, he'd gotten extra shrimp just in case I wanted some.

There's another Pyewacket story for the books.

Bob called me and said that he had come home, hung his coat over the bannister, and gone upstairs. Dinah wanted cuddle time, as she is wont to do when he comes home, so he settled down in his chair and she made herself comfortable.

Before long he heard a sound like a shower curtain rustling. It kept on, so he got up and looked in the bathroom, but nothing was going on in there, so he went back in the office and sat down. He kept hearing the noise, and finally got up and went downstairs to track it down, and found Pyewacket trapped in his coat.

She had pulled at it until it fell partway to the ground while still hanging on the bannister post, then climbed inside, and somehow managed to get into the sleeve with her head inside the cuff, and then couldn't get out. He said he had to undo the snap on the cuff to give her room for her head, but couldn't pull her out that way, and had to pull her out through the inside of the coat. He said she seemed to be okay, just a little dazed.

And she apparently didn't learn anything after the garbage bag incident, either: Sunday night she did it again, climbed into a trash bag that was sitting in the upstairs hall. Bob heard her in there before he actually tied it up and carried it out to the garage, and hauled her out. I imagine we'll be pretty vigilant about that, at least for awhile.