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This is an honest-to-God conversation we had at breakfast this morning. In keeping with the mood of what I wrote yesterday and my music video for Fimnora Westcaw’s Monday Music Medicine Show in which I commented that when you’ve been married for a long time things seem to settle into the same old same old routine, I just couldn’t bare to not poemalize it! I sure hope this just indicates a summer slump rather than a portent of things to come! If a portent, I’m scared to death of retirement!

* * * * *


I rose from the table to fix his morning toast.

My brows pleated crinkles down the bridge of my nose. “I don’t think there’s any butter out.”

“Yes, I think there is,” said his lordship.

“Well, I didn’t put it out last night, did you?”

“No, I didn’t put it out.”

“Well, there probably isn’t any out, then.”

“Yes, there’s some out. Here it is,” he said gesturing to the butter dish on the table.

“Well, you dried the dishes for me last night, did you put it out then?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t put it out.”

“Well, I didn’t put it out, either.”

“Maybe Bran put it out.”

“I can’t imagine he’d put it out. Why would he?”

“Maybe he put it out because he wanted to use it.”

“For what? He doesn’t ever use butter. See there! It’s a whole new cube. There’s none gone. I don’t think he put it out.”

He sliced off a square from the end of the cube, and scratched it across his toast. “Whoever put it out, put it out last night. It’s soft.”

Returning to the table, I sipped my tomato juice, pondering the mystery of it.

Suddenly my breath caught in my chest. Dear God, I despaired, is this what our life has come down to? The excitement of not knowing who put the stupid, d**n butter out?”

* * * * *

I kid you not. That’s pretty close to exactly how the conversation went! We just sat there and stared at each other while he nibbled on his toast. Then I finally got up and grabbed the mysterious butter to make his sandwich for lunch.

Lordy! I need another writing class. Help!